Fear me. Love me. Do as I say.

Yeah. That's how I roll.

Kaity's party was mad-hot sexy. Her aunt fed us and I got sent off with a huge glass of the cider I'd been drinking all evening. It's pure sex. I got a bunch of awesome gifts too, like a Phantom of the Opera music box from the Tweedles Dumb and Dumber Annie and Kaity what plays "Masquerade"; it's absolutely gorgeous. I also got a badass Jareth the Goblin King shirt and a badass Tracye-made ring and a Book of Answers. Materialistic glee. Thank you, guys.

Not to mention the dinner was stunning.

I owe a lot of people pictures from the zoo trip; I will get those posted soon. Anybody who wants the entire zip file, including twenty-some-odd pictures of otters, should say something.

My desk is a monstrous train wreck at the moment. I should clean it off. Now I'm motivated by the need to find a space for my music box.

Hey, I'm delicious!

Since my shower's been broken the past couple of days, I've been using my sister's (briiiightfuckingpink) shower, and since I'm too lazy to move much more than my razor and sponge, I've been using her soaps. She has a fruit buffet in there. Pomegranate-lychee shampoo. Passion flower conditioner. Plumeria body scrub. Melon shaving gel. The only flavored stuff I use is the sakura-scented body scrub, so this is a new experience for me; everything else I get for free because they're Mom's products and she has a venerable storehouse in her bathroom.

Everything smells so good. Now I see why Bath and Body Works makes such a killing on this stuff. It's for every man, woman, and child. I get the feeling that if I licked my shoulder I would taste faintly of melon rind pomegranate plumeria nectar. Go right ahead and quote that out of context.

Now it's time to brave the Fashion Square again. Last time I was there it was pretty quiet. Hopefully it will be today as well.

Granddad is coming out to visit tomorrow. I haven't seen him in a while. When I was younger I thought he was a rather simple guy, but I've come to realize that he picks up on far more than he lets on, even though he chooses not to comment on it. He's a dying breed of gentleman.