I'm feeling extra feisty today. Everything either seems to be angering me or causing me to give some sort of unpleasant remark. Note to self: don't get on my bad side.

I didn't wake up this way, mind you. Somewhere between stuffing myself into my ex-favorite True Religions (and feeling that they are soon-to-be in the charity donation pile), ambulating downstairs (in my also to be donated beige snake skin slingbacks) to chat up my favorite doorman and entering through Dante's proverbial gates of hell, I pick up some snarky-ness, agitation and some unexplained sense of Ms. Know-It-All.

Look out. You've been warned.

It's Monday. Sure, I always have a case of the Mondays. But today, it seemed like the "spring-forward" sprung me beyond normalcy.

I started my day by scouring my Facebook page. Usually that gives me a temporary fix, instant gratification that no matter how bad my day is going, someone's is inevitably worse and that I should count my blessings. That didn't happen.

What I did find, to my total and complete disgust, was a photo of some of my friends and me from a high school dance. Gee, thanks a lot high school pal, thanks for posting something so mortifying. Not only did I literally scream out in horror (as the secretary will attest), but I nearly tossed my veggie juice all over my keyboard. It's quite a sight to behold: the high school Snoopy (nickname) with corn rolls, a wild orchid corsage, a feather boa, street walker heels and fake nails with a mirror lacquer. As my friend Regina would say, "You really thought you were doin' something."

Being thoroughly shamed, I moved on to placating my boss and finding solace in the trashy gossip pages. It is there that I found another victim: Rielle Hunter; aka, "Johnny" Edward's sex kitten extraordinaire.

Apparently, the homewrecker, oops, I mean Hunter, is speaking out in a new GQ article. She details her hot and bothered supernatural connection and relationship with the ex-presidential hopeful, John Edwards. Blah Blah Blah. It's the same story as always: pompous, arrogant Napolean-complex, power hungry dude finds girls who doesn't mind dude is married, wants his money, shamelessly throws herself at him and promises him the heavens and the stars while on her back--all things the poor wife can't compete with. And so the adultery and the deception begins. If the scumbag is lucky, there is no child involved (Tiger?) but if karma is being extra feisty, there's a baby.

And so goes the epic article in GQ. What's making more news though is less of what's in the article than how the mistress is objecting, rather vehemently, to the photos of her published along with the article. Seriously? You knew there were cameras and people taking photos of you. Why would you prance around without pants if you didn't want to show off your junk? Why would you lay down on your bed with your shirt revealing reverse cleavage?



You didn't pose for these? Yeah, right. I look like that when I'm just relaxing before an interview too. Sure.

If you ask me, she practiced these poses!

I know when I have my photo taken I almost always have my pants on--at least when it's for a magazine. (Note, sarcasm).

Of course you wanted to be photographed, Rielle. You are attention-hungry and you wanted to look "sexy" and maybe even find yourself a new man. Stop your whining and your fake crocodile tears that you were "repulsed" when you saw the photos. You got exactly what you asked for. You probably wanted to be in Maxim but the magazine didn't want to hear anything that you had to say and didn't want to publish photos of your old, wrinkly body.

Rielle: go put your pants back on, wipe that pound of makeup off your old, haggard face and get back to being a mother. Maybe you can save your daughter from being the nasty, homewrecking wench you are.....

See-- I told you I was feisty today.

Sorry.