With every passing day, I grow more and more certain that I have a brain tumor. I am a sufferer of migraine headaches, and recently I have noticed I have been getting them more frequently and with greater intensity than ever before. They’re so painful. It’s like the little drummer boy is performing a face-melting solo on the snare drum inside my cranium. I feel like using aspirin as a remedy is now becoming a joke, and am considering using horse tranquilizers to ease my throbbing cerebellum. I even wake up in the morning with migraines. How does this even happen? I’m sleeping too loud? I don’t understand.
It’s a tumor. It has to be. Something is growing inside of my skull that is making my brain wish it were dead. I just know it. I also watch way too much House. Hugh Laurie really gets me going.
Did you know that Hugh Laurie is actually British? That’s right. He has to talk with an “American” accent for the show. How bizarre. He plays a really convincing American though. I never would have known. Cunning bastard. He’s such an asshole. I really do love him.
Perhaps the only person I love more than Hugh Laurie, though, is Michael C. Hall. Except when he’s licking men. That makes me uncomfortable. (See: Six Feet Under, aka Debbie Does Dallas. Or I guess in this case, Dennis Does Dallas). Eleven more days. Eleven more tiny little days until Dexter is back. I don’t even know how to emotionally or mentally prepare for this season. There’s so much going on! WHAT IS HE GOING TO DOOOOO?
For those of you who have never watched Dexter, you need to start. Or get out.
This show makes me so anxious. I get REALLY wrapped up in the turmoil. I’m biting my nails, gripping the couch, gasping loudly, screeching, yelling at the television—-it’s intense. I’m not ashamed. Showtime, let’s hurry up.
Well, that’s really all I have at the moment. So….bye.
“That’s my booty. It’s not yours.”
“Yes it is. I wrote a book about it.”
“Oh, you did? What’s it called?”
“Ass Like That.”