So for the past few months I’ve seen photos of body parts and snippets of interviews that don’t reveal all too much to the woman’s identity, them purporting that she’s their sexiest of the Sexiest Woman of the Year ever.

But when they announced that it was Scarlett Johansson, I must admit that my first reaction was, “Woman?! She’s only 22!” A mere five years older, and I dismiss a 22-year-old as being a woman. I guess it’s because I remember what a fucktard my friends and I were at that age. Although I remember it being fun, I wouldn’t do 22-24 over again.

I’m sure she’s a nice girl and all, but I don’t get the hype. That Lost in Translation movie was a snooze-fest. Like Napoleon Dynamite and Garden State, I kept waiting for a plot to form, for something to happen, for someone to whip out a machete or something, hell, anything. But no. They hang out. They sing karaoke. They walk around town. Blah blah blah. It was a day and a half, and you expect me to buy that they had this deep connection in the strange foreign land?! Bah!

Ah well, at least Esquire didn’t go the way of Maxim and give further hurrahs Eva Longoria. Not only do I have Eva-overload after seeing her on every magazine cover after that show I’ve never seen started, I now can’t look at her without thinking she looks like Fievel since a friend pointed it out.

Yesterday I was a no-show at work. My cold is still kicking, and my mood was asking for a day where I sat around and felt sorry for myself. I slept an extra four hours until a whopping 9:30, and then I spent the day putzing around. The house eventually became Spic’n’span in prep for a furniture delivery that came early and completed my bedroom.

I’m quite pleased with how things look in that room. I actually slept in there last night instead of the couch, and it threw me off. I’m used to fitting into my ass groove and settling in from there, but the bed was fine. The extra four hours of sleeping in did me in, though, and I was subsequently up late.

As far as the house goes, I need someone with style to come over and tell me what to do in the office so I can finish that off for as little money as possible and not think about it anymore. That’s my least-used room, and it needs some sprucing before the condo goes on the high-end rental market.

A move is eminent, whether or not I have people coming with me. I know that I can’t rely on others to ready themselves for a move, so I’m gathering connections, beefing up the savings account, thinking about a car purchase, and reminding myself that getting out of Siberia is a necessary move -- whether or not I have insta-friends wherever I end up. I just can’t continue living here, no matter how much I love my friends, my house, knowing my way around, and everything about the summer.

Woe is me.

A few smatterings of good things since I need to be like Pollyanna and play The Glad Game when I’m in the mood I’m in:

-- I re-dyed my hair and did my nails, and both look bitchingly fantastic.

-- The top two muscles of a six pack are beginning to show. I don’t know where that came from, but it’s there.

-- A couple girl friends decided that they’re meeting up at my house tonight, commandeering my DVD player and oven, and making me be somewhat social without having to leave the house.

-- Hambone is coming home tonight, after nearly a month at the cat sitter’s house. She says that he’s been sleeping with her lately, so I’ve got that traitor some treats to lure him back to my bed.

-- Did I mention that my bedroom furniture rocks?

Okay, I’m outta here. I’ve gotta clean up the kitchen before the girls come over.