I went to see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind this afternoon at the Bloor. My eyes are all puffy now.

I can’t stress enough how much I can’t stand Jim Carrey. That I loved the movie to bits is even more remarkable for that fact.

It put me in mind of Punch Drunk Love, really. The colours, the music, the long bits without any dialogue, the characters, and the way I cried my fool head off...

I just went out onto my balcony to deadhead the flowers in my planters and pinch back the pots of herbs (the kind you use for cooking, silly). My hands are sticky with flower sap and herb clippings.

The water in my building was shut off for the day and meant to be flowing again by five. The water has not been turned back on as promised.

The pot of rosemary was the last thing I tended to.

I smell like focaccia.

What is it about a day of bed spins and puking that would make me crave Double Bubble bubble gum so damn bad, I wonder?

I love Foundphotos so very, very much.

Thanks, misterpants. The Infinite Cat Project fucking kills me.

I will be dragging my own cats into this very, very soon.

When I read this headline:

"Maine man says lightning strike energized him"

I thought, "dude's a fucking superhero! He's been energized and now he's going to fight crime! Right on!"

But then, I read the article.

As it turns out, the 56 year-old man just "feels lighter and 100 years younger." Since that doesn't really make any sense, something tells me he won't be getting costumed up and fighting the good fight anytime soon.

Too bad, hey?

I know it must be hard for news agencies to report on someone being shot in the ass. I don't think there are many ways to say "shot in the ass" without offending or sounding ridiculous...so I suppose I shouldn't laugh so hard when I read:

"After she refused to let go, she was shot in the buttock."

Your cats can be low carb fools too!

Last night I was poking around, looking for nutritional information on Science Diet/Prescription Diet cat food when I came upon this link on their website:

"New low carbohydrate, high protein food just for your cat"

Please. Low carb beer, low carb grocery stores selling low carb chocolate and now low carb cat food?

The human race is out of control.

I just hope this whole thing got started because people with lots of money want to drag their pets along on their fad diet ride and NOT because bread deprived lunatics were driven to graze on their pet's high carb kibble...

Dave Grohl drumming for Nine Inch Nails?

Going out for a walk doesn't give you the energy and enthusiasm you need to clean up three piles of cat puke...it just delays the whole process.

But it's a delicious delay if you return with a belly full of coffee and donuts from Timmy's.

But wait, speaking of walks...I went out to avoid dealing with liquidized cat food and to hunt down some almost-dead plants for my balcony. I thought at this time of the year most of the potted plants for sale would be very close to dead and therefore very close to free.

Not so much at Yonge and Eglinton.

The plants are dismal, sad, pathetic looking specimens and yet they haven't been marked down at all. I don't understand.

It was a sad trip and I'm pissed off because I think my balcony is wanting for a few more plants but it looks like I'll have to do without. There is no way in heck I'm paying full price for stuff I'll have to coax back to life. Hell, they want more for their suffering plants than I paid for my original greenery from a nursery back in late May. The cheek!

Oh my ovaries.

Fucking cysts...going around rupturing and fucking up my plans...making me curl up in a ball and beg for death...no one invited you into my pelvis anyway.

About that jar:

Earlier this evening I had a terrible thirst that wouldn't answer to water or Coke, so I decided to mix up some emergency* fruit punch powder.

Everything was looking good until I saw I'd left the Brita water jug out on the counter. For some hours.

No one wants to drink warm, flavoured water mixed from a noxious, gritty substance of questionable origin.

I thought to solve my problem by having my punch shaken, not stirred.

But I couldn't get the cap off the martini shaker thing.

Dehydration was talking its toll.

I spied, in an open kitchen cupboard, an empty spaghetti sauce jar I've been saving to store dry goods in (you know, dried beans and icing sugar and the like).

I put two and two together, or in this case, ice cubes and water and powder together and I did a little shake it all about.

I had chilled fruit punch!

I poured it into a glass.

I drank deeply.

It tasted like shit.

So much work for such a small reward.

Without thinking, I capped the jar and put the remainder of the punch in the fridge.

Without thinking, several hours later (which was just a half an hour ago) I went to the fridge, uncapped the jar and drank in steady gulps.

I was an urbane version of a hillbilly, swilling moonshine from a mason jar.

I don't want to be a fucking hillbilly.

So I just poured myself a (very mild) vodka and soda in a pretty glass.

I garnished it with a dainty slice of lemon.

I will relish it with small, dainty sips.

I will redeem myself.

*I don't really know how the fruit punch mix got into my house (I certainly can't recall ever shopping and thinking "I have a need for this product" and purchasing the mix) but I dip into it every so often to sate a desperate need for a flavoured beverage, that's free of caffeine, when it's past the reasonable hour for a trip to 7-11.

I just found myself standing in front of the open fridge and taking the lid off a spaghetti sauce jar so I could have a drink of fruit punch.

I know how I arrived at that place and it's even weirding me out.

I just washed down a sleeping pill with a can of Coke.

Cheers, retard.

Gaining 20 pounds is a long, slow process.

But so is getting used to the new boobs you grow when you gain 20 pounds.

They’re distracting. I don’t know whether I should play with them or bind them so they stop getting in my way.

For someone who thinks role-playing in the bedroom is a lame gig (just fuck me, don’t make me pretend to be a maid, for god’s sake) I’m uncharacteristically enthusiastic about themed activities.

Last week to celebrate Canada Day, T the boyfriend and I had “cottage day” out on my balcony. T’s always commenting on how my balcony reminds him of a cottage (weather worn slats of wood to make a platform for some of my planters, driftwood, beach rocks, tall pots of sweet peas and morning glory, recliner/lounger for reading etc) and I decided to milk that to the bone. In lieu of a trip to a far-off (and expensive) cottage we cooked up a little ersatz cottage flavour out on my balcony.

We did nothing all day except kick it lazy cottage style out there and it was so excellent. I got everything ready the night before (stocked up on Corona and lime, hung mini lights, readied the candles, swept the floor, worked on food prep, rearranged the furniture/planters so we could move around easily, got the white noise machine that plays sounds of waves and crickets etc) and it was so nice to laze about on our fat asses and do nothing but soak up the sun, read our books and drink. Oh, and smoke a lot of pot. Naturally. To make a good thing even better, we also got to watch at least three different fireworks displays from my balcony (with my totally unobstructed west-facing view you can see a surprising number of real fireworks and an unsurprising number of lame backyard displays too) and every so often we got to step inside and take advantage of each other on my king size bed.

That’s a fine day, if you ask me.

Anyway, back to themes…I’m totally addicted. I’m making plans for this weekend to have a “diner” night. I’m going to pass on the bubble gum/juke box tunes (unless I can line up some Buddy Holly…then I’ll reconsider) but we are going to indulge (and heavily) in food that’s really bad for our bodies. We’re going to feast on oven-baked grilled cheese sandwiches (and if you know anything about grilled cheese you know it’s so delicious when it’s done in the oven - outside crisp and not at all dangerously crunchy and the inside all tender and gooey) and home made french fries (crafted from potatoes lovingly peeled and sliced with care by own two hands). We’re going to drink chocolate milkshakes made in my blender with chocolate milk and Bryer’s vanilla ice cream and for dessert I’m going to bake a chocolate cake (or an apple pie).

And after we’re done eating, we’ll go sit out on the balcony and play Scrabble (or some lotr Monopoly?!) among the plants and mini lights and candles. And I’ll bring the noise machine out with us so we can hear some crickets.

The fact that this plan excites me beyond reason is really shameful, in a way. I think maybe it means I’m a raging flake. But I’m a raging flake with a cricket noise machine, board games and good french fries, so maybe it’s not all so bad.