Good morning good morning good morning a

I've got nothing to say, but it's ok. Except that to point out that in the 1980's Bruce Springsteen was a damn fine-looking man. Bit of a horsey-face, but I reckon I like that. It's possible he wasn't fine at all, of course. I could probably live comfortably without ever hearing one of his songs again, but the lyrics of Born to Run are everything I've ever wanted my men to say to me that they haven't, so there you are.

I blame television.

My heart is sore today. Sort of a general tenderness, like it spent ten minutes too long on the elliptical trainer. I think it's contrary to my breeding to take a step back from the ridiculous power struggles of loviness; I can feel at least five different emotions chomping at the bit to jump back into the fray and scream,

"I'M RIGHT AND YOU'RE WROOOOOOOOONG! ALL HAIL SPLIFFE."

But I shan't. I need to restrain my megalomania to the political arena, or I'll never take over the world. And then who would take care of y'all? Also, for once I'm not sure I'm right.

Mercy mercy me, look at that sunshine. I have to go walk in it, though it's looking colder than a defence secretary's tits out there. Last night I noticed my skin and the 'whites' of my eyes are damn close to the same colour. Gross. Although I'm feeling physically better since I started eating normal food and going to the gym again, I need the weekend a little, I think. It will be hectic, but there will be music and long lazy mornings involved. Sweet.

Mostly, I want to see Lady's hair. Where's your hair, bitch?

I don't know if you ever look at the food blogs I have linked in the sidebar, but I really must advise you to look at the salmon galette recipe posted on Cindy's Kitchen today. It's fucking pornographic. I think she has a function to read the page in English, for all you monophones.