Brandi broke a bone, but I chipped my nail polish killing a spider.
Arsenal and Manchester United drew, and I got to hear it. Poor Brandi Chastain broke her foot in the first game of the World Cup. And, in less global news, Survivor recaps are back at Television Without Pity. O snark, how I have missed you. Here’s a bit:
“Then we cut back to a shot of Morgan, featuring enormous blurred naked asses right in the middle of the screen. The caption — which last time said, ‘Morgan Trailing’ — now says ‘Morgan Behind.’ HA! Aaaand the post-production guys get their first fruit basket of the new season.”
I am exhausted because this weekend, I moved. I’m out of energy, either physical or mental, and so I’m not currently very optimistic about this adventure. For brevity’s sake, three reasons why: the woman who owns the house, her three-legged cat, and a boatload of spiders. It is weird to be living in a stranger’s house; it is significantly weirder to be doing so WITH said stranger, even if – as she does – she seems to be very nice, and although she – and the three-legged cat – are moving in a month. And the three-legged cat. Enough said, no? And spiders. SPIDERS. I killed more spiders in eight hours than in the last year. That is not a large number, but it is still way too large. I hope this improves, but right now it is weird and lonesome and I don’t like it much.