You don't have to try to have a stiff upper lip on the phone and you can yell obscenities.

And you can forward it to all your friends for the appropriate sympathy if it was a particularly ill-written email.

Gris, as above, that sounds like an okay ending.

Who was asking for good things today?

This, this right here, is my good thing today. It's a Veronica Mars vid set to "Eat It" by Weird Al. And it's made entirely of clips of the characters with food. It's hilarious and awesome and can be appreciated even if you don't watch the show. No spoilers, either, because Lilly Kane was not killed by a pie. Watch! Laugh!

"IMPORTANT! DO NOT TIGHTEN SCREWS OR BOLTS UNTIL COMPLETELY ASSEMBLED!!" Which, really, mostly impossible to do. Weirdos.

Yeah, they should say "tighten all the way". Because, need to tighten a bit, but also need room for flex.

Okay, hair pictures. As we can see, still rucked in the back. Front. (The second one is uber-washed out to disguise how sick I look in the picture. Seriously. Baaaaaaaad.)

Goddamn your eyes are blue.

Shit.

Oh, cute cute juliana! It looks great!

Goddamn your eyes are blue.

Hellllooooo to the magic of photo editing. They ain't that blue, it's the filter I ran to wash out my skin.

Oh, cute cute juliana! It looks great!

Thank you! She razored the hell out of it.

LOVE the cut, juliana! Hott!

Gorgeous hair, juliana. And I like the washout.

Great haircut, nifty pictures, stunning juliana, as always. Still want Teppy pictures, too.

Thinking all the good thoughts I possibly can for Sean and S, and, beth, if you decide to do some kind of grocery gift-card-thingie, I can kick in a bit. Just email me.

Also, so very very very glad for Raq's clean biopsy.

Completely OT selfish self-pitying soon-to-be-deleted rant ahead:

I fucking hate bedrest. Everything about it. I hate the enforced inactivity, the enforced inactivity warring against the nesting instinct that can't let me sit for more than two minutes without noticing how filthy the floor is, how dusty everything is, how many piles of books and CDs and miscellaneous paper there are, the obsessive fretfulness about the toxic apartment that doesn't let me write or draw or do anything creative or constructive with my time.

I'm underfoot and making it harder for Hec to concentrate on cranking out the first draft of the book, which really needs to be done before the Halloweenie arrives, and I hate feeling like a needy leech and a creative impediment. I hate that every time he asks how I'm doing, all I can do is complain about the messy apartment and how it depresses and upsets me, which complaint depresses and upsets him. I hate craving his company constantly because I never see anyone else, because all my non-Buffista friends have full-time jobs and little kids, most of the Buffistas either live way outside SF or have several jobs, and now all my Faire friends are spending all weekend in Gilroy at the workshops and rehearsals I can't go to. Hate the mess, hate bugging Hec about it, hate asking others for help with it, hate the loneliness, hate how cramped and domestic my world is, hate that I can't ever get outside my own skin anymore.

Also, I keep having creepy explicit sex dreams and fantasies that fill me with horrible guilt because I'm under doctor's orders not even to have an orgasm because it's all connected and I could end up in premature labor.

And it's all nothing compared to the people whose friends have lost babies, who have lost their own children, who've been waiting for biopsy results and their final round of chemo and the next trip to the ICU, and I feel like the whiniest bitch in creation.

Not looking for hairpats, just venting. I'll probably delete in a few minutes. I just needed to vent.

JZ, I think you're tops. And your venting is totally within reason. If you were ventilating, however, I would be concerned.