The Oscars...meh. I actually don't think that Chris Rock was all that bad--he made me laugh a few times, at least, which is more than Billy Crystal was ever able to accomplish--but the ceremony certainly seemed soulless. As everyone and her mother has already stated, it's fucking ridiculous that the AV kids were forced to accept their awards in the aisle, or do the pageant wait on stage, while the movie stars got to sit comfortably in their seats until the winners were granted the right to go onstage and bask in the glow of the audience's adoration. I'm especially disappointed by the boycott of my most anticipated eye-candy, Gael Garcia Bernal. By the way, I'm a little perturbed that he was on Paris Hilton's phone list (which was leaked a week ago). Why was he on that list exactly? I'm also perturbed that I found his number several days too late...because I might have been tempted to call him and turn into a squealing fangirl a la Hard Day's Night.

Highlights: the dry humor of Charlie Kaufman's speech (hooray for his win!), the dry humor of Jeremy Irons as he introduced an award, and the Best Animated Short award to an extraordinary Canadian film called Ryan.

My favorite dresses were those worn by Kate Winslet, Kirsten Dunst, Julie Delpy, Cate Blanchett, and some chick named Natalia Vodianova.

I started my period today. As someone who spends most of the time in her head, barely aware of her body, it's jarring to constantly be reminded of your own physiology like this, in such a horrifying way. Another ovulation for naught. For some reason it makes me think of a pinball machine...a ball is launched, but since you had no interest in lifting those flippy things to keep it alive (aka unprotected sex), the ball falls into a hole and dies. Thus no flashing lights or whirring toys or extra points. And out gushes the blood. You'd think after having to deal with blood gushing out of my vagina every month, I wouldn't bat an eye during a typical slash film. But...no.