Andare, Partire, Tornare

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The one where I bitch about just about everything

Television Without Pity has turned me into a reality show whore. Thanks to the fact that I want to read the recaps and play around on the boards, I am now addicted not only to Trading Spaces, but to Joe Millionare and American Idol. I'd feel dirty and ashamed, but I'm having too much fun. I still refuse, however, to have anything to do with Survivor or The Bachelorette. People, I do have *some* standards. Well. Not many of them, really. But they're there, someplace.

Went to work today. Got irritated at office politics (mostly stirred up by the Brassy Bitch and her cohort, The Incredible Fussball) and basically just sat quietly at my desk, attending to tasks and fucking around on the internet inbetween things. Tomorrow, I intend to spend the day photographing pocketwatches. No brain power required, and I can have my radio on in the background. My kind of work day.

My eyes itch, and I'm scared I have pinkeye. If it doesn't clear up by tomorrow evening, I'm going to the doctor.

Does anybody have a cure for a sore back when you wake up in the morning? Either our mattress has gone south in a big way, or I've hit senior citizen status in a hurry, because I've woken up every night these past couple of months with my lower back stiff and aching. We flipped the mattress, and it's still not the best, but I've slept on far worse and never had this reaction, plus when I tried sleeping on the futon, I got the same reaction but in a milder form. Once I get up and start moving, the backache stretches out, and I'm fine for the rest of the day, but it's really irking me.

All right, enough bitching - I'm off to put some body butter all over myself (Peace of Heaven's Sunflower and Vanila Sugar, mmmm) in an attempt to fend off the Skin of Winter.

7:42 p.m. - 2003-01-30

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