Justice will not rest. What if I gave justice a cookie? Justice will think about it.

Imladris is bugging me to update. And comment on her blog. She's very high maintenance, really.

Did not have time to update yesterday, as I got a call at one from Kim asking if as long as I was on at six, could I possibly come in at five. Which sounds like a reasonable request, except that I didn't know I was working at all. Much depression and hasty cleaning ensued. And there was no way in hell I was going in at five.

Wanna know something sad? The only tips I made were from staff members. Music Guy felt sorry for me and put a dollar in, and would give me all the loose change he found lying around. And then my boss's wife gave me her change, which was nice. But it's not like there were a whole bunch of opportunites for tips, as there was absolutely no one but me and Music Guy downstairs at all for two solid hours. I cleaned the syrup bottles and squirted water through every single one. That's how bored I was.


So I don't actually have that much to write about, despite Imladris wanting an update like a junkie wants, well, whatever the junkie happens to be addicted to. I don't know a whole lot of junkies, at least not the illegal variety, so I'm not sure what the popular junkie addiction is. I would think crack, as there are countless crack jokes out there. Because if you add the word crack to any sentence it gets infinately funnier, really. Try it sometime. Not around my mom. Because she seems to think that just because my sister has an affinity for drug jokes that means she's behind the bleachers shooting up. Which is just implausible, because I don't think Imladris likes needles, and she certainly would never be caught dead behind a bleacher. She'd be one of those addicts in a pink fluffy robe passed out in her rose-scented bath in her penthouse apartment that her unloving but rich husband paid for.

Or on my futon. That works too. But not as glamarous.

Gah! Johnny on Letterman. We loves him on Letterman. Aw, hell, we love him on everything. But this was Particularly Good Look for Johnny dear. Even though he looked very nervous and scared. Actually, that just made me want to comfort him, because I do love a project.

So my life is pretty boring. I know you're shocked because the last eighteen months of entries have been jam packed with interesting tidbits about my fast-paced and exciting life. Totally. I kind of talk about Johnny, my hair, Josh, Johnny, my clothes, Johnny, various political events, Johnny, and occasionally other, non-Johnny movies I watch. Hmmm.

Today we might go shopping, all the way to Target. Whoo! I did get off next Friday, and I need various toiletries in adorable teensy packaging if we're going away next weekend. Because I'm making a very concerted effort to pack lightly, which is difficult for me. Because usually my weekend packing involves a tote and a small suitcase, inevitably filled with stuff that I don't ever use (did I really need the two sweatshirts? And I don't wear thick socks at home- why would I use them on vacation?). And when five of us walk into the lobby with two suitcases each, plus the incidental pillow, because nobody likes to sleep on other people's pillows, we are Quite the Sight. So I'm going to do my part and just have a little tote. Because it is summer, after all, and I don't have to pack anything too terribly bulky. I'm going to try my hardest.

Also going to buy some books, as I have only bought one book since June and it only cost three twenty seven, thanks to my lovely discount and my loverly gift card. And since I separated my savings from my checking account I don't feel quite as guilty buying stuff. I have such a guilt complex. About everything, really. I've always been freakishly guilty. I think I'm part Jewish.

Oh, Hugh Grant. We love your blinky Britishness. Not as much as Colleen has decided she loves forbes.com, where they have a list of the richest guys under forty---she was picking out possible husbands for me last night. Among lots and lots of other things, which included googling CSI's Anna Belknap's husband, and sticking a pillow under her shirt to see how she's look pregnant (she's decided to adopt).

Anyhoodles, my pick would be the Russian google guy. Because then I could name my daughter Anastacia and not have it be weird. And even if we end up grocery shopping and I have to ask how we're doing on paper towels, it will be with an accented billionaire, which makes even paper goods seem interesting, doesn't it???

I hope that was enough of an update for Her Royal Squishyness...