Recap -- poor Vanessa.
Well, obviously, I'm pretty upset by last night's turn of events. There were at least 3 or 4 hacks that could have, and should have, been jettisoned over cute-as-pie Vanessa. I am beginning to feel about Julia the way Paula, Shari and I felt about Nikki McKibbin last season: sheer, unadulterated girl hate -- powerful, frightening stuff.
But that is neither here nor there. The important thing is that Our Boy Clay has lived to fight another battle, which only means another Tuesday night for yours truly, decked out in my jam-jams in front of the t.v. squealing like a 12-year-old, much to the consternation of the houseboy, who simply does not understand Such Matters Pertaining To Skinny Guys Who Sound Like Rick Astley. Likewise, he does not understand my Andrew-McCarthy-in-"Pretty In Pink"-fixation ("I can't for the life of me fathom how you could crush on someone who is so obviously going to go bald"), even though I've explained to him that it's not about having a crush on Andrew McCarthy, it's about having a crush on BLAINE. It's also like, okay, who seriously has a pash for Harrison Ford? It's HAN SOLO that's giving you the moistie, pardon my French. Am I right?
Sigh. Clay. Clay Clay Clay. He makes my toes curl. Isn't that SICK?
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