Answering that question with “Spicy Tuna Roll” is probably a little much, isn’t it?

(Perfectly inane question. You are AWESOME.)

My kitty.

(He’s a Persian. And it’s really hot in the summer.)

Answer: It depends entirely upon what time of the month it is… Certain outfits only work with certain hormones, you know what I’m sayin’? But I can definitely say that I would NOT be wearing my favorite thong.

I’m saving that one for my dinner date with the devil.

Thank you, honey!

In a villa in Tuscany… with a naked Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

Well, I’m glad that you’re glad. :)

I’m a huge Virginia Woolf fan… In her essay, A Room of One’s Own, she speaks of a fictional character, Judith, who, as Shakespeare’s sister, possessed the same genius and talent as her brother but, because of her sex and the roles in which our gender have been placed throughout history, never wrote a word.

I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister;but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee’s life of the poet. She died young–alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross-roads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here to-night, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so–I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals–and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting-room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would he impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.

I’d wait forever for you, love… Four days is nothin’. :)