No, Really, He Hates Me!

Elton John (the real one) is starting to get on my nerves. TAKE A HINT AND DROP THE SUBJECT, DUDE.* Billy is obviously not going to give you whatever pathetic validation you're looking for here. Now go listen to "My Life" and hush up. I tell you what, if Ramsey Campbell ever goes to rehab and then calls me out in Rolling Stone for still smoking pot, it's over between us. OVER, RAMSEY, DO YOU HEAR ME?

So. This is my first day on Wellbutrin, which is supposed to "boost" the Prozac rather than replacing it. My gratuitous use of caps would suggest that it's already working, but I don't think that can be. Also, I decided while half-awake this morning that you all have to marry me. All of you. Everyone who reads and comments (nicely) on this journal. If you are already married, I'll marry your spouses too. Awake, I think it's probably not a workable plan, and I'm not dumping Chris anyway, but I thought you might be flattered to hear about it.

*I do love the picture, though.