In which I am, apparently, the only one.

Well, I finally caught this week's Project Runway, and I have a confession to make.

( Father, I have sinned against the popular opinion and I'm pretty sure I can't remember the Hail Mary. Can I just recite every eliminated designer from last season from beginning to end? )

Also, another season of Top Chef is coming up. Ah, Top Chef. The show I never really wanted to watch, until all of a sudden I was writing Harold/Stephen slash and calling for Tiffani's head on a platter with a sprig of parsley and some fig-stuffed gnocchi shoved into her ears. Sheesh, I barely ever cook anything more complicated than mac and cheese. Well, at least the Kateybot's gone this season. *snickers*

Apparently, Bravo's reality shows own my immortal soul. This can't be good.

Hey, sexy. Wanna make out?

The only reason I'm not being waaaaaay more embarrassing about having this sucker in my grubby little paws is because I'm sitting in Panera right now. Jeez, I think I need a cigarette, and I don't even smoke. (Well, unless set on fire.)

(no subject)

I'm driving home from Panera on the barely-traveled highway between here and there, and this guy tries to pass me. Huge-ass truck, raised off the axles, pounding gangsta rap, and just for added effect, a pair of plastic testicles hanging from the boat hitch on the back bumper.

So I did what any red-blooded pretty girl in a pink shirt and a crappy five-hundred-dollar car playing awful pop music as loud as possible could do and passed his ass. Heh.

*****

Also ...

Me: Look what I got! *shows off SPN DVD set*
Dad: I've never heard of it.
Me: It's my favorite show!
Dad: *stares* That guy on the left looks like Clint Howard.
Me: *bwuh?* You think Jared Padalecki looks like Clint Howard?
Dad: ... well, when he was younger.

Um, I think my father has a problem with his brain not working.