Then I went on a rant about how terrible Kiera Knightly is, and that extended into a rant about how I hate the fact that actresses that CAN'T act are making 20 million a movie because they're hot. (Cameron Diaz, for example) I got called a skinnyist or something. Meaning I am prejudiced against skinny women.

Maybe, but I feel I'm prejudiced against skinny women who can't act getting paid a whole bunch of money and getting notoriety and other such nonsense simply because they're skinny and look a certain way.

Yes, I guess it's just one more thing I'm bitter about.

But I got home and my house is so nice, and there were three new songs in my email from the Welsh, who is the bartender at work, lovely fellow. Also an email from my penpal in Astoria, New York. Yay penpals.

I am going to crawl into bed early and read more Hitchiker's Guide. Which is what I'm reading right now. I like Laura-Jane's practice of putting the book cover picture on her page.

I gotsta learn how to do that.

By the way, I really don't like sounding like a bitter old bitch. I miss being five. Things didn't matter then. None of this stuff that hurts me now mattered then. I probably didn't care about anyone but myself, my mother, and maybe my stuffed animals.

Although in retrospect, I think that most of my stuffed animals deserve my love more than some people I've handed it to on a silver platter.

Next on the viewing list: Wallace and Gromit, and that new one with Elijah Wood in it.