I fell asleep on the couch at 9 PM last night watching Full House reruns on Nick at Nite.
My last coherent thought as I was drifting off was, "I'm proud of Stephanie Tanner for turning down that ciggie in the girls' bathroom. Too bad she becomes a real-life meth head just a few years down the road..."
By the way, did you see that Netflix is releasing a 13-episode sequel called Fuller House? Holy shit, you guys, I almost pissed myself with excitement when I heard about it. It’ll be just like old times: Hanging out by myself on a Friday night, not even crying about it because D.J. Tanner was exactly my age and totes kept me company. We were, like, best friends. I’ll bet Candace Cameron even kept all of the perfume-spritzed, SWAK letters I sent to her back in the day. I never knew if she opened them; all I ever got back was a restraining order that I promptly framed and hung on the wall directly behind the TV.
Don’t cry for me, Argentina. It was because of those nights that I honed my kickass writing skills: When Full House went off the air, I needed something else to do and so begged Santa for Balderdash and played that alone in my basement.
And now—well, look at me now. An unpaid, unpublished blog authorette who has to hide her identity because she always talks about what a dirty slooter she became in college (probably because she needed something to fill the deep void left by finally playing through all of the Balderdash definition cards).
Okay, cry for me. Go ahead, cry for me.
And not just, you, Argentina. The whole world has my permission to weep.
But OMG Fuller House squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!