Title Muse is Bloated and Sick

The Pod has been christened Larry. Larry the Pod. We now refer to it as Larry, as though it were more than an insanely huge inconvenient mouse-attracker (Yes, there was scratching in the wall yesterday. No, I' don't know why the exterminator- TO WHOM WE ARE FREAKING RELATED has not been called. Yes, I am looking for an apartment. No, you can't come, I don't like people.), and it is infinitely amusing.

I don't know. We were drinking.

Because how else can you watch fireworks? Clearly you need margarita wine coolers and a bottle of Arbor Mist.

Okay. I really am not a sexually frustrated soccer mom. Really not.

Speaking of sexually frustrated (and I promise we'll stop soon, because my dad reads this), I finished the Harry Potter books, and I completely understand why it runs all the crazy-ass Livejournal-ists' lives. They're flippin' amazing. I mean, not run-my-life amazing, but really good. I was up until twelve-thirty last night finishing Half-Blood Prince because I could not put it down.

And I have some theories.

Harry is totally a Horcrux. And he will die.

Dumbledore could possibly not be dead. Maybe. They didn't really bury him, and you know it's a better indicator of mortality if they bury somebody.

I honestly don't know whether Snape is evil or not, but I don't really care. I saw this and haven't been able to form a coherent thought all afternoon. Good, evil. Doesn't matter.

Sort of off the subject- best birthday present EVER. Borders had better carry it, because there is no way I'm waiting for amazon to ship it.

Here at chez Morena, things are going just a teensy bit strange. The Empress is barking at me, and acting inebriated. I think somebody slipped something in her drink.

Also, it is rainy and thunderstormy.

Despite what the time stamp is because I started this earlier, it's pretty late, and, as I stated above, Collee is on all fours, so I'm gonna go. Also have to work freakishly early and then I'm going to go celebrate the birth of my nation and the regrettable loss of the ability to call myself British with some rum. Woot.