08.15.02 - 9:00 p.m.

It doesn't cool off until it's dark, after it's too late to go for a walk, after it's too late to do yoga. Now my stomach's full of Boca burger and cheese, and a few glasses of wine, and I can't be bothered to do anything to maintain my girlish figure. Now the only things I can do are eat Oreos, watch Disc 2 of The Royal Tenenbaums and type.

Or perhaps I should call Moom. Because maybe I am in a better mood tonight, since Friday has snuck up on me all stealth-like. What have I done to deserve such a short week? I get to write my first celeb piece for the December issue, we played trivia and ate Jack Daniel's chicken last night (my suburban guilty pleasure), and yet I've been foul and PMS-y the entire time. How ungrateful of me.

Oh, and RJ was FINALLY taken out of the game last night. Thank freakin' god. So next week Nikki goes and then the rest are left to claw at each other's pretty, pretty throats. I can't wait for the new season of Survivor.

And is "rock star" on the list of most dangerous occupations? Cause there goes another one - the singer for Drowning Pool. But don't worry, kids, another gravelly-voiced alterna-metal clone band will surface soon enough. Maybe someone should warn Nikki before she gets too good at her "rebel" act.