I'm officially sick of Mother's Day. I've been getting about 17 emails a day for the last week from the whole damn world and his uncle, suggesting how I should reward my mom for giving birth to me. Seriously, if I had ever been inclined to celebrate this ridiculous, manufactured and unnecessary holiday before, I am totally turned off now. So, please, RedEnvelope/ 1-800-Flowers/ Hallmark: leave me alone, for God's sake. For all you know, my mom could be dead and each email you send could be digging up an old wound. Have you no tact? Bugger off.

Has anyone heard of Henry Brooks Adams? If you haven't, don't worry - you didn't miss anything. Clearly the man had a penchant for smoking something strong. Why? Check out a quote from him that Google coughed up:

You say that love is nonsense. I tell you it is no such thing. For weeks and months it is a steady physical pain, an ache about the heart, never leaving one, by night or by day; a long strain on one's nerves like toothache or rheumatism, not intolerable at any one instant, but exhausting by its steady drain on the strength.

Yeah? Well, you've given me an intolerable toothache and pretty bad rheumatism with that bullsh*t quote. Piss off, old man.

Now excuse me while I curl up and die.