I've been in the throes of my midterm for two days, and it sucks because I couldn't give a damn. I don't give a rolling fuck about Kate Chopin or John Cheever, and I damn sure don't care about Ernest Hemingway. I want to fic and lollygag and daydream about libidnous NYPD homicide detectives, not analyze "The Story of an Hour" as a precursor to fem lit.
CSI was a hoot tonight. Turns out Greg Sanders, reedy lab rat extraordinaire, is into Mui Tai kickboxing. Who knew? God bless Greg, but he just doesn't strike me as a gym buff, and I wholly seconded Nick's look of polite disbelief. I would, however, like to lodge a formal fandom complaint against Nick's hair. It looks like he absconded with Marv Albert's portable coiffure. Why can't he just go back to Season 4 style and leave himself alone? While he's headed for the Fashion Wayback Machine, he needs to drag Greg with him. The shag 'do has gotten entirely out of control.
I have so much Flack love from last night. He was a delightful smorgasbord of snark and NYPD machismo, and I longed to jump him like a trampoline. Line of the night:
"You don't call, you don't write-I was beginning to think you were seeing other detectives."
Mwee!
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