Warning. This entry is purely for filler purposes ( Read more... )

I've been trying to phone him since I heard. There's cigarette ash caught in the keypad and I have a headache the size of the grand canyon. Who's going to take care of me ( Read more... )

Christmas went well in a Titanic-esque "icy cold death" fashion. A disaster, but just enough of a disaster that neither of my children noticed. I'm wearing that thought like a little mental medal right now ( Read more... )

When I'm not sleeping with every European director on the planet and apparently exploiting their elderly genitals and cute little balding heads for financial gain, I'm generally drinking and hating Christmas. It's a cardinal sin amongst mothers. I'm already benched for being both a smoking mother and a mother who still has orgasms; I dread to think ( Read more... )

[No, you haven't stumbled upon the secret journal of Sophie Marceau; this is a fictional work in progress playing on the persona of a French actress, model, director and writer. For more deeply intellectual and -- I assure you -- soul-shaking information I suggest visiting here or the easy-bake summary here. And take that fucking poodle with you! ( Read more... )