It's called, “I want to kick BP in the nuts.”

My boyfriend (Mr. James Joyce, dec.) and I would like to wish you the happiest of Bloomsdays. Perhaps today would be a good time to get back to reading “Finnegan's Wake,” which I started reading 1019 days ago, according to GoodReads.

I didn't get much sleep last night because we watched “The Mist” and the end was just a little too close to what Monstro and I have been doing for work, and this morning Monstro yelled to Lex three times to stop popping the bubble wrap and he wouldn't stop popping it so I spanked him and went back to bed, but then BK woke up, and it was my turn to get up with them.

I made a grocery list ahead of time and had recipes planned and still managed to spend more than $160 at the supermarket. Not so super, market.

The boys are in the nursery playing a shrieking game and the dishwasher is full of half-pint jars for the strawberries and blueberries jams ima gwonna make and seriously, people, this weekend can't come fast enough. Who's with me?

No matter how obvious the following statement might be, I would hate myself for not proclaiming:

Never shoot your kid.

Not if you're about to be overrun with creatures from another dimension.

Not if you're cornered in a manhunt and your ex is a bitch.

Never shoot your kid. Shooting your kid is never a good idea.

Don't shoot your kid, ever. Thank you.

My candidate didn't win the election. That sucks. I take small amusement in the fact that the victor, who has a drunk-in-public arrest on his record, celebrated his win at a brewery.

Nice choice, SB County.