I hate that Geico lizard so much. He just enticed an entire minivan of moppets to start singing "Kung Fu Fighting." No one has that much charisma.

I love my boyfriend. In his absence (he's taking in an impersonation show in Vegas even as I type) I'm using his better computer. On his screen he had left open a Google search: "Ben Affleck is fat."

Speaking of entities that suck (Ben, not the boyfriend).... 22-0. The Yankees bend over a barrel for nine innings. Meantime Sox win again. Could 1978 be negated this season?

Yes yes, I haven't written much lately. Well, you know what? I can't eat solid foods and my face still looks like an egglant. I drool when I talk and slur my words, so that everyone asks "What?" and I have to slur my words all over again. I'm exhausted all the time and fell asleep last night at 8:30 pm. I'm cranky, I'm frustrated, I'm hungry, and I have bigger fish to fry than my blog right now. So forgive me if my blog has gone to hell for a few weeks. Once I'm off a diet of pureed tuna fish, I'll likely be feeling more verbose.

You know what else can go to hell? The Protestant ethic. I felt guilty not working for the three weeks I was on medical leave, came back to work and put in a 40-hour work week (most people come back from this surgery and go half-time for a few weeks), and no one cared. No one at work expected me to take it easy, they were just happy I was back and could reassume the work they were supposed to do for me while I was gone and didn't. Our physical and mental well-beings are such low priorities in the American work force. I'm moving to Greece.

Email spam can be fitfully brilliant. Today I received an offer for discounted antidepressants. "Hello, Askew," it began. Genius. I'm tempted to modify my last name accordingly.

F/X and TiVo have combined to give me a wondrous, and unexpected, post-surgery gift: "Beverly Hills 90210" reruns up the wazoo. It's been years since I've considered the effeminate dance posturings of David Silver, or the unconsummated sexual tension between Andrea Zuckerman and Gil Meyers, or Brandon Walsh's increased inability to refer to anyone as anything except "bro."

What horrifies me, however, is how the details of each and every episode of this show have remained entrenched in my brain. I once thought that my flawless "90210" remembrances would fade, making room for a recall of, say, eight years of French lessons. Mais non.

Well, hey. I am now a week removed from my crappy-ass jaw surgery. I still look beaten to a pulp and am still subsisting on pureed everything, but the worst is likely behind me. I now sit and wait for normalcy, which should come in 2-4 weeks.

Having been rendered virtually mute by this ordeal, you think I'd be wanting to express myself through writing, blogging and emailing up a storm. But not really. The forced vow of silence has given me an excuse to be silent in all facets, and I've been enjoying it. No thought or reflection for a few weeks? Fine and dandy. Let me discover what it feels like to be a Hilton sister.