Hmm. It’s 11:37. I have yoga at six am. Anyone care to lay bets on how likely I am to go to it?

If you said, “Not bloody likely,” you would be right.

I have been working on the catalogue for the auction all day. This auction is like a really boring addiction.

One day at the mall, you see a Beanie Baby. “Aww, that’s so FLIPPIN cute,” you say to yourself. You put it on your dashboard like those goobs who put stuffed animals on their dashboard. Let’s say it’s an echidna.

Figure One: Echidna

JESUS FUCK! What’s wrong with you? Why would you get a Beanie Baby of an Echidna? A Beanie Baby of Courtney Love’s stomach contents would be better than THAT! You sicken me.

Ahem.

Then you think to yourself, aww, my little echidna is lonely and needs a friend. So you go back to the mall to buy another one. Because you want to send a message to anyone who might date you. And that message is: If you can stop cringing long enough to want to “stir the macaroni” with me, then you will have to move at least fifteen stuffed animals off my bed, including a twenty-three year old animal with half the fur rubbed off named Rim Tum Tiggledypoop.

Masturbation is starting to sound pretty good to you at this point, isn’t it. And why not?

Where was I going with this?

Yes. So. One morning you wake up and you have, let’s say five thousand and forty-three Beanie Babies. You end up on Maury, on a slow day. A day between, “FIRST OF ALL, MAURY, BABY DON’T EVEN LOOK LIKE ME,” and “Women Who Eat Small Objects, Up to and Including Pennies.” I turn on my non-existent television set and see you there, with your repulsive collections of obscure mammalian Beanie Babies, on Maury. Your addiction is boring, and too pathetic to laugh at.

So that is where I am at with the auction. Bored, and terrified, but addicted to poking at the details.

Goodnight, goodnight, it is time to sleep, so I will sleep with my pet Zeep.

PS, Harry Potter Buttsecs.