In my Yahoo Bulk Mail, same old, same old.

Dear spammers:

I am not my dad. I never will be my dad. I don't know how you managed to get my email address with his name attached, but please stop using it. I'm not Rob Rowland, I don't own a house, I have no need for online degree programs, I no longer live in Brea, Rob Rowland himself never lived in Brea, and I have no debt to eliminate. Please just stop.

Love, Jenny.


Last night we ordered f00d from Mad Mushroom at 2 AM. Mad Mushroom closes at 3. We finally got a call from the delivery guy, saying he was here, at 3:40. I wrote in on the web ordering form that I wanted the tip added to the card that I ordered with, but when I looked at the receipt, it hadn't been added. So the guy got no tip. But given that it took him an hour and 40 minutes to get from Mad Mushroom to Evermann (a five-minute drive), and given that he offered NO explanation for this (was the oven broken? was the web ordering system down for a bit? was the delivery guy ABDUCTED BY ALIENS ON THE WAY OVER? no clue!), I don't feel too bad about the fact that he got nothing.

The pizza and mecha's pasta were both underdone, too.

Then we watched the last half or so of the most hilarious crack-addled movie we'd seen in a while, which turned out to be Top Secret!. We both agree that we neeeeed it on DVD. COWS WEARING BOOTS

Then I finally got to bed at 5 AM. And was woken by a telemarketer at 10. She wouldn't take "I'm not interested" for an answer.

And finally I'm awake now.

The end.