While I violently steer away from wearing any sort of pant that features writing on the ass (for that matter, I steer away from wearing any sort of pant, period), I am not above buying and gleefully wearing underwear with things scrawled across the bottom. Today, my ass states (quite correctly) that I am POPULAR!, with stars and a flourish and also a marching band (my ass is large, ok). It’s not so much the message that I want to get across but the comfort factor – for some reason, underwear with ridiculous things on it is the most comfortable. I have a pair that says SUPERSTAR, two that declare my ass to be SIN CITY, and more than a few that trumpet my JUICY-ness out to the world. Ass writing is funny, as long as it’s hidden and/or avant-garde.

Amélie the Office Pug continues to be utterly adorable and completely unfair. She spent the morning whimpering and making eyes at me while trying to get on my desk, where I have a stash of her favourite treats (baby carrots). I’m not above trying to bribe the dog into loving me, but in the end it’s all moot since she doesn’t belong to me. Repeated exposure to the pug is doing little to ease my pug lust; it’s making me all that much more desperate for a wiggly dog of my very own to love and adore. I want a pug. Pug pug pug pug pug.

Monday night is not a good night for laundry. All the creepy crazies were at the Laundromat last night, and they all smelled bad. Fresh cigarette smoke billowing atop stale cigarette smoke is probably the most disgusting thing in the world, and all the dollar store laundry detergent is not going to help your cause – eww. Just go away.

Holy shit, am I ever cold.