Theraflu tastes like wombat urine.
'Shells'
Spike's Bitches 22: You've got Angel breath
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risque (and frisque), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
Theraflu tastes like wombat urine.
The things I learn from Buffistas. Can't say as I've ever tried wombat urine myself.
I hope Pete remembered to tell the tipsy goth that there were cupcakes. Which, by the way, should be stored in the fridge if they're not being eaten tonight. (If you don't see this, Jilli, they won't kill you if they go room temp overnight, and besides, your house will drop to fridge temps this evening, anyhow. I think it's to protect the buttercream.)
Poor Burrell.
It's sad-making to realize that in just a few weeks, the bladder will be squished even more.
We were doing our childbirth class homework tonight, and one of the things I'm supposed to do during the first stages is to make sure I go to the bathroom once an hour. Somehow, I'm thinking that won't be a problem, as I find 45 minutes a stretch even now.
So, any more room at the insomnia inn?
I'm wide freakin' awake.
I'm also awake. I'm kind of slowly drifting off to sleep, but it's not really happening.
Me too on the wide awake, which sucks more than usual, since I need to get up at 6:00.
I'm awake, but I'm not supposed to be. I'm heading to bed now.
Lucky Liese. I'm no closer to dreamland....
And there's nothing on TV.
I'm thinking it might be time to curl up under a blanket in front of the TV and see if there's stuff on the Tivo worth watching.
All I've got is several episodes of American Chopper (DF's soap opera of choice) and last week's West Wing. Oh, and ESPN's 25th anniversary broadcast of the 1980 Miracle on Ice. Maybe I should pop in a DVD, but that seems too much like work.