In absence of classes, I've focused my scholarly efforts on a study of old Hollywood. In addition to the Sunset Boulevard book, I'm also reading "City of Nets: a Study of 1940's Hollywood" by Otto Friedrich and "My Wicked Wicked Ways" by Errol Flynn. Granted, these studies will do absolutely nothing to further my career or my self-worth. But they beat the hell out of studying Cross Cultural Journalism.

Last night's Real World finale was beautiful. They delivered the only thing I ever wanted to see: bitchiness. The infamous kidney stone kid snapped at Cara, who snapped back. But, of course, they made up faster than Tonya could fish another kidney stone out of the toilet. I'm relieved that my inexplicable addiction is over. For the first time since January, I can now say I have no loyalties to any (current) television concoction (except the Real World reunion, which Lyndsay invited me over to watch next week).

As for those photos I promised, be patient. My new laptop has quite a temper, so we'll hope it likes my scanner. More importantly, I have to find a web host. And most importantly of all, I have to find a picture of me that I like. I know, I know -- to you, my faithful readers, I look great in every picture. You think it's easy to be really good looking, don't you? The pressure, the pressure...