Blyeh. I feel all worn and blffghrs.

And yes, that is a word. If you can use it in a sentence, it counts as a word.

Went to the Galleria with my mom today. Got absolutely nothing accomplished. I bought a Lance Bass calendar, tho, and had butter pecan yogurt, so I’m thinking the day wasn’t a total bust.

And yes, I am smiling stupidly at the thought of Lance on my wall for a year.

Friday, at Towson Town with Amelia, I picked up a copy of *Nsync – Making the Tour…or, y’know, I handed Mel the money and the tape and got her to buy it for me, because I’m just not ready to do that myself. I’m still partially in denial. But, um. Its highly, highly entertaining. They’re just such complete spazzoids. To my pain and horror, however, I discovered that my favorite part of one of my favorite ballads…is actually sung by Justin. Without that usual edge/twang he usually has, to be sure, but nonetheless, Justin. Which is wrong. Very vastly incredibly unbelievably wrong.

I mean, if I had to list my favorite male singers? Freddie Mercury, because he’s fabulous. Bono, because his voice has the magic power to ease my headaches. David Bowie, because he’s a fucking god. I could even tack on Lance Bass for the voice that makes my insides melt, and Ewan McGregor because the boy can just sing. But Justin Timberlake? He’s…no. He makes 12 year olds cream their jeans. He…he’s lame, and his head looks funny, and what bizarre cosmic joke caused his hair? And…ok, so he looked REALLY good in the “Gone” video, everyone looked good in that, even Chris looked good in that. But…I…dammit, Justin, get off my fucking list. >.