Things My Mother Says That Completely Throw Me:

Me: Haha, Maria Sharapova is in Djokovic's box.
Mother: Who?
Me: You know. Blond. Sparkly. Won Wimbledon a while back.
Mother: Oh, the lesbian.
Me: ...
Me: ...
Me: What?
Mother: Isn't she the lesbian?
Me: In which universe have you been watching tennis?!

This is where someone points out to me that Sharapova came out last week and my mother knows more about tennis than me (hahaha. ...No, really. Don't ruin my life like that). I was mainly laughing at Sharapova being in Djokovic's box because we'll get to write an article next April Fools titled "RODDICK/DJOKOVIC FIGHT DUEL FOR SHARAPOVA'S HAND". In y'know, marriage or the girlfriendy sense, not the we-would-like-to-keep-your-hand-in-a-jar-yes-Captain-Jack-I-am-looking-at-you sense.


Hello the web. Am not dead; it's just been the two days out of the month where I'm allowed to indulge my female right to just sleep, eat and bitch. Have decided chocolate is better than painkillers. Think I might enlist rainy_roz as resident scientist of our group of twenty-somethings to do the necessary research and market chocolate painkillers with me. Billions of pounds in waiting right there.

Also, my mother finally agreed to let me buy rats. Score! Only I can't find a suitable cage. Unscore. All my dole lazy asshole money this week is going on an external hard drive anyway. The search for a rat cage of no-more-than-75cm-in-length will continue.

In conclusion: go read kindoftrouble's latest Andy/Roger fic. Because it's very, very pretty and you should. There is not enough tennis fic this good out there.

Bed. Tomorrow, sign on, buy phone credit (why I've pretty much not replied to texts for weeks), sit in the library to write while waiting for lift home, LJ comments. And then maybe Run, Fatboy, Run depending on what the Hollywellians are doing. So. Around to play catch-up sometime tomorrow.

I want my Roger icons back. Have none. Am bad tennis fan. Woe.