Damn, I love the holidays.

Today, in an unprecedented display of laziness, I sat on the couch playing video games with my brother for hours on end, while my gramma appeared intermitently bearing snacks of Doritos, garlic sausage, and cubed cheese, cuz my gramma loves me and she rocks. I did not do a single productive thing today, and I feel wonderful (if not a little sore from sitting on my ass all day).

I'm going to gain fifty pounds by the time I go back to school, though; eating like that every day. The proper, home-cooked meals three times a day; the treats showered upon me by my grandmother; the nightly baking sessions (although, to be fair, we do dance while we bake... it's a mad house, this). Oh well. What is X-mas without a little weight gain, or a tree, or snow, or religious propaganda shoved down my throat at my little sister's annual school concert? Why, it just isn't X-mas at all, I tell you.

Can you believe that I still haven't seen "The Return of the King" yet? I know. I KNOW. I'm horrified. (To be clear: I'm not even close to being sarcastic. I really truly am, in all senses of the word, horrified.) Oh, Orlando and Elijah, I've let you down... *wicked grin* I must be punished. Ha ha ha. I am a sick bird, and you love it, don't you? Seriously though, I am dying to see it. I keep catching myself almost saying to people who have "Don't tell me what happens!", poking my fingers in my ears and emitting a loud "la la la" type noise. Then I remember I've read the book. And I feel stupid. Obviously.

X-Mas Wish List!

1. A Mercedes. I'm not even going to be picky about class or colour. I just want a Mercedes.

2. Season two of "Alias" on DVD.

3. An MP3 player. A good one, with room for an insane, unnecessary amount of songs.

4. A bright red, corduroy, knee-length trench coat. Is it strange that I'm pickier about my coats then I am about my cars?

5. Cold hard cash. [...]What?

6. A piano-playing, cigarette-smoking, artsy angsty Johnny Depp for my living room. You know, something to make it look "lived in".

7. A proper computer, so I don't have to hog my house mate's at every opportunity.

8. An end to world hunger and hatred, while I'm at it. Hey, I gotta make Bono proud.

9. For someone, anyone, to give my poor woobie Lex a hug. I'd really like to do it, but at this point, I don't care who does, as long as it gets done.

10. Any of the following: David Anders, Michael Vartan, Ewan McGregor, Orlando Bloom, Michael Rosenbaum, Justin Theroux, Josh of Queens of the Stone Age, Jon Stewart, Jake Gyllenhaal, Tom Welling, Chris Martin (I still love you, babe), Matt Damon, Colin Farrel, Hugh Grant, Robbie Williams, Jude Law, or Justin Timberlake (I love him, and you can shut up about it right NOW).

11. For everyone I hate or who annoy me to be rounded up, charged publicly with crimes against all things me, flogged, and then shipped off to L'isle Idontcare in the middle of the Whogivesafuck Ocean. I won't name names... Okay, I will: Britney Spears; that mouthy girl from my Sociology class; Pierre from the first grade; Jennifer Lopez; Steve Martin (sorry Steve); Chuck's roommate Midget the Racist Sexist Pig-Headed Bastard Arsehole Who Can't Sing Worth a Crap Even Though He Thinks He Can; Alexis from high school (horrible bitch with a mocking horse laugh); Tom Cruise; Celine Dion; Fran Drescher and her fucking gratuitous Old Navy monkey; my Math teacher, who I suspect is the devil incarnate; and those idiot bastards, the Wiggles. The list goes on a lot longer than this, but I'm choking on my rage here, and I want to wrap this entry up.

Before I go, I had the strangest thing happen to me in my dream last night. Ben Affleck popped by, and he seemed mighty upset, so I invited him in for a cuppa. He proceeded to cry and tell me how sorry he was for this whole "Bennifer" fiasco. He never meant for things to get so out of hand, but Jen had him under her evil spell. It turns out, Ben only started dating her to quell speculations that he and Matt were secretly lovers. He told me how much he really loved Matt, and how he missed him. Just then, the doorbell rang, and lo and behold, J. Lo herself was on my doorstep, screaming that I'd stolen her Ben-Ben, and if I didn't give him back, she'd kick my ass Bronx-style. Ben cowered behind me, but I knew no fear. I whipped out a bottle of "Glow" perfume and sprayed it in her face. She shriveled up like an old leaf and blew away. Ben and I rejoiced, snuggled, and made plans to call Matt straight away for a sexy party.

Figure that one out, eh? I'm taking it as a sign. "Bennifer" shall soon be no more. You heard it here first, folks.

Heh. I love this:

Seth Cohen rocks my socks. Ah, the O.C. Love it.

May your days be merry and light, and may all your Christmases be racially diverse!

Miss Black

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Miss Black also contributes to a David Anders/Sark site under the name Chaton Espion. Feel free to visit her there if you'd like to witness the terrifying depths of obsession.