Horatio continues to be the bane of my existence. Except as it turns out, Horatio is not a stone. He's something else. A big word I don't feel like spelling or explaining. Nothing has changed except he's not a stone. He still hurts and it still sucks, and I'm still taking Percocet. And I should probably stop blogging before some of the more interesting Percocet-induced thoughts slip out of my head.
Thoughts like, "It's a good Kiera Knightley is so freaking skinny, cause with her posture, if she weighed even 5 lbs more she'd have a potbelly. Not that there's anything wrong with a potbelly. I'm rather proud of my genetically inherited potbelly. One good thing about getting stoned every day on medically prescribed narcotics is that it has made me a very creative gift wrapper. All the gifts I am giving are wrapped. But they're not under a tree, cause I don't have a tree. I'm too cheap and lazy for a tree. But my sister found a cool pink one that she didn't buy for me. But I like the idea of a pink tree. It makes me giggle. Pushing Daisies hasn't gone to writer's strike reruns yet. That's bizarre. It's a really bizarre show to watch when you are stoned. Really bizarre. And why do people in Christmas commercials always wear such perfect plaid clothes? Does anyone's family really get dressed up like that? Or do they sit around in pajamas all day? Dang, that Kiera Knightley commercial is back on again. I should put the computer away before I say something too dumb."
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