Greetings and beatings, my dear readers. It's just another 90°F day here in sunny Iceland.... does that sentence sound insanely weird to anyone else? I assure you I would not kid about such a serious matter nor have I been dabbling unhealthily in narcotics. It really is the fifth 90°F day in a row. In mid August. In Iceland. Our summers are usually pretty much over at this point. I think all this sun and heat is especially for me. Why this week of all weeks, you ask? Well, I shan't get into it but lets just say I needed it. Understandably I have spent all of ten minutes total doing work this week, the rest of the week's days were spent laying around in the sun. Granted the week's nights were spent bawling my eyes out for the most part, but you can't have it all can you? I'm not complaining. Not at this very second in any case.

A second passes...

Ok, now I'm gonna complain... Unexpectedly the parents showed up today, returning from one of their miniature vacations. My neat and tidy, shiny and nice smelling house is now tattered shreds of it's old self (this took all of two minutes), clothes and junk laying everywhere. Now, albeit weird this is to be expected when it comes to my parents. However, weirder still is the fact that since they came home... the house has stopped smelling like cherries and vanilla, and now smells kind of like you're standing in line on a hot day in The Cafeteria of The Damned waiting on the microwave. I dread to think what's hiding in their suitcases... but knowing them I won't have to worry about it for several days since they most likely will not open them but rather leave them laying around on the living room floor. By then we will all be dead from the plague or whatever's hiding in there, so chances are I won't have to worry about it at all. I'm so optimistic. Even within my insane pessimism lies a glimmering piece of optimism for all to gather round to observe and admire. Life is swell.

Except perhaps in one aspect...

I'm getting pissed off with men these days. My perpetual singledom is beginning to bother me immensely. And I've stopped feeling suave and emancipated about it since Sex and The City stopped, and they totally sold out and everyone got hitched and ended up with a 2.5 kids and a white picket fence in the final episode. Most recently I stooped so low as to date an 18 year old, but that didn't really work out due to my somewhat limited desire to "go parking" all the time. "Hey baby, lets hope into the backseat". How about we hop into adulthood instead? I don't get it. What the hell are these men today looking for that I don't have? Aside from the obvious, that is. I only want to meet someone too awesome for words to describe, fall madly in love and live happily ever after. Is that so much to ask? I'd even settle for a handful of good dates and some nifty tounge action.

I'm just a fucked up girl looking for some peace of mind. I'm sorry I'm not a big tittied, sex crazed supermodel. Fluffin' get over it already. Besides... in the immortal words of Meatloaf...two outta three ain't bad!

Mwahaha.

My supermodel career has been vastly successful.