I think my problem is my feet are always cold. I'm an American woman, and I am tall. I am too tall for my mattress, my sheets, my blanket, really, my entire sleep life.
Last night I dreamed a rock star (I think that was the profession) was in love with me, and I was in love with him, and he gave me a blue dress. It wasn't a bad dress, but then he left while I was trying it on, and I found out he was married and had kids.
The dress wasn't really my color anyway.
In other news, Martin, the mid-90s sitcom, starring Mr. Lawrence, has no redeeming value whatsoever. I dare you to sit through an entire episode. I don't care what you think of King of Queens. Martin is by far the most offensive, unfunny, and tasteless sitcom created in my lifetime. I say this having avoided most puppetry and animation-centered series produced by Comedy Central, but I think it still abides. To be fair, it's really only Martin himself and the three other characters he plays that I despise to the point of un-Christian thoughts about Lawrence's well-being. The other actors, I'm sure, were punished enough just by being on the show.
Please, God, let me never have to watch anything worse.
Got to go to sleep. Spending a few hours on the subway tomorrow to get to and from Long Beach and not kill a half a tank of gas.
In Treatment isn't bad at all, though it's a bit genre-bending. The production costs must be incredibly low. Glad HBO's letting the impoverished of the nation watch it. And great casting. Missed Josh Charles, thrilled Blair Underwood's in nearly everything now, and though Gabriel Byrne's nearly 60, I don't think anyone blame's Melissa George's character for her erotic transference.
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