There is nowhere for me to hang out in Hollywood. I often wake up on my floor wondering why I keep staying in and drinking by myself, listening to Rufus Wainwright. It is because Hollywood is a giant high school, and I am the well-pimpled, cubby goth chick, who sits alone in the cafeteria writing poetry in her notebook about killing unicorns.

I only wish.

Gambit and I, contrary to what some people may say, did not order "the romance special", and we did not continue our man-date (mandate?) with a romantic italian dinner. And we certainly did not enjoy any of these things we did not do. You can rest assured of that.

I can safely say the Wolverine is better at darts than me. That isn't saying too terribly much. We discussed girls, and Africa. And how he is not the people he tries to explain things to. And redundancy. Such as, "I agree with what you're saying...and I also think you're right." Jaw dropping stuff...

There were several questions about what the menu would be for Tuesday night. I didn't know. I still don't know. It also seemed way more important than I had originally thought it might be. Have I painted myself into a corner I can't cook my way out of? We shall see.

Thank you, Admissions Day. I will enjoy you as much as I can. Will there be pedicures? Only time will tell.