This post is not about anything in particular.

I just suddenly realized that it's been some time since I last blogged, and, what the hell, you kids deserve a treat.

By the time I finish my scarf, it may be spring. I don't know how long it's supposed to be, so I'm planning on continuing until I decide to stop.

Target (I believe) has a commercial that uses "Hello, Goodbye." It makes me profoundly sad every time I see it.

I am all caught up on robots now. "Black Market" was awful.

I'm such a hippy.

As you may recall me mentioning (um, that is, if I have mentioned it, which I'm not sure I have), we planted a tree in front of my house this spring.

It's snowing right now. (Aside: "Hooray! It's about time!") My mother just noted: "It's tree's first snow." And then I said, "Yeah." In an "awwww" sort of way. Like it took its first steps or something.

I haven't actually hugged it yet, but that's really only because the trunk's not that big enough around.

I wish you were dead.

I've been sitting around thinking about something that is probably unique to me. Sometimes, when I'm dealing with an emotionally difficult situation, I long for the simplicity of grieving over a dead loved one.

God, that sounds so fucked up. But it's true. As I've mentioned many times, I've had a lot of practice mourning over people who've died. There have been a lot. Not very many lately, though. That's a good thing. I'm not meaning to suggest that having loved ones drop dead on you is any fun. I'm glad it's been a while. Instead though, in recent years, I've been having embattled emotional interludes with people who remain resolutely alive. Alive, but rejecting me. Alive, but angering me. Alive, but disappointing me.

There's a grieving process that takes place with it. But it's all mixed up and roily and even less fun than grief normally is. And then I wish they were dead.

Sorry folks! It's been one of those days. For a few days. I have not done myself any favors by insisting on listening to The Velvet Underground, Janis Joplin, Devics, and Nina Simone. Oops!

Huh.

I just spent a little while reading some old posts on my Blurty. My Blurty  , people. I didn't spend too long at it, though. I'm not really in a nostalgic mood, I was just curious. Here are some things I gleaned from the experience:

1. Reading things from years ago feels weird. It's like someone wrote fanfiction about my life. I know all the characters, but the plot is all crazy and I'm not sure if I like it. I wonder if I can declare it NON-CANON.

2. The last entry in my Blurty is utterly short and 100% cryptic. It pisses me off because I have no idea what the hell I was talking about. I don't think  it was about anything as dramatic as I made it seem, but, honestly? I don't even know. Dammit! I guess this is what I get for writing the damn thing to begin with.

3. I'm entertaining sometimes. If I were not me, I would not necessarily be averse to hanging out with me.

This post will contain words that I have never used before.

But this is not to say that my lovely readers will be unfamiliar with them. Many of you won't be!

So ... guess what I've been doing!

If you answered "Knitting?" you get the prize! ... of self-satisfaction. I have totally been knitting. I had planned to attempt knitting for a while now. For Christmas of 2005  , my mother bought me Stitch N' Bitch and a gift certificate to my Local Yarn Store. A year and a week later, I decided to pack it to read on the train. A little under a week later, I spent 6 hours reading it through and thinking, "Well this doesn't sound so bad!" In my head, I was already designing my first project. A SCARF. Hooray!

Once I was home again, I turned to the internet to help me get some more information. On Saturday, I headed to my LYS. It was very exciting! I didn't hit a single light, I got a spot right in the front of the municipal parking lot, and there were 53 minutes on the meter. This boded well. Now, going in, I wasn't sure what my plan of attack was going to be. I strongly considered immediately finding the store owners and explaining that I had no idea what I was doing and could they please help me? Once I got to the store, I scratched that plan. It was smaller than I had anticipated. The ladies that I assumed were the owners were sitting in the back, stitching away, and saying things that until then I'd only read in blogs. I felt tiny and intimidated. Knowing what I was coming in for made me feel more confident and at ease. I was able to locate the yarn - I went with Blue Sky Alpaca, which I totally found on Annika's blog. Naturally, I got the amethyst. My ball of yarn looks just like that! Actually, better. But we'll get to that later. At this point in the story I'm still in the store and looking for needles. I was looking for US size 5. Yes, bitches, that's right. I had no idea how to knit and I was totally going for sport weight on size 5 needles. Average is for pussies. Ahem. There was a small display on the opposite side of the room of some very pretty, ridiculously expensive needles. ($25! What the hell! Not that I had any idea how much things cost. That was something of a problem.) Finally I ambled a little back and caught the eye of one of the owner ladies. Did I need help with something? Oh boy did I! I asked if she had any other needles than the ones displayed. She sure did! Turns out that underneath the display there were drawers, and those drawers were full of knitting needles. What size was I looking for? I was looking for size 5. "Oh!" I said. "That's the brand I was looking for." And it totally was. (They get their wood from renewable growing ... patches. Or something like that.) Did I want the shorter ones or the longer ones? I totally wanted the 14" ones.

At this point, I had made my selection, and the items fell neatly within the cushion of my gift certificate. An entirely cost-free excursion! Awesome! Now I had everything I needed and the only component missing was me actually knowing how to knit. Which I did not at all.

Then I went to the movies. My mother and I saw "Children Of Men." It was, in a word, ass. Then we went out to dinner. Later that evening, I set to winding my skein of yarn into a center-pull ball of yarn. I promptly got the whole thing tangled. So I called the boy and sat on my bed and I tried to undo the mess I'd created. Eventually, I did. Then I pressed my luck (it was about 1 o'clock at this time) by trying to figure out how to cast on. I found out that Stitch N' Bitch, while a fine book in many ways, is actually a terrible guide for learning how to knit. The instructions were basically: "Make a slip knot. Great! Now that you've got your entire first row of stitches ... " What! I went to sleep.

The next day, I learned how to knit from the internet. Um. FYI, if you know how to knit, and I know you know how to knit, someday I may have to ask you to tell me how to knit something. Just fair warning. I think I've done pretty well on my own, though! I cast on by knitting on. The loops are a little tight around the needle to start with, but I like the way it turns out. I practiced knitting and purling and binding off, and then I figured I was ready to go. I started making my SCARF. By the time I was on the third row, I had acquired two extra stitches. So I took it all out and started over. One extra stitch. Start over. Now, I realize that there's probably a way to fix having too many stitches, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. I have no idea what I'm doing, remember. I'm doing the border of my SCARF in seed stitch (it is   attractive, guys!), but it turns out I was actually making 1x1 ribbing. Heh. Start over. At least now I'm making stitches faster.

I think I've worked out all the kinks at this point. If I wind up with anything half-way decent, I'll take a picture and post it. WHETHER YOU CARE OR NOT.

I feel all full of new knowledge now. Aside from finally being able to decipher some of my friends' blog posts, I've only just now discovered how much of the material I wear is knitted. I never noticed before!

Just so we're clear, I have no interest in joining a knitting society or anything. I still dislike most forms of socializing. That has not changed. I just want to make things. I like making things. I hope I'm good at it.

We will return to regularly scheduled subjects whenever I get around to blogging again.

Maybe I should make a label for "I am ASS boring."

Or not. Doesn't have a cool ring to it.

But, seriously, rest assured that there has been nothing interesting going on with me. I know you were all worried.

Good hot damn.

I don't know if I've brought this up yet, but I watch Doctor Who. Do you? You should. Well, I'm not sure if you should anymore, because I don't know what will happen in the episodes yet to be. But you should definitely see the last two series*.

Last night, they aired the second series* finale in the United States. (I know!) I was fucking devastated  . It was so awesome. I may or may not have seen a better hour of television, but if I have I can't remember right now.

I traveled back in time to read the reviews of some English friends and I have to agree:
[Begin Spoiler for Doctor Who: "Doomsday" — Highlight to view]

The final scene was entirely unnecessary and I wish they hadn't done it. Although, to be honest, I only half noticed it. Half my brain took it in and said, "Oh. This is disappointing." The other half of my brain was still sobbing and fucking devastated  . Seriously, it was awesome!

[End Spoiler]

* because it's English.

Oh, alright.

No one was waiting for me to do this, I'm sure, but I've finally seen enough other people do it to want to do it myself. But with DIFFERENCE! This is that thing where I reproduce the first sentence of the first post of each month this year that I made. (Clausey!) I will write it a la storied paragraph. I do not know what that means.

Please note that I am currently irrational with glee, and not apt to find answers such as, "I was unaware." to be acceptable. If you are reading this right now, you should go here. My head is, sometimes literally, abuzz with thoughts these days. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I am cold. I would like to announce that I have emerged, technologically speaking, from the dark murky atmosphere of the early 2000s, and have landed myself firmly in the middle 2000s. There's a place for everything, and everything should be in its place. Okay, since none of you know this, I will start at the beginning. You know something is amiss when you can feel relieved that it's only 87°. Oh come on ! Television starts this week! What else is going on? So at 9:39AM yesterday I was turning 23 and ... buying some iced tea from the CVS.


It's like a story that never quite gets there!

I believe it's spelled "SQUEEEEE"?

I'm not usually one to do this sort of thing. But it's the last time I'll ever be able to.

The title of the Seventh Harry Potter book is

[Begin Spoiler for WAIT FOR IT — Highlight to view]

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

[End Spoiler]

Also - a step behind.

I discovered recently that liking the Decemberists hasn't been cutting edge for a while. Hating  them is cutting edge. I am so sad. But I'm hip to being square - they still fill my heart with rainbows.

Also, what the hell Blogger? The new Blogger is out of beta! Just when I was starting to appreciate being in the exclusive club! Why must fate toy so with me?

11:30 tonight -- BE THERE.

By "there" I mean "your couch" or "your bed" or "your chair" or whatever. Although most of you don't watch television on television, so this instruction is probably moot.

Stephen Colbert vs. The Decemberists.

Most entertaining thing ever? I think so.

It's hard to argue with that.

Joy to the world,
The Jupe is come.

Joy To The World
from the Christmas Song Generator.

Get your own song :

Also, I'm sorry, Pat.

I have the Beta.

I don't know what happened! They just said I could have it! So I said okay! I don't even know why it's so special! I'm completely unworthy of this honor!

But is it art?

I often say that I have always wanted to be an actress. To be honest with you, this is not an entirely accurate representation. The first thing I ever wanted to be, and ever told people that I wanted to be, was an "artist." Always forward thinking I, I left it vague. While performance was always swirling around at the top, I also had ambitions to be a singer, a painter, a ballerina, a sculptor, a musician, a photographer, a writer, or what have you. If it fell under the "art" then I wanted to do it. This is still, for the most part, true.

Now, my li'l ol' heart's desire is to be an actress. This is clear. However, it's become apparent to me that performing arts differ from other types of arts in a key, maddening, way: you don't actually get to do much art. Acting doesn't often get recognized as being an art these days, and that makes me sad. Writing or music, I think, has an advantage in that you do your thing first, and then your challenge is to get someone to recognize it. With acting, you need to jump through all manner of hoops before you even get to do your thing. Expressively yourself creatively is like a prize that you have to fight and claw for. Depressing.

Not that the goal is any less attractive for this realization. But. As I've been sitting around lately, all melancholy and at-loose-ends, I've realized that I might pursue other artistic avenues. You know, add some pretentious slashes to my career goals. Also, over the past year I've ... gotten fat. I'm working on it! I'm eating much better and I plan on actually doing something physical with my body sometime soon. But no one is going to hire me when I'm fat. This must be what it is, since I rock in precisely all other capacities. I need something to do in the meantime, though.

But what! I don't know. I'm good at many things. [/HUMILITY ALERT] But I don't really have a driving passion for any of them. I make figurines out of clay, like the kind I could sell at art fairs for primo buckos, but we got rid of our wooden kitchen table when we moved, and I haven't done anything since because that was my work station. In a similar vein, I rock at embroidery. At an art fair like mentioned above, I saw these embroidery works by this Asian lady that she was selling for hundreds of dollars. I believe it. Unfortunately, I know how hard she had to work for that price tag. "I could do that," I pompously thought, but the truth is I don't have the time. I don't have the time! Plus, art fairs? Eh .

I could take up painting, I guess? When I was in 7th grade and taking natural sciences, we had an assignment to draw pictures of the various types of clouds. Instead of doing that I busted out with an OIL PAINTING of clouds, Bob Ross-stylee. (I did random and crazy shit like this all the time, do not be alarmed.)

I could always write, as many people have told me. Not that you can tell from reading anything I say on the internet, I actually have a fair amount of skill at writing. Unfortunately, I have no skill whatsoever at storytelling. (I apologize if this sounds familiar to some readers, as I have totally discussed this with people before.) The first time anyone told me I was good at writing, I was 10 and in 6th grade. We were commissioned to write short stories for Halloween and I kicked it out of the park and my teacher actually discussed my mad skill with my parents. What they didn't know, however, is that I really had to work to come up with actual events for my story. In the end I wound up opting for a generic kids-investigate-haunted-house type thing. I have at least 3 ideas for major works that have lived in my head for a while. But no storylines. Just a gaggle of well developed characters with complex relationships and lives and thoughts who do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. (Talk about "write what you know," right? Shit.) I guess this is why I like acting. The story's already written for you, you just have to fill in the details. (Ooh! Ooh! That reminds me. You remember my friend Jen? Jen was a kick-ass artist in the field of drawing. She used to draw pictures, and I would color them in with colored pencils, totally re-inventing Chiaroscuro all by myself. No, seriously, they looked awesome. But I only ever liked the shading. I never could have done anything if she didn't draw the picture for me first. I have no idea why I'm saying this here, but it does fit with the theme.)

I've even taken a class (no, wait, two) in storytelling, and I'm still not any good at it. I've read "Story" by Robert McKee, and I'm still not any good at it! I don't know. I shouldn't really make it seem like I'm bad at it, because the truth is, I don't actually try. I feel something akin to social anxiety when I need to make actual plot decisions. I took a class in screenwriting, and as a final I wrote a short-film. My professor told me that mine was very good, but he didn't understand why the main character made the decision that lead to the action of the story. Not a big deal, but it still took me two years to realize and admit to myself that he was right.

I'm starting to not have a point. Upshot: I don't know if writing is the path for me. I'd be willing to give it a shot, because I may be wrong. I could also write stories based on my dreams. [/another post entirely]

Finally, I could be a musician of some sort. Problem with that is, of course, I don't really play any instruments. At least until I teach myself bass. I could sing, but people hate singers who do nothing else (people = I). Also, music requires a.) writing songs, which combines my issues with writing fiction AND my issues with writing poetry, b.) the ability to read music (probably) which I never learned, and c.) meeting and dealing with other people, if you want to be in a band. I hate people. Other than this, I'd probably love it.

Speaking of which (sort of), here's an anecdote designed solely to present my life as more interesting and glamorous than it actually is:

My father's friend owns an honest-to-goodness literal castle that used to house his law firm. Also, in the 70s it housed a cult until the leader was extradited to India after he tried to poison people with salmonella. They've been trying to sell the joint for about four years now.

The company that I work for sells insurance. Today we were speaking with a woman who put in an offer for the place that she feels was well-received (I called my father for the skinny). Currently, this woman runs a bed-and-breakfast that doubles as her headquarters for her personal management service for death metal rock bands.

AWESOME. Of course, there is every possibility that she will not wind up getting the house because, due to the historical significance of the property, she has to go through a hearing wherein she is reviewed by two towns and the county and they will probably freak the fuck out about her business. My father said he'd take me if they hold it. And also, my company will probably not wind up insuring her in any event, because they're really a tiny family-run operation and this is kind of out of their depth. But! Wouldn't that be neat? If I started my hypothetical band, perhaps she'd hypothetically represent me! She is looking to expand to other genres.

Oh boy oh boy, GOOD OMENS.

So at 9:39AM yesterday I was turning 23 and ... buying some iced tea from the CVS. And then afterwards my day pretty much sucked. The details aren't terribly important. I've had better. But on the other hand, I've also had worse. And then I had wine. Hooray!

And now it's a new day, a new year, and people, it's going to be NONSTOP OPTIMISM around here for at least the next few days.

Thank you everyone who sent me fine birthday wishes. You kids are alright.

T minus frame of reference.

In one week's time, it will be my birthday. This will be a big one for me. No, not 21. No, not 25. I will be twenty-three years old. As far as milestones go, it's hard to explain why this is one. It's not conventional: it's not a multiple of five and there's no legal or social barricade for me to cross. It's not personal: it's not the age that anyone died or the anniversary of any particular event. Although I guess that's not true. River Phoenix died when he was 23, didn't he? And this will be ten years since my grandfather died and I broke my knee while afloat on the Nile. But this isn't about any of those things.

It's a significant year because at some point, I decided it should be. Back in the day, I was a withdrawn and maudlin teenager with a dead sister and a vivid imagination. And I read a lot of Anne Rice. I love Anne Rice, as I've probably mentioned. It's okay if you don't; it's not your fantasy. It's mine, though. I'd love to be able to talk about her stuff the way I can about Buffy, or Harry Potter, or Veronica Mars, or what have you, but there's a real dearth of kindred spirits available, especially if you're not willing to talk to teenagers or crazy people. It's vampires and/or wizards: that's my stuff. Her books basically fetishize youth and indolence and grief and (O!) The Self. But that's what I like about 'em.   I have 'Things Fall Apart' if I want to read something real.

So, I'm me, 8-13 years back in time, being a youth in turmoil and reading about vampires. And in thinking about things, the way I do, it occurs to me that there's probably an ideal age to be. And I hit on it: 23. Why? I have no idea. That's just the number that came to me. It's young, but not too young that it sounds young. Definitely an adult, and not a child. But it's not too old, either. Respectably prior to the existential crisis of the mid-twenties, although what would I know about that? You're still at that point where potential exceeds presumed accomplishment, but you're not ALL potential, either. 23, I decided, would be the perfect age at which to get married (HA!), have a baby (HA!), live forever (maybe!), or die (fingers crossed?).

And that's it. Even in my own mind, this is not, explicitly, a "get your shit together by" date. But something in me declared that at this time, I should be ready to declare my life complete if needs be. Or to at least say, "Good enough." And that's as much a commentary about acceptance as it is about accomplishment. Of course, the glaring thing about this is: what does a preteen know about being twenty-three ?   That's right, nothing. It's impossible to know about the road ten years down. I wouldn't presume right now to predict what I should be doing in my thirties. I don't know who I will be then, or what I will need. Consider the following. Every night, I set my alarm to a certain time. In the morning, I wake up when it goes off, or, usually, before it goes off. I set it to 15 minutes later, almost invariably. I set a goal, but then, as I approach that goal, I take stock of where I am and how I feel, and I adjust the goals accordingly, with the shrewd discretion granted me by time. This might sometimes be known as "being lazy," but I'm pretty sure it's saved my life a few times. This is why I've never tried to write a novel in a month, and why I never make New Year's resolutions.

So why make a thing about this? I don't know. Perhaps it's because I've felt as if I've been living in a flashback these past few months. I've been mired in a depressive funk, withdrawing into myself more and more, forsaking all others. I've stopped having meaningful conversations with anyone. I have them with myself if I need to. I find myself thinking and dreaming and wondering a lot more, and expressing a lot less than I used to. I've wondered if it's really practical to say anything about it. You can't ask for permission to be a hermit, it really defeats the point. I feel like I'm stuck. The inside of my head hurts and every day I get up and do things I don't want to do and some days I forget what my real goals even are and I'm desperate for a fantasy world to lull myself to sleep thinking about. On the whole? 23 is starting to feel a lot like 13 did. It's like a fold in time made a straight line from here to there. What's the difference? In some ways I missed this. Sometimes I believe that I'm best suited to being alone.

It would be terrific if I didn't feel like I was wasting time. That's the beauty of being immortal, you know: you can be as self-obsessed as you want for as long as you want, until you decide you're ready to do things again. You can actually take a break from life, and show up again later completely intact. You've lost nothing. That's my fantasy. Of course, that doesn't happen. Time moves forward, I get older, and every now and then a panic sets in, right in the chest, that I should be doing something. I should have done something. I should be about to do something. And I'm not. I haven't. I don't think I'm going to be. I'm losing ground. I'm losing time. At times like these I seem very close to deciding to shut down. I don't want to die, but I'm not making any bold strides towards living, either. I'm a character in an Anne Rice book. And I'm about to hit my ideal age.

As for what happens after that, I don't know. I guess I'll make the best of it. I'll see what happens down the road and adjust. This is not me all the time. But this part of me, the part that keeps her hair long and her nails trimmed (just in case), is freaking out. I once wanted to present the Best Picture Award at the Oscars of 1999. That didn't happen, either.

Those who know me are probably keenly aware that I'm infatuated with even numbers, 4 and its multiples in particular. It still baffles me why I would opt to be stuck at an odd number for all time. Of course, as my grandfather would have helpfully pointed out (the one who died a decade ago), I'm about to enter my twenty-fourth year. Fingers have been crossed.

This was hard for me to write. I desperately hate being candid.

So clearly I haven't been into blogging lately.

What else is going on?

From my perspective, not a whole lot has happened. It feels like it was a month ago a couple minutes ago  . Seriously, is it really almost Thanksgiving? Is it therefore really almost my birthday? What the hell!

My mother went on vacation last month for two weeks. She twisted her knee on the cobblestones of London Towne so she's been gimping around since she's been back. I have been a loving and dutiful daughter, because I'm awesome and I love my mommy and knee injuries suck. But she's okay. I saw 'Marie Antoinette' and I liked it very much. Of course, thanks to the publicity I now have a serious preponderance of Kirsten Dunst pictures that I have yet to make into 85x100s. Plus, there's really no place for me to show them off anymore, if we're honest. But trust me, she looks pretty. Speaking of which, Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter. (I shouldn't say, "Is it July yet?" because at the rate things are going, it will be.) I think I saw another movie but I can't remember what it is now. And with me, I'm still at that job I was at last time you checked, and my soul has died just that little bit more. I also think I may be losing my hair again. I've acquired an extra five pounds that is baiting my already precariously taxed wardrobe. Um. Maybe I should do something about that.

So, basically, I do have some things that I'd like to get out into the blogosphere, but I have to make this introductory entry and then wait for people to stumble back to my blog and get used to the idea that there might be something new here again to read. That way there's more of a chance that there will actually be someone reading (and maybe responding) when I write something that I feel is worth reading. I mean, you guys know how it is, right? Right? I'm cool, right kids?

Veronica Mars is almost on.

The leaves are doing that thing where they change color!

Fall is my favorite. It took me a little by surprise this year. I was driving to work, as I do, sitting up straight and clutching the wheel like usual, when I passed a tree with a vine climbing up it that was bright orange. I haven't been feeling very well for the past ... months, but seeing the vibrant colored leaves everywhere makes me feel a little happy and calm despite myself. Man, the Temperate Deciduous Forest rocks.

It's also that time of year when my mother insists that I get a flu shot, and I don't.

How many feminists does it take to review Veronica Mars?

That's not funny.

[Begin Spoiler for Veronica Mars 3.3 - "Wichita Linebacker" — Highlight to view]

Ugh. It's almost ironic, though not quite because I am reaching for comparison, that this episode's plot featured a poor painter when the episode itself was done entirely in unflattering broad strokes. See? See what I did there?

I'll give the episode credit. It really, really wanted me to like it. It tried real hard. "I think that's just because they don't know how" made me laugh out loud. They quoted the Big Lebowski. I would honestly watch The Keith and Weevil show all the time if that were possible. And "[gasp  ] ... No." Yes. Veronica Mars listens to Neko Case. Of course. And I was floored.

Seriously though, I hated this episode a lot. There were places where I winced. There were places where I emitted ugly and involuntary noises. I liked Logan much better when he was not just allowed, but expected to be an asshole. The longer he and Veronica date, the less I like him, and the less I like Veronica. I'm sorry to anyone reading who thinks they're the perfect couple. I don't know who wrote this episode, but it sucked. Again, broad strokes. That's really all I care to say about it.

This borders on being off the topic, but I was pissed off by the peripheral "guest" "stars." The chicks anyway. They can't act. Actually, that's not true. I don't know that. But they're not acting. They are not working at all. What about the craft? The art? The actual work that it takes to make an actual good performance? Don't any of these people care? I care. I care very much. This is so important to me I could cry about it. But this entry is not about me and how I'm dissatisfied with my life. Maybe in a future composition. (Oh boy?)

No, this entry is about my favorite television show, and how I really didn't like it this time.

[End Spoiler]

Take two!

[Begin Spoiler for Lost 3.2 - "The Glass Ballerina" — Highlight to view]

Once again, I greatly preferred this second episode to the premiere. I liked it so much, in fact, that I'm totally going to bitch about the show.

I think one of the biggest missteps this show has made is the time frame. These people have been through all kinds of crazy crap. They fallen in love, broken up, and made up again. They had terrible tragedy and made deep personal connection with each other. ... They've been on the island for 79 days. Come again? We've been watching the show for two and a half years, the characters have been together for two and a half months. We know these characters better than they know each other. But they act like they've been together for years. They're written like they've been together for years. But then every once in a while they throw something out there to remind you that they actually haven't been. And I don't know about you, but it rips me right out of the story. They really should have thought that one through a little more.

Aside from that, wasn't this episode great? I'm so excited! After the big night shootout thing on the boat, I turned to my mother (with whom I watch the show) and said: "Well that was exciting!" And it was! And I don't care a fig for the Jack/Kate/Sawyer love thing, but I thought the kiss was the best romantic bit this show's ever done. She was all sad and tired! And then he kissed her! That was great.

Interesting that Sun keeps letting people take the fall for her. HAAAAAAAAAA. I kill me. Seriously though. It's okay, I still love her. But I could have done without Jin's macho "I am your husband!" posturing. Didn't we work out those issues last season? It seems like we keep retreading the same ground with these two. The only thing we've learned now is that Sun's baby might not be Jin's baby. Which I think most people suspected anyway. Results still inclusive!

Poor Jack. His paradigms had to shift wildly to incorporate that information about the Red Sox. It's okay Jack. We all understand.

I want to punch HenryBen in the face. Really hard. His creepy, bulging unblinking eyes remind me of my acting instructor. Punch!

Sayid disappointed me. That's all I have to say about that. He's the Lostaways one hope!

[End Spoiler]