Stats meters are strange things.

I check my stats meter, and I know exactly who's been reading my diary. I look at the host addresses and know which one is James, which one is Ben, which one is Pash, which one is Dave, which one is Chiv, which one is Brendan, which one is Belgian Waffle, and so on and so on.

Sometimes I think I know a little too much about who's reading me and how often, and I wonder if it affects the way I write.

Oh well. I'm not about to get rid of my beloved SiteMeter. So don't even suggest it.

So I'm meeting Crystal for coffee tomorrow. Should be cool. I enjoy meeting Diarylanders, and she lives right in Toronto. Woo.

I've gained five pounds within the last couple of weeks. Not good. My jeans are starting to feel uncomfortable when I put them on right after they've been washed and haven't stretched out a little from wear. I now have that oh-so-sexy tummy roll with love handles spilling over the waist of my jeans. Rowrr. Come and get me, baby. Ugh. I believe I'll be wearing nothing but loose-fitting skirts for the next couple of weeks, while sticking to salad and avoiding eating entire family-sized bags of Ruffles in one sitting as well, until my clothes don't induce pain anymore.

Oh, say, I guess that means I should get rid of this bag of chips beside me now, huh?

Um .. well, I'll start tomorrow.

*sigh*

OK, OK, fine. I'll throw it out. When I'm done this entry.

No, really, I will.

Shut up.

I'm going now. They're going in the garbage. Happy?

Bye.

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� Ripe Tomato 2001-2005
Don't steal my shit. I'll send thugs. Oh shut up. I do so have thugs. Quit laughing! Look, just don't steal my stuff, OK?