  It is February. What it lacks in days it makes up for in drudgery. February is long, cold, and grey. February is the double-rolled toilet paper of months. February is the crappy, low-budget sequel to January.
In February, my brain is an ellipses looking for a period. These are the few feebled thoughts that I could muster for today. Women would have a different place in history if Adam hadn't been such a fink. Interpol may be a bunch of pretentious bastards, but they are pretentious bastards you can dance to. Why are "potato," "monkey," and "Canada," so inherently funny? The overriding emotion when I think of the fact that my parents will be staying with me for three whole days, and then be in town for three whole months, is much more similar to nausea than happiness.
But maybe it's a happy nausea. The smell of drycleaning stores always vaguely reminds me of happy moments in my childhood that don't actually have anything to do with drycleaning. I admit it, I can't resist a good dancing movie, but especially a good dancing movie with urlLink Diego Luna in it. Hence my excommunication from the Superior Snooty Movie Club. Brazilian waxes: liberating, or just a clever new form of torture? If it weren't for all the damn catnip, my cat would have figured out cold fusion by now. Sometimes it's nice to embrace urlLink social conventions . 
