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I knew I'd been spending waaaaay too much time LJing with pretty_fish (though that's definitely not a bad thing *user waves hi to pretty_fish*) when they debuted Clay Aiken's new single on the local radio station last night and I squeed in my car. (Boy, that sounds lovely, don't it? Like I spent all of my breaks at work scrubbing frantically at my driver's seat with soap and water.)

I'm so embarrassed. I never literally squee. I'm usually so much more dignified in my fangirlness. The worst you can usually expect out of me is a low-level wheeeeeee with a dash of eek and a pinch of aaaaaaa. So basically, not quite loud enough to shatter the windows, but just the right level to send my mom running out into the backyard positive that the house is on fire. (And this would be why I'm not allowed to watch The-Orly-And-Viggo-Comedy-Hour/Buddy-Movie that is FotR anymore when my mom's in the shower.)

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Today's Wicked-Cool Real Name of the Day -- Velvet Medlock. Isn't that the best? It sounds like the quiet yet seductive nanny in a Regency romance novel. Well, either that, or a serial-killing 80-year-old Las Vegas showgirl. (Ack. Suddenly getting a very vivid mental image of a really, really old stripper trying to seduce a poor, defenseless rake. May go wash brain out with Clorox.)

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I want to go buy two kittens and name them Kibbles and Bits. Then I want to buy a really hungry Doberman. Is that wrong? (Kidding, Mom! Please don't kill me.)

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Open letter to the guy who drove past me in the grey sports car as I was walking to work last night:

You schmuck. Did you honestly think screaming compliments at me while you were doing 65 mph in the city was going to work? Dude, if I was impressed enough by your classy catcalls to chase after you and I actually managed to catch up, it'd be the single lamest origin story in the history of comic book superheroes.

Also, I know I'm 5'2", but "Yo, shorty!" is not an acceptable opening line unless it's followed by "It's your birthday!" and you tossing me a gift-wrapped set of winning Powerball numbers.

Plus, your hair stands up straight and you're bloody stupid, yet you're neither Angel nor David Boreanaz. One of these is good, one is bad. You figure it out.

Oh, and that spiky hair? When you stick it out the window of a grey sports car like that, you end up presenting a total appearance of a giant diseased penis with a hairy mole on the side. Just thought you'd like to know.

P.S. Playing Eminem at those levels has been known to cause sterility in lab monkeys. And it totally turns off women with brain cells, but I'm getting the picture that was your goal.

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*user looks around in mild confusion* Hmm. Everybody's talking about me today like I'm not in the room. I wonder why.

And I haven't even made metaquotes in three days or so. Not like I'm bragging or addicted or anything, it's just ... *sniffle* ... it's just that the metaquotes gnomes are laughing at me. And I think they stole my underwear.

(This post brought to you by Half-Asleep.com ... when you care enough to roll over in the middle of the day and let your face rest right in the center of your laptop keyboard, it's Half-Asleep.com!)

You know ...

... I was wasting time I could have spent sleeping hanging out on LJ, and can I just say right here and right now --

I love my friends list! *user pounces on her friends list and gleefully shags it six ways to Sunday, in fifteen different positions with the lights on and Orly and Halle Berry sitting at the end of the bed just waiting for their chance to join in with whoever wants to play with 'em*

Umm ... ahem. You may now go back to your regularly scheduled lives. That is all. Thank you. :)