Return from Spring Break

Why can't grown-ups have nice, full, week-long Spring Breaks? Wait, our kids don't even get that anymore -- they divide up Spring Break into two half-weeks, which, IMO, is stupid and defeats the point of Spring Break. Anyway, none of us get real vacations anymore and that blows.

Time off is crucial. We all need it. Even adults need time here and there to just get away from the workplace and all its stresses, and just relax. We need to rest and recuperate, or else all our work crashes down on our heads and that's how people go on shooting rampages. Well, that and some serious mental health issues, but you know what I'm saying. In order to really appreciate one's job, sometimes one just has to get the fuck out of that place for a little while. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or at least makes you want to hurt people less. ;)

So, what did I do on my Spring Break? Nothing. I slept in late, watched guilty pleasure TV (anyone else here have a strange fascination with TLC's Toddlers & Tiaras? Anyone? Just me? You snobs), and read a semi-trashy historical romance novel, as I am wont to do with my vacation times. Last year, it was Phillippa Gregory's wickedly saucy Wideacre trilogy, which was so crammed full of incest and tragic love that it was like reading a V.C. Andrews novel set in feudal England. Needless to say, it was awesome. This year, I'm halfway through Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor, and it's like Gone With the Wind set in the Restoration Era, except Scarlett has way more sex and there's abortions and gay subtext amidst the detailed descriptions of all of the fabulous gowns and decor. I'm unabashedly loving it, even if Lord Carlton is no Rhett Butler (oh, Clark Gable, I don't care what fellow Charlestonians say about your accent -- you were still my first crush, and you are still my Rhett).

And I did get some writing done, which is good, because there are suddenly a few more followers on this blog than there were the last time I checked it. Hello, new followers! I'm quite honored that y'all want to watch this blog, and am exceedingly flattered by the comments left on the last piece of short fiction I published. Feedback is so critical to writers, and every piece is beloved and appreciated.

Other than that, not much else to report. Back to work, irritated with Bret Michaels for choosing fake-eyebrows Taya as his latest Rock of Love (though admittedly, I've never forgiven him for eliminating Farrah and Ashley), and ready to get back to business: working, blogging, and writing.

In short: hello, world. Nice to see you again. :)

Rock of Lame

You know, people make fun of Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels. And that's fair, because this show is the single most ridiculous, filthy, disgusting guilty pleasure on television right now -- and I love every sleazy second of it. Call me awful, call me a fool, but by God, this show is awesome on so many levels and those who scoff at it are missing out on some of the best free entertainment out there. I mean, this season alone ...

• One girl gave Bret a rap read off the back of STD pamphlets
• The same girl took a shot out of another girl's vagina -- on the same night!!!
• Another girl lay drunk and sobbing on a speed bump
• One chick gave Bret a piercing from somewhere on her body and told him that when he got to know her better, he could find out where that piercing belonged -- wow
• A porn star stole everybody's dirty hockey socks after a challenge for no discernible reason
• And Ashley and Farrah existed.

Oh, Ashley and Farrah. Between Farrah's deliciously addictive catchphrase: "What the french?" and her giant circus tits, she was a fountain of hilarity. And Ashley ... well, you just haven't lived until you've seen Ashley, plowed beyond belief, trying to cook a Lean Cuisine. It's such a simple thing, but by God, it's TV magic. Magic.

But now, all the skanky girls are gone. No more cellophane outfits. No more black censor bars. No more Ashley howling, "I WANT A CHEESEBURGER!" They're gone. And now the show is boring as shit, with the two blandest, most irritating bitches left, and I don't even care who wins anymore. Will it be Mindy, with her mood swings? Or will it be Taya, Penthouse pet (and suspected stripper), whose personality is as fake as her tits? I don't even care anymore. You hear me, VH1? I DON'T CARE.

But I'll watch the damn finale anyway, just because there's nothing better on Sunday nights. And I'm totally there for the reunion, because you KNOW someone always gets in a fight.

I swear, I enjoy more intellectual forms of entertainment. Really. I do. :)