'frobacks!

Studying for finals is boring. I mean, damn! How many A's does one broad really need? (...whomp whomp). All this studying has me reminiscing about the summer of '94, circa back in the day, when the only studying I participated in revolved around my personal investigation into Marlena's puzzling demonic possession on Days of Our Lives (seriously...the fuck?) and my studious memorization of BET's Top 25 Countdown.

Aside from creating a makeshift sanitarium in our living room to deflect the murderous intentions of a newly acquired feral feline friend, it was also the first summer Big Jer and I familiarized ourselves with cable TV, though we still enjoyed tuning in to the local broadcast stations now and again to witness fools destroy the art of Plinko. Come to think of it, truer nuggets of gold have never been spoken when Bob thoughtfully reminded the viewers at home to help control the pet population by shanking balls and yanking walls. Alakazzam!

Basically, what I'm trying to say is this: In order to fully appreciate the following mixtape, you're gonna wanna mix up a big batch of red Kool-Aid & claim dibs on those packets of cured ham you know you've been stashing away in the margarine bin for a stoney afternoon (you know you have). Then, just like Xscape suggested, kick off your shoes & relax your feets to this captivating collection of bumpin' throwback jamz. And remember kids, the line between "throwback" and "jam" is so fine even Whitney wouldn't snort it (oh really?) so use caution when attempting to recapture your sunny youth with this formula at home, because probably not all of these songs are even from '94 (eat me).

the throwback mixture!

(alternately known as the "clearly i have too much time on my hands" mix)

Ill Na Na - Foxy Brown & Method Man

Right Here - SWV

Ask of You - Raphael Saadiq

Thuggish Ruggish Bone - Bone Thugs 'N Tasha

Who Can I Run To - Xscape

Bag Lady - Erykah Badu

Around the Way Girl - LL Cool J

Love You Down - INOJ

Paper Thin - MC Lyte

One Time 4 Your Mind - Nas

Spydermann - Another Badd Creation

Poison - Bel Biv DeVoe

The City is Mine - Jay-Z

You Used to Love Me - Faith Evans

Baby-Baby-Baby - TLC

Sexy Noises Turn Me On - Salt-N-Pepa

Can't You See - Notorious B.I.G. & Total

This Lil' Game We Play - Subway & 702

Sweet Thing - Mary J. Blige

Flava In Ya Ear - Craig Mack

At Your Best You Are Love - Aaliyah

Push play L O U D !!!

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

i love you, jean grae

How's everything in the pimp business?

dimebags, dames & dives

Every once in a full blue moon I feel the overwhelming urge to abandon the sulky catacombs of my homebody existence and go out for a prowl on the town, fashioning myself up like a renegade Jezebel. The intoxicating promise of liquid provisions and unwashed meathooks pawing my person is not my true incentive for straying from home. Believe me. Copping a squat on a wobbly piss-soaked and duct-taped stool while the thuggish growl of a lead-bellied bluesman vibrates off the jukebox is more up my alley.

If I were loitering at a krusty dive with a jukebox and a pocket full of spare change...

Lots of spare change...

These dingy dirges would pretty much be right on the money, honey.

Submerge yourself in the swampy sounds and get ready to feel woozy with love.

Time To Get Tough - The Aggrolites

100 Yard Dash - Raphael Saadiq

Midnight Blues - Detroit Cobras

Is It You? - Vic Ruggiero & Lisa

Got To Give It Up - The Dirtbombs

You're Wondering Now - Amy Winehouse

Where Eagles Dare - The Misfits

A Little Bit of Arson - Matson Jones

Four Kicks - Kings of Leon

If Love Is a Red Dress (Hang Me In Rags) - Maria McKee

Pure Dirt - Dragbeat

Boogie Chillun - The Gories

Hand Springs - The White Stripes

Uptown Top Ranking - Althea & Donna

Gentleman Junkie - White Zombie

Anti-Love Song - Betty Davis

It Happens All the Time - Wanda Jackson

It Was You (Outtake) - Aretha Franklin

Need U Bad - Jazmine Sullivan

Dance Hall Music - Murder City Devils

Dollar In My Pocket - The Come Ons

I Can't Stop Thinking About It - The Dirtbombs

Corpus Christi - Miss Derringer

23rd & 2nd Avenue - Vic Ruggiero

Too Hot - The Specials

Wreckless Love - Alicia Keys

You Can't Turn Me Away - Sylvia Stipplen

objet d'barf

Some people curiously collect tiny spoons, salt & pepper shakers, dishes, dolls, depression & dust. As far as I can recall, I have never really been an avid collector of anything. However, upon examining my possessions after a recent foray into what I like to call Adventures in Spring Gleaming (not really), it has become apparent that I actually do tend to a garden of crummy collections:

Hair Bows

If you ever see me up at the Wag mulling over the many hair strand intermixing devices that exist in aisle 6, promise me you'll make it your priority to slap me silly and call me Jackie Shawn. It appears I have enough elastic bands, barrettes and bobby pins to adorn even Crystal Gayle's glorious waterfall of tresses, and you know that lovely lady's locks can really rock a ponytail or twelve, o-kay.

Tabloids

In an attempt to go all green like the other kids and excel at my lifelong dream of being a curmudgeonly penny pincher, I've decided that I'm just going to have to make due with reading my collection of last year's gossip rags and pretend the juice is still legit. And guess what? It will be. If I told you Angelina was expecting a new handbag a new baby and Jennifer Love Handles still likes hamburgers (no judgement) you'd probably believe me.

Incense

I have scientifically calculated that the number of incense sticks a woman burns is positively correlated with the number of cigarettes she chain smokes. Since I have given up that ghoulish habit (90 days and counting) I no longer need my hefty supply of heady wands and cosmic cones to cancel out any lingering carcinogenic cancer funk. Now I can actually put my sticks to good use as mini makeshift timers. One wand is equal to approximately 25 minutes, the amount of time necessary to relax poolside and achieve that luminous UVB-induced summer glow I've had my eye on.

Ding!

chocolate bunnies r cool

Eatin' snacks & takin' naps, hellz yeah!

Hope your Easter spread was scrumptious.

how stella got her tube packed

I used to work at DC's very own fabulously grungy castle of counterfeit dick, The Pleasure Place. Often times when slurping libations with new amigos, I blurt this tasteless fact out into the universe, which usually either makes people a) chuckle mildly or b) cringe as though they just shoved a 12" plastic pleasure plunger up their punani. As professional purveyors of porn, my fellow sex workers and I have been sassed, flashed, and gay-bashed, but it wasn't until recently that I came to truly understand the power we wielded over our pervy patrons. Out of curiosity (that's what they all say) I recently walked into a rather dimly-lit dick den and the experience enlightened me to the fact that locking eyes with the no-nonsense clerk lounging against a wall of proudly hung strap-ons can make your confidence shrivel faster than my ovaries after a Flavor of Love lip lock session. I thought back to the many times I seemed to take sadistic delight in staring down the steady influx of shifty miscreants on a mission to masturbate. Now it was my turn to assume the position. I timidly offered a half-hearted hullo to the stroke at the register, but that asshole was too busy analyzing the gaping flesh that flickered on the TV mounted in the corner. First off, no fair. Back in my day, we used to limit our porn watching to lunch breaks only, where we could enjoy it with a sandwich and soda like a reasonable person. Secondly, his air of disregard toward my existence made me feel rejected. As if I were the cretinous dolt in this duo, sheesh!

This shift in porno power caused me to hearken back to when I was the head bitch in charge. This meatball didn't even know how to truly live it up while on the clock. I recalled the days my cronies and I used to engage in spirited dick-slap battle royales with massive jelly-coated double dongs. I pondered the time the sweet transvestite threw a bottle of lubricating goo at my head before screeching out of the store with a handful of reading materials and a penis pump. "I'll get you next time!" I shook my fist furiously as my faithful comrade James soothed my weary temples with a pair of vibrating vag eggs. Ah, memories...

If nothing else, I gained valuable insight from my clever customers who knew a thing or two about turning tricks to make their money stretch. Take, for example, the mustachioed lady who, upon purchasing a single cock ring, magically produced a soggy bill from her sagging, sweat soaked bosom. "Keep it," I muttered. Voila! You might have swindled me, lady, but I got the last laugh that day. That ring you took home will never fit around your colossal balls.

mac 'n sleaze 'n tater twats

Beloved tenderoni, just look at yourself. Your hypnotic cheddary charms complement parmesan's perverse perfection like a truly potent paramour. I'm incapable of resisting the lava-hot lure of your neon orange ooziness. Throw some sturdy noodles into the mix and behold this tasty threesome. You take my taste buds on a fiendish odyssey that's practically pornographic in its explicitness. Just thought you should know this before I eat you. xoxo

P.S. No, seriously, guys. Does this post make my font look fat?

la bella mafia

If you're feeling sleazy and have any desire to read a fascinating and thrilling saga devoted to sex, drugs, glamour, murder and the Mafia, I suggest you get lost in Jackie Collins' series chronicling the fantastically naughty Santangelo family. My girl Lucky is killin' it in these juicy page turners with enough slick, sexy intrigue to hook you in and keep you chewing for days. Equal parts sagacious mob princess and tireless tycoon, Miss Lady manages to do the damn thing in all her tawdry high-heeled, glossy red talon glory. I won't dish too deep on any of the key plot lines, but where the hell else can you escape into a world that switches effortlessly between classic '20s NYC gangsters and '80s Las Vegas casino pit bosses? Shoot, even early '90s Hollywood gets some sparkly, big haired, blue eyeshadow lovin' by the third book, in which Lucky reigns rightfully supreme over Panther Studios in typical roughneck Santangelo fashion. Jackie Collins is a hell of a writer, and her dazzling creation of Lucky "Lady Boss" Santangelo has proven to be the fictional character of my wet dreams.

P.S. The Lady Boss miniseries was pretty scandalous as well, with Kim Delaney couch-cast in the role she was clearly born to play.

repressions of a beauty product slut: smell this

Even though it's still only April, I'm choosing to ignore the snowdrops and icebergs (still!?) plaguing my existence and instead focus my attention on the subtle signs floating through the air that indicate summer is right around the corner. Summertime is a special time indeed, a span of time in which I can bust out bottles of my two favorite fragrances and spritz away with heated abandon. My dressing table is twinkling with purrr-fume bottles, among them a variety of bright juiciness and dark sensuality: Dior Pure Poison and Dolce Vita. Chanel Allure and Coco Mademoiselle. Stella McCartney's Stella... Roses, patchouli, coconuts, candied yams, gasoline, ganja, oh my! Fragrant scents are truly glorious and I could forever expound upon their inspiring effects on my sensitive olfactory epithelium. But I digress. Perfumes are not simply something to be splashed on and forgotten. Truly primo potions provide an almost meditative experience in which I must contemplate heavily to understand the depth and true complexity of each note. Sound gay? Keep reading.

Let us begin with the lighter fare, Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue. I don't exactly recall how I became entranced by this wondrous fragrance, as I wasn't attracted to the bottle, I'm not particularly drawn toward floral scents, and blue is probably my least favorite color. But the combination of bluebell, white rose, jasmine, amber, musk, and Granny Smith apple is fresh, feminine and absolutely heavenly. If you pinched the cheeks of the fluffiest white cloud in the sky on a hot spring day, not only would it giggle like the Pillsbury Dough Boy binged out on nitrous oxide, it would also surely smell like Dolce & Gabbana's Light Blue. The amazing thing is, for such a smooth, pure, light fragrance, the scent lingers softly on your wrists all throughout the day. To put it another way, if you suddenly felt the urge to punch someone in the head, it would really just be like a soft supple aromatic kiss on the lips.

Now, if you're looking for a deeper soft-Oriental blend, I have tried them all, and the most compelling concoction I can put you on to is Missoni's eau de Parfum. I can inhale this heady aroma and instantly travel across time and space to a sun-drenched all nude Italian beach. This is one sizzling, luxurious bouquet of bergamot, magnolia, gianduia chocolate, amber, peony, rose, persimmon, loquat, and bitter orange. Don't be turned off by the chocolate and orange notes, because this isn't one of those cloying garbage scents like the ones you purchase on a marijuana-fueled whim at a Bath & Body Works during an aggressive mall-walking escapade (guilty!) It's more reminiscent of an Easter basket Willy Wonka would throw together while acid-tripping on a mouthful of Everlasting Gobstoppers. In other words, it's totally unexpected and dripping with magic.

raining cats? you open the skylight, i'll get the relish

Back when I was a shorty, 30 minutes of corny jokes and canned laughter was like a high grade dose of kryptonite for me. It caused my pink plastic eyeglasses to violently convulse off my face and weakened my bladder to the point of no return. I pretty much embraced all sitcoms, even the boring ones that did nothing for me (ahem, talkin' to you, Cosby fam... THEO). I should have been a live audience guest during show tapings, because a sign commencing laughter would never have been necessary had I been invited. I was a cheesy mothafucka and it didn't take much to git me rollin'. Back then, I daydreamed about kickin' it tableside and splitting a can of creamed corn with Dan & Roseanne Connor, playing poker while enjoying a travelin' pizza with my man Alf, and flicking frying pans at Pops with my lil' homie Baby Sinclair. Like my young fossil friend, I too take every chance to take a pee in my pants.

I also used to imagine swapping glamour tips with Endora of Bewitched, who I knew to be the glitziest dame of all in my own private hierarchy of bitchin' small screen broads. One thing I luvs is a sparkly bitch, and that trashy witch knew how to work, honey, with those queenly jewel-toned robes, dazzling pinkie rings and campy liquid lined eyes. Who really cared about that mopey huzzy Samantha and her lame dick sucking ways? Dullard Darren could suck my left one, but the supremely elegant Endora could get 'em both if she wanted.

1-900-Grustlin'

I am one of those chicks that apparently lacks the ability to make a long-term commitment to a 9-5 grind. I have made some creative career choices over the years and my multiple personality-suffering résumé belabors this point. I've been collecting paychecks since I was sixteen, and now some ten years later, I can cross off cocktail waitress, cubicle queen, kid wrangler, motel cleaning goddess, retail guru, phlebotomy vamp, porn peddler, dildo expert, librarian and data entry diva, not to mention myriad placements in temp-job hell, off my list of gigs worthy of pursuing (and hopefully not revisiting). That being said, one hustle that has always appealed to me is that of Phone Sex Artist, à la Judy in Spike Lee's Girl 6. Imagine if retro telephones in shades of periwinkle and Pepto-pink truly did rain from the sky and Naomi Campbell actually had the decency to take over your heavy breathing while you smoked a joint in the ladies room. Working from home would take on a whole new meaning as you simply yawn smutty clichés to sex-starved hucksters whilst fanning stacks of bills over your freshly polished fingernails as episodes of Dynasty play out on your newly acquired flat-screen TV. I suppose I always have had an irresistible attraction to smutty romantic dramedies that glamorize the sex trade industry. Who do I have to call to get hired already?

Here's a sleazy assortment of phone sex jams to inspire lusty language:

Love Thirst - Jean Grae

Naughty Girl - Beyoncé

Lovely Lady - Kool Keith

Black Shampoo - Wu Tang Clan

Money Make Me Come - Rick Ross & EbonyLove

I Will Take That Ride - Betty Davis

Darling Nikki - Prince

AA XXX - Peaches

Video Phone - Beyoncé

Nasty Girl - Vanity 6

Hot Spot - Foxy Brown

Pussy, Money, Weed - Lil Wayne

Sex Shooter - Vanity 6

Tennessee Slim Is The Bomb - Joi

Hello Operator - White Stripes

On The Hotline - Pretty Ricky

High Price - Ciara

Strangers - Portishead

Caress Me Down - Sublime

Splash Waterfalls - Luda!

Discipline - Miss Janet if u nasty

Erotic - Keyshia Cole

Hardly Wait - PJ Harvey

"Uh huh... 36DDD... Of course I'm rubbing them..."

you know the drill

Dentists are vicious whores and Satan is their pimp. Iceberg Slim ain't got nuthin' on these bitches. I hate them all.

dear rihanna,

As the esteemed $hort Dawg once poetically schooled Kelis: Bitch! Tell that man you a boss bitch! Make some noise, raise your hand if you a boss bitch! I don't think he understands you a BOSS BITCH!

examining the oscars

Watching the Oscars is like going to the gynecologist. No one likes it, but we still do it once a year anyway. I hate myself for tuning in, and when Hugh Jackman thanked me at the end of the broadcast for making it through this crap fiesta, I said "No Hugh, thank you for wasting three hours out of my life I'll never get back. And for forcing me to consume an entire bag of Kettle Kurls just to remain semi-conscious. And in my good sweatsuit!"

Unfortunately, my homie Mickey Rourke didn't take home the golden nude dude that he totally deserved. Fortunately for me, however, was that he was at least able to showcase his stunning sense of style: the sweaty weave, the stunna shades, the Al Bundy hands in the pants stance, the chains and the pointy pleather boots. What can I say? It works for me. He wins the coveted Dapqueen Dapper Dan Award. Don't sweat it, Mick, you earned it!

The Dapqueen Dame Diva Award was a little harder to narrow down. While I was completely drawn in by the gothic '80s prom vibe Marion Cotillard was sporting and the creamy dreamy swagger of Taraji P. Henson, it was of course Angelina Jolie's elegant impression of an evil Disney sorceress that made me cackle with delight. Her look was made complete with a witchy black gown, over the top emerald jewels and some wicked looking combed-back villain bangs, not to mention that trademark expression of carefully measured insanity on her face. Angelina, you are the shit and you know this. That is why only you deserve the Dapqueen Dame Diva Award!

Honorable Mentions:

Beyoncé Knowles, Anjelica Huston, Anne Hathaway

You broads are supremely foxy for sure, but how could you have predicted Angelina was receiving fashion advice from Cinderella's backstabbing army of sewing mice? Those meddling rats.

repressions of a beauty product slut: part 1

I have a confession: I'm a beauty junkie with a pretty severe habit and product is my poison. Whether I'm lurking the aisles of Rite-Aid at midnight or balling out at Sephora in broad daylight, one thing is for certain: You'd best believe imma get my fix! I'm mesmerized by glosses and glitter, powders and polishes, faux eyelashes and fancy packaging. I'm a sucker for glamour, and even though I don't layer on cosmetics everyday, I make up for it with heavy experimentation (not to be confused with a heavy hand, ladies... psych!) If you ask me, perfectly coiffed eyebrows are crucial for a compelling beauty look, and if you don't complete your routine with a trannylicious mega-arch, then why even bother? The only other accent necessary for truly completing a look is a couple inky coatings of ebony mascara. In my mind, mascara application is equal parts art and science. Of course, the resulting effect, however, is pure sex. It goes without saying that when contemplating mascaras, as with men, the choice between length and volume is not always an obvious one. You can have length, you can have volume, but 9 times out of 10, you cannot have both (unless you're me). So, choose your wands wisely, women. The soulful Leroy Sibbles of the Heptones once crooned "Purrty looks isn't all" and the Maybelline Define-A-Lash Mascara packaging proves his wisdom as fact. If you're trying to keep those purse strings on a short leash, you can still afford to coat your fringe with this delicious drugstore dime piece. Like most awesome inventions, its packaging is budget and gaudy, but I personally guarantee that it curls and twirls like a pearl. Whether it's Maybelline or M.A.C., I love all my mascaras the same, but different. Just like little tube babies. Wow. Moving on...

(Boi-oi-oiingg!!)

Now, if you're like me, you save your various loose coins and paper money in a sleazy NYC Chinatown coffee cup and hide it away until you have accumulated enough dough for this amazing purchase I plan to exchange bankroll for in the very near future: How rad is it that Too Faced has dreamed up this Mood Swing Emotionally Activated Lip Gloss featuring the très gorgeous Smurfette! Not only are they taking it all the way back to the Saturday morning cartoon freak within me, but a flash in the pan nod to the quixotic mood ring, too?! This mouth-watermelon'ing flav shimmers on your smackers in a Smurf-blue hue, then depending on your mood, activates to various shades of Smurfberry pink. Cop a color wheel, friendo, cuz my lips speak Smurf now, swak you very much.

bad bitch # 1: beyoncé

Well, Valentine's Day has come and gone and I'm in a bit of a sentimental mood. Let's gush! Anybody who knows me knows that Beyoncé is my Queen. She is radiantly electric and over the top glamorous, two qualities I can appreciate in my #1 bad beyotch. This gal is a do-it-all diva to the max: She sings hit songs in a devastatingly hypnotic mezzo soprano, designs alluring fashions, and vamps it on a regular for modeling gigs such as L'Oréal. She even emulates famous broads like Diana Ross (lol @ her performance as Deena Jones in Dreamgirls... what. the. hell.) and Etta James (or. something...) Anyway, I got some hot off the press news: If you haven't already checked out the soundtrack to Cadillac Records, then get to steppin'. It was an unexpected delight to discover this collection of gems inspired by Etta James and interpreted by Queen B, especially after the double disappointment of the double disc Sasha Fierce. You know, the record I was HIGHLY anticipating practicing my painstakingly choreographed Destiny's Child dance moves in front of the mirror to, but turned out to be an epic hardcore suckfest. As an obsessive Beyoncé stan, I cannot express how deep my hatred for If I Were A Boy and Single Ladies (Put A Cock Ring On It) goes. On the other hand, the song Hello not surprisingly does it for me, as I easily geek out to songs with a showtunes-vibe. I hope the next record Bey drops will be in the same vein as Dangerously In Love, a truly superb album filled with old-school R&B diamonds and practically zero zirconia (we won't discuss Signs, mmkay?) Top three jams off the Dangerously In Love record: Be With You, Hip-Hop Star, Baby Boy

Here is a magical treasure from the Cadillac Records release entitled All I Could Do Was Cry. Don't sleep.

dapqueen cinema: flick i dig

Nothing matches the magic of watching a motion picture in the theatre. Today I got high off the aroma of hot buttered corn, slurped a turbo gulp, munched out on the tranny-fat snacks I smuggled in past the brood of unsmiling teenagers at the ticket rip-off booth, and leaned back to a hot sizzling cheese-atrical motion feature presentation called The Wrestler. This badass slice of cinema stars three rad movie stars I love, acting the roles of three timeless characters I never tire of: 1) Mickey Rourke as the fantastically delightful Randy "The Ram" Robinson, a kickass deli employee by day and superstar pro-wrestler by night; 2) Marisa Tomei as Cassidy/Pam, the stripper with the heart of gold and the yabbos of Betty White (and one badass bitch for shaking it to Lil Wayne in a greasy Jersey tittay bar) and 3) Evan Rachel Wood, bringing it in yet another tearjerker performance, this time as The Ram's emotionally distant, abandoned lesbian daughter Stephanie. Motorcycle Boy aka Mickey Roids obviously has insane amounts of charisma and athletic finesse, but it's his ability to express the downtrodden underdog we can all empathize with that really sets my coal black heart ablaze. If you're in the mood for a grimy sports drama mixed with powerfully emotional metaphors about the strange and sad plight of a sacrificial ram called Randy, then this is your joint.

Pros: Gory wrestling footage, groovy glitter spandex outfits, sweet bleach blonde weave, Jersey accents, hot soundtrack (Ratt, Scorpions, Quiet Riot, whaaat!!!)

Cons: Zilcho, buddy.

blunt gut remnants: hullo '09

This year I really need to chill out on my vices. Somewhere along the way I've (d)evolved into a certified hot ass mess. It's finally hit me that my entire existence revolves around smoking blunts, popping pills, and basically behaving like a drunken reprobate. When did it start to seem reasonable to coax myself up in the morning with a wake & bake date with my bong and the Sci-Fi channel? Followed by a dose of Adderall, a sour apple Philly, a couple Vicodins, a packet of menthols, an afternoon makeout session with some dude named Jack Daniels, a couple hearty swills from the ol' PM 'Tussin vessel, an Ambien or four at bedtime, and a double shot whisky nightcap to wash it all down.

OK sure, it's not like I'm sniffing asbestos or smoking weave glue... yet. I'm not convinced pot is a "gateway drug," but apparently I have an "addictive personality." Never mind that my brain probably closely resembles something like that of a Teenaged Mutant Ninja Retard, but I've pretty much forgotten what it feels like to wake up and get excited about the day ahead of me without relying on chemical crutches to catapult my wobbly hungover ass up. The funny thing is, it's not even exciting anymore, it's just kind of pathetic. Even my cat gives me the side eye, and she spends most of her free time lounging spread-eagle and licking her own chocha (cats have so much game it's not even funny).

So... today is day 22 of not smoking my trashy ass faux-mint flavored cigarettes. Not a puff, not a drag. Just good old fashioned cold turkey squashing the habit. That being said, it's going to be harder for me to quit choking bowls with pals, just because I genuinely relate to my fellow 'heads. We're, like, artists, man! And by artists I mean layabouts - we'd rather sigh deeply and hurl a piece of cheese at the TV in a fit of rage when the 3 a.m. BowFlex commercials start up, but still we refuse to locate the clicker from the depths of the couch cushions to switch the station. We plunge ever deeper into our nocturnal despair as we realize our view of the bottle blonde with the bulging biceps is obscured by a slice of Swiss. I've come to the conclusion this lifestyle of mine is a major hiccup in my strategy to become a wealthy gentleman's concubine of leisure, as I've gotten to the point where it's infinitely more important to get stoned and acquire an ambrosial buzz before class everyday than it is to study, stay focused, and systematically remember to apply wrinkle cream. Plus, I once read that cheese causes cellulite to flare up in the strangest of places. This saddens me A LOT.

In conclusion, my resolution for 2009: It's time for a change. YES I CAN!

P.S. Welcome to my BLOG. Oh, how I loathe that word.