KGB would be so easy to get drunk on; never tasting the alcohol

So I've decided it's more fun to be pleasantly buzzed for an entire evening than to get rip roaring drunk and pass out half way through the night. Andrea and I finished off a bottle Timarri wine between us. It was wonderful and I love how someone always seems to have a bottle of wine handy. Even Eileen, although hers is always white because she's allergic to red (migraines from hell). As it was it meant I spent the entire evening happy, and finding most things funny, and feeling flushed, but it was wonderful.
I got Andrea some chocolates to go along with having seen Finding Neverland (ulterior motives to both; I benefit as well). There were scorched almonds, and these irish cream chocolate sticks. I smelled them; I smelled the alcohol and they were rich but not too rich and oh so divine.
I ended up spending the night. I wasn't so drunk I couldn't think straight, but it meant I didn't have to worry about getting home on the off chance I did. It also meant showing Andrea bash.org, and us laughing at terrible Mary-Sues (my boysmut I read is so much better), and she even got a glimpse of shoebox_project. Will see how long it takes to get her to be a true Remus/Sirius shipper.
I want to have a t-shirt that says, "I do believe in commas. I do, I do." (Easist way to find fellow SBP cultists: publicize my own obsession)
Today I got two ties from Dad as he never uses them and I told him I wanted one for a belt. (It looks as good as I imagined) I will have to hit up second hand stores and the like if I want to avoid paying $30 or more for a tie. I wore my red flares today, which is why I thought of the tie-belt again, and even looked into avg. tie prices. Alas, I am too poor for the time being.
Eileen and Andrea approve of my description of Hugh Grant... that no matter what movie it is, he always seems to play the same character, the 'charming shmuck.' (About a Boy is on tonight, which is why I remember)
Strange bugs are flying inside. I'd better close the door. It's so hot, so muggy. The rain was no relief today. Too soft to loosen the dirt, not enough to take away the heat, just opressive cloud and mist and heat inside and out... screwed if you don't have A/C. Even in the dark it isn't all that chilly. I'm craving ice cream all the time.
(Break out, break out. Drink more water but the skin's still oily and the hair frizzes and clings refusing to do what it's told...)
I need to wash my sheets. And clothes. Oh, the pile the grows. Trying to remember to do it. Hoping it's warm and dry and sunny. Having the patience to wait 'til it's done, to remember to hang it up. Fussing. (It's that or melt. Melt in clothes built for winter not summer, dryer climes not this swamp)
Don't ask.
Suzie still hasn't said yes, yet. Not that I've heard. And they ask, and I can't say, and I wish I could. I don't want it to be no. Hurry up and be yes already.

Fin.

So I found this in an old email from murkeye

The Weaker Sex?

We start to "bud" in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find anything that comes in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurts so bad it brings us to tears. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable training bra contraption the boys in school will snap until we have calluses on our backs.

Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner). Along with those budding boobs, we now bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone crankies, have to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert tubular, packed cotton rods in places we didn't even know we had.

Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) is having sex for the first time which is about as much fun as having a ramrod push your uterus through your nostrils (IF he did it right and didn't end up with his little cart before his horse), leaving us to wonder what all the fuss was about.

Then it's off to Motherhood where we learn to live on dry crackers and water for a few months so we don't spend the entire day leaning over Brother John.

Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we learn to live with the growing little angels inside us steadily kicking our innards night and day making us wonder if we're having Rosemary's Baby. Our once flat bellies now look like we swallowed a watermelon whole and we pee our pants everytime we sneeze.

When the big moment arrives, the dam in our blessed Nether Regions will invariably burst right in the middle of the mall and we'll waddle with our big cartoon feet moaning in pain all the way to the ER. Then it's huff and puff and beg to die while the OB says, "Please stop screaming, Mrs. Hearmeroar. Calm down and push. Just one more (or 10 ) good push," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch the bastard (and hubby) square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10lb. bowling ball through a keyhole.

After that, it's time to raise those angels only to find that when all that "cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morph into walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop machines.

The teen years. Need I say more? The kids are almost grown now and we women hit our voracious sexual prime in our mid-30's to early 40's while hubby had his somewhere around his 18th birthday (which just happens to be the reason all that early hot man sex got you pregnant in the first place).

Now we hit the grand finale: "The Menopause," the Grandmother of all womanhood. It's either take the HRT and chance cancer in those now seasoned "buds" or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or, sweat like a hog in July, wash your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the head off anything that moves.

Now, you ask WHY women seem to be more spiteful than men when men get off so easy INCLUDING the icing on life's cake: Being able to pee in the woods without soaking their socks...

Now I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make the Great Ghandi a tad crabby.

Women are the "weaker sex"? Yeah right. Bite me.

Fin.