The coffee's a-brewin'

So we don't have much time.

It's Monday, see, and we have this thing about dreading them. We know. You do, too. Especially when it's cloudy, again, and bed seems so the better option. We're eating soggy Honey Nut Cheerios and debating whether the milk is spoiled. Bed. So. The better. Option.

So we're rushing and we have stories about turnpike traffic (seriously? There aren't any stoplights. None. So all ya'll drivers from other states, and ya'll are from other states, we counted -- need to keeps-a-drivin'. Don't stop. Don't slam on your breaks. Happy f*cking Mother's Day. Now move the f*ck out the way).

Anyway, we have stories. But they can wait. No time.

We've referenced this several times in the past, but it's always worth the read the day after. We like the idea of writers writing about what they wrote and why.

We know. Tapping phones and war and immigration and polls and horrid weather and other stories may be more important. But Izzie is so gone and darnit we can't wait to see how it ends tonight.

At 9. Only on the ABC.

Sh*t. We're not even watching Raw because of this.