Completely, well, sort of, captivated by the story of Jackson taking an entire family hostage. Asked one of my schoolpals how much money it'd take her to go along with a Jackson-related captivation. As if anyone of sound body and/or mind couldn't knock that fucker to the ground and escape NeverLand whenever they chose.
About to call my attorney (Mercure, not JW, Esq. as the latter is probably too busy contemplating strategies for making Oracle a more ferocious corporate presence. Either that or he's out watching the hottest, newest band out at some joint in SFCA.) as I am going to get all litigational at Parsons School of Hepped-Up Concepts as we traipsed our diligent gradschool asses on the 4 to Fulton Street to get to South Street Seaport to interview a man from a Shiny Apple company to tell us all about wi-fi down there in the SE.
And now I am sunburned. And furious.
Thinking complex thoughts each and every day does not include the remembering of 45 SPF.
Kennedy tells me he has a zit.
To that I state I have 3rd degree burns.
And a tendency to exaggerate.
Tendency towards Love.