Cracked.

Amanda and I have been watching Veronica Mars every day for over a week now. We want to be Veronica, we want to bang Logan. (God, do we want to bang Logan. He's so pretty, so so pretty.) (And so is Veronica, for that matter. Cute like a little pixie!) It's a very addictive show, I recommend it if you're a nerd like me who loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
(Um, please don't ever mention that I said that. It is my not-so-secret shame.)
(I am rather parenthetical today.)
While I'm sharing, we have a mouse. Like, "eek, a mouse!" It scared the daylights out of Amanda, and we thought it had taken up residence in our shoe closet (which is filled with my shoes, and Leila's, so Amanda wasn't really too concerned.) but now, guess what? It appears to be living behind the damn stove. So now I don't want to cook or do the dishes, because I'm a-scared of it scampering across my toes and/or giving me hantavirus. (Rodent-borne disease WHICH YOU CAN DIE OF, STOP LAUGHING AT ME.)
I worked a twelve-hour day today, and am starting to feel a little strange. Now that I've shared (because I know that our mouse and Veronica Mars are crucially important to you) I'm going to shuffle off to bed like the old, old woman I am. (When it rains or is humid, my knee hurts like holy hell. What am I, like eighty?)