HOIST THE COLOURS, MOTHERFUCKERS!

And now we're back to business as usual.
Inventory was today. I was at work at four thirty this morning. So was the Gentleman of Interest. While his eyes are normally my favorite physical feature of his? Not so much when he's glaring out from underneath his hoodie like a serial killer. A twelve-hour day became a fifteen-hour day when our our discrepancy reports were delayed by the outside contractors being just that stupid. (Krista interjected all faux-brightly, "HEY MARI COME OUTSIDE AND KEEP ME COMPANY WHILE I SMOKE!" when one of said outside contractors tried to bully me into skipping my first break in seven of those hours because he didn't want to find a SKU through the appropriate channels.) I am very tired and, I will freely admit it, I have beer. Gentleman of Interest would be here also, save for the unfortunate fact that in order to have a date, at least one, and optimally both, of us has to be willing to move a muscle.

It is with this mood in mind that I bring to you the following open letter.

Dear Lost:

I have put up with a lot from you. The meandering storylines, the fact that you can't stick to your guns to save your life when you need a character for your arc but the (admittedly fractional) online audience flips out, the serious gender issues that you have. "Expose" was definitely last year's low point for me. I thought that you were getting better this year, with Kate and Juliet bringing their awesome so hard that I could barely stand it.

However. Shannon. Ana Lucia. Naomi. Danielle. Libby. The two latest victims. Dead men are heroes on your show. Dead women, if they are very lucky and you don't forget them altogether, make heroes. This is on top of the fact that you're doing your very damnedest to make me empathize with an altogether sociopath, that I've lost any hope of ever respecting Sayid again, and that I'm actually more irritated by the fact that Sawyer has gone from borderline sociopath in the pilot to Big Damn Hero today with next to nothing in the way of narrative fanfare in face of all this other noxiousness, and I'm sorry, baby. It's not me, it's definitely you.

No love,

Me

Current Mood: tired
Current Music: Syesha Mercado-"One Rock 'N Roll Too Many"