well, it’s another entry about my boobs.

Just got back from seeing Inside Man, or The Inside Man, or whatever it is. It doesn’t matter. I wanted to see it because Clive Owen is amazing, and if the entire movie was him doing that first monologue straight to the camera I would have been much more entertained.

Consequently, about half an hour into the movie I started thinking about writing this entry.

There’s a scene that’s in the trailer, so I’m not spoiling anything, where the bad guys make everybody in the bank strip to their underwear. This taps into something I’ve never talked about here, mostly because it hasn’t come up. I recently confessed my this confession to a co-worker, and while he did give me the, “Every day I learn something weirder about you” look, he didn’t suggest I keep this neurotic fun fact to myself, so I’ll blame all of this on him.

The scene confirmed my fear, and let me know that it was a perfectly normal, rational thought to have each morning.

When I get dressed, I always think, “Is this what I want to be seen in when the bad guys bust into the building and force us to strip down to our underwear?” Continue reading

Possibly Too Much Information

you make the call.

First: I’m incredibly pissed off that 98.9 KJFK seems to have just disappeared and become a Soft Rock station, taking with it my only chance to listen to Howard Stern.

Between that and the “Downtown Jam,” the incredible meltdown of the Austin road system — where they’ve closed off almost all of downtown, parts of the highway, and sometimes the whole highway until 2002 and try and make it look like it’s a big damn party — there are times when I’m not upset that I’m leaving Austin.

Second: I’m a part of the bad ass new portal Damn Hell Ass Kings. You can go there for updates about your favorite (and new favorite) sites every day. Rock.

And now, the real point of the entry.

You might want to leave right now if you’re a member of my family, close to me or my boyfriend, or have no interest in hearing about the following things: my underwear, my ass, or my sex life.

Continue reading