Doom! Doom, I Say!

I'm on a more even emotional keel today, though I didn't sleep for beans last night. I went to bed at half past one and tossed and turned until four, when I dozed off. I had set the alarm for nine-thirty, but the maintainence man so helpfully awakened me an hour earlier with the dulcet tones of his weedwhacker. Hence, it was up and at 'em and shambling like an escapee from the Land of the Dead lot at nine.

Roomie wants to treat me to Doom and the mancandy therein this weekend. I am beside myself with glee, and no, that was not sarcasm. The Rock has torqued my wingnuts since his WWF days, when he donned the spandex and the body oil and crooned to the ladies about the delights of the Smackdown Hotel, and Karl Urban is just a sexy damn beast, period. As an added bonus, there will be gore and mayhem and scientists meddling with nature's delicate balance. Win!

I'm going to have a bowl of Beefaroni, gaze blearily at the TV in a grim parody of comprehension, and take a four-hour coma.