bowties and tears

i'm mondo depressed that rachel zoe is over. it hasn't even crossed my mind that my truebloodlove bairam and i are the only people who actually watch the show, so unless we want to pony up our combined salary of $42,000 to pay for a second season, it might not be back. please bow your heads in prayer that there are enough fags and respective hags out there to join in candle-light vigil/blow our pals at bravo into season deux.

so bairam (or, brian, for his quaalude'd-out office mate) has a bit of a thing for taylor jacobson, stylist associate in the zoe camp. but her bangs totally stress me out, so i prefer the ralph lauren-sporting, buttoned-up to button-down, alexander mcqueen skinny jeaned, brad goreski, rach's stylist assistant. at least he has a decent grasp of grammar.

also, i wore glasses for a solid 10 years, starting with a pair of red fisher price specs in the 4th grade. can you envision? my first flute concert in all black and white and red glasses? shut. it. down. anyway, i'm also a girl and quickly learned to cry to get my way (usually over playing brenda walsh during recess reenactments of that week's 90210 episode), but i must say, NEVER have i fogged up a pair of glasses the way brad did in the finale. he also has a julia roberts-style vein in his forehead when he gets stressed out. i cant decide if the comparison loses him points or if he still wins based on general vein-appearance.

also, he admits to being 30. THIRTY. i didn't have his skin when i was six. if he stays for another season, he's definitely getting his first wrinkle. and i, for one, intend to be there to watch it form.

p.s. placing bets on how long until his first hook up w/ rodger(!!!!). do you die? i die.

talkin' shit about a pretty sunset

and todaaaaay, i'm sick because...that's what i do. according to my mother it's because my air conditioner is in my window. it's not on, mind you, merely its presence has caused me to fall ill.

regardless, i made the executive decision to work from home today. typically if i were to pull tomfoolery such as this, it would be to get a pedicure or crush a pitcher of bloody marys and perv westside tavern for ed westwick. but today, i actually got my shit together and busted out a large chunk of the latest too-much-work-in-no-time-for-'you've got to be kidding me?!?'-pay project i've gotten myself into yet again. so, i took a certain amount of pride in that. i'm also feeling slightly better today, even contemplated mixing myself a salty dog for the first time in 4 days (yeah, i was feeling that shitty...). and as i wrapped up the last line of page 35235 of a 5935938596302 page wireframe, i turned to look out my window at the peachiest pinkerific sunset i've seen in all my 24 long years.

so i thought to myself, LB - stop talkin' so much shit and blog about something sweet and heartwarming. write the julia fucking roberts of blog posts.

and in that moment, i realized something: not a single person i know gives fuck about nice shit.

a moment of pure clarity (...and class).

and the next moment turned into pure hatred. i realized that i can't really see the sunset because of this massive high-rise to the west. and then my concentration was blown by a cab-induced fender-bender on 8th. which is totally going to fuck up people's commutes home, and i'm going to have to hear honking for AT LEAST an hour. so that means i'm definitely going to end up with a headache on the one day i finally don't have a headache. and then remembered my stomach hurt, but that's just because i'm hungry, but i know that those heaven-sent angels over at dominos would definitely judge me if i ordered a thin crust and cheesy bread again this week. and that forced me to hate society for making me care.

so fuck you society. fuck you cabs. fuck you high-rises. dominos -- you're cool. fuck you sunsets. i'm out.