It helps to watch it on the highest resolution, too.

Found kitties are the best kitties.

I seriously don't understand why James Franco is a thing. Important people keep giving him money. It's like a joke I don't get.

I do that with everything I bake. And people are like "this cake is undercooked" and I'm all "no, this batter is overcooked."

Is your sister Gwyneth Paltrow?

What are "vomitty sunburns?"

The Facebook thing is valid. I loathe (and eschew) Facebook, but certain credentials have currency on Facebook, and among my sister's Facebook friends those things include: weddings, children, holidays with husband and children. These are people who tweet about scrapbooking or failed cupcakes. Their profile pics are…

Well said. And unless Elle McPherson has seen a director's cut I've never heard of, at no point in Rear Window does Grace Kelly appear in her underpants.

There's something nice about hair that looks freshly cut.

Yup.

My mom didn't learn to cook until she married, and then once she had acquired the basics, she started going backwards. I can't persuade her that the cook is supposed to (a) taste and (b) season. Today she made soup and said "I hope it's okay, I haven't tried it. Oh and I haven't put any salt in." When I asked her what…

Allow me to quote the prophet Oprah: "You show who you are by how you treat people who are serving you."

I literally almost wept with mirth. (PMS? Possibly).

Sometimes I love Jezebel.

"Happy Period?" This reminds me of that lie about how childbirth is a wonderful, magical experience.

I take the point about fruit being high in sugar, and consequently I mostly avoid fruit juice and dried fruits, but I think the potential insulin spike of whole fruits is mitigated by the fibre and other nutrients.

The food chain is so obviously a myth perpetuated by David Attenborough. Wild animals really just want to cuddle each other and play roly poly in the grass. And I am going to live with them, and hug them and squeeze them into itty-bitty pieces.

Then you are clearly not ready to move on to the next stage of enlightenment, a state between self-indulgence and self-mortification (ie. baby goats).

Next time, bring goats.

I feel like "The Internet" is actually a sinister, enigmatic man in a trench coat who follows us around and stands under street lamps outside our homes at night, smoking a Cuban cigar, talking into a Dictaphone and observing us through a newspaper with eye-holes cut into it.