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. �