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I know, I know, I most assuredly know that absorbing news is hardly tonic for depression, so say the experts, and they all have personal stylists. Yet while it's horrific to watch the ruthlessness exhibited by police pepper spraying peaceful student protesters, it also takes my mind off our apartment not having hot water and gas heat for a week, and of being isolated at traditional times of family togetherness.

The bumbling, stuffed-crust candidacy of Hermann Cain makes me feel a little better about how, at almost thirty-three, I'm busting my ass for UPS as a seasonal driver helper, was issued a too-small jacket, and am working for money I was making a decade ago. I'm tired of being poor, but not yet of waiting for the aliens to take Newt back to their home toxic waste dump.

Here's something: Obama can eat my ass. Every time he insufferably refuses to address publically the travesties levied on domestic protesters, or WE, THE EFFIN' PEOPLE, he squanders yet more hope voters had for advocacy. Even if he doesn't win reelection, he can always be an advisor to Goldman Sachs.

This was all before I learned from Cobert a trend involving girls getting drunk by soaking their tampons in vodka and inserting them into va-jay-jays. While I lack the anatomy involved, rarely have I been, you know, drinking alcohol while thinking to myself...'must...get Captain Morgan inside me faster!'

Plus, the fourth Twilight movie is premiering! Damn, I wish I was a thirteen year old girl with a liter of Smirnoff and some fresh Tampax.