Ah, the night of guilty pleasures. Big Red Blankee was yoinked off the bed and onto the couch. The landlady's gone so I howled my approval at Gilmore Girls and Scrubs with more abandon than usual. Pottery Barn's summer preview was propped on the lap, Ovid was handily nearby but given his due snub. There were three commercial break sprints to the kitchen for the customary tablespoon of cool-whip-and-hershey's-syrup downed over the sink.
And now I'm riding the fine line between milk-warm and sugar-high and am ready to get philosophical. Which essentially means stating once again that Bondgirls are always the most beautiful women in the world and daring anyone to disagree.
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