What's that old saying about never being photographed with a drink in your hand?

I'm imagining that the same thing is true about blogging.

Remember the time I did that?
Yeah.

I blogged about American effing Idol.

So wrong.

But you liked it, you really really liked it.

But my days are done when it comes to BUI, despite all the requests for more. And I was flattered by all of you who swore up and down that you needed a night out with me, just to see what I talk about.

So, here I am. I'm not giving you happy hour. I'm giving you happy afterhalfhour. One half hour. Me. Quiet room. Except for the Netflix du jour. Internet over there on the sideboard. When I feel the need to say something, I'll have at it.

Go.

I'm at the point of my drunkeness where I would totally accept a hit off your joint. Marijuana isn't the gateway drug.
Freedom is.

But I actually hate smoking weed. It makes me jittery and paranoid. It's not a very good drug of choice for me.

When I took Spanish class, my name was Cecilia. My friends called me Cecil. Now I'm just plain Lora.

When I blog irreverent things, I realize how sacrilegious America is. And how religious. I'm somewhere in the middle and that makes me feel okay with the world.

I yearn for pants with elastic waistbands. It's the only thing pregnancy is good for. Well, that and the baby. Blah blah blah. Whatevs. Elastic.

Boys don't read this: my boobs were huge when I was pregnant, but I didn't like it. They made me self conscious. I want a boob job. But like opposite. I want to keep the shape but go down two sizes smaller.

I wasn't gloriously pregnant. I looked like the slightly chubby chick left over at the bar after 2am.

If I never worked at a bar, I wonder what analogy I would use for the way I looked when I got knocked up.

The town I grew up in had a great lake. I mean a Great Lake. It wasn't all that great, but it was a Lake.

I wish they put Scotch in boxes like they do for wine. I wouldn't worry about dropping it while I was pouring. But drinking out of a box isn't as hardcore as drinking out of a bottle. Seriously, picture Janis and Jimmy passed out on a plaid couch, cradling a box in their arms. Not so cool.

Sometimes I look at high school kids and I want to do dirty dirty things to them. This is sick. I know it, but I just. can't. stop.

My knees are knobby. That's why you never see them.

Only boys' shirts cover your knees. That's why I dress like an 18 year old boy. What does that say about me? (Please see above. Please don't call the police.)

I like the ocean, but not the stuff inside of it.

My new tattoo is peeling. At least it's not itchy anymore.

I like to look at piers.

I remember looking at my toes when I was little and noticing that they were all pushed together but now I look at them and think that the weird space at the end of my toes is a surely a bunion.

I think navy, eggplant, and chocolate are far superior than plain old black.

I want one of those key necklaces from Tiffany's and I will wear it around my neck and under my shirt. Not one of those cheaper silver ones, but one of the platinum ones. I think it makes up for (or at least evens out to) the childcare that was never paid for when I was a real live latchkey kid.

Timing is a bitch. The kind of bitch you push to her knees and slap in the face.

Hotel wallpaper is so gross, it bothers me for months. Let's not even talk about the carpets and bedspreads.

I hate when my hands smell like food.

I hate chicken, but will take it in finger form.

I want an old forceps. I saw a birthing chair from the late 1800s when I was in California and it made me curious.

Sweet potato fries + sea salt+ powdered sugar + maple syrup = OMGWTF

Buttons down the front of a shirt is not good for me.

Oh Hai TV! R U on? Sry! 2 bzy in my own hed!

I secretly love the colors of my hair. Brownish reddish blondish, with 7 greyish silverishes.

favorites= butter raw meat whiskey fresh ground black pepper

I never liked meat until I ate it raw.

When I worked at Rite Aid, I wore a false name tag. Hello My Name is Nova. I didn't want the locals to know the truth.

So I shop in the little boy's department. Does this mean I'm gay?

I love saying "does this mean I'm gay?" after I say something that clearly does not make me gay.

If I watch television, it's not for the plot, it's for the set design.

I like the way balloons look, but not the way they smell.

It's not that I hate knots in wood, it's just that I know that's the cheap part.

I don't know my blood type.

Dr Bronner's soap? YES.

I have a splinter that I couldn't get out. Now I'm afraid my body will absorb it and it will flow up through my veins into my heart and stab my aorta and then I'll be dead.

I hate bacon. I'm sorry, world. I hate bacon.

"breakfast bar" connotes vodka. Not bran.

What ever happened to manna? I'm hungry. I don't want to cook. There's nothing good falling from the skies these days.

I look at the skinny girls in my neighborhood and wonder if they are enjoying it while it lasts. If you look that good at 18, it's likely that you'll look like shit by the time you are 28.

I wish all my dairy products came out of something smaller. Cows are big. Sheep? Too woolly. Goats? Weird eyes. Where's my cat? I will drink that bitch in a minutes.

Doing math in my head makes me feel calm and smart.

Address labels are kind of outdated,

Oops. Time's up.