So I think Password would be the most fun game show to go on, as long as your celebrity wasn't stupid. Like my dream celebrity Password partner would be William H. Macy. I bet we would kick ass and win two million, just for sheer awesomeness. Awesomosity. Awesoment. Whatever. It would rock. Also, I haven't looked at the Internet in over a week and the first thing I saw was that George Clooney may be single again. That brings me comfort. I dream of living next door in a KurtnGoldie situation and sending him semaphore signals from my balcony overlooking the pool. Also, it is difficult to eat a sandwich one-handed with a fork. I'm sure that was worrying you.
This bartender looks like my cousin. Actually, he looks like two of my cousins did twenty years ago. Interesting. Not really, but I had to say something. I haven't been up to any shenanigans lately. I would like to have shenanigans to report this evening, but I'm not in my usual bar, so I'm a bit out of my element. I'm actually wearing what is known to chicks as jeans n' a cute top n' strappy sandals. I am sick of t-shirts. Which is sad because I hate ironing more. You would think that I would enjoy the whole OCD precision aspect of it, but that's why I hate it. I can't enjoy it because I can't iron as well as the dry cleaner. One of my many flaws. Cons: can't iron like a professional. Pros: laundry gets done faster. It's all relative.
I let my sandwich get all cold and now I can't pull it apart like I like. I suffer for my art. Um, I guess that's it. It's ok to be underwhelmed. I will try to be involved in a gangland-style shoot-out between antiques dealers or something.
The password is:
stilted
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