LIKE A VIRTEL returns!

(That's me on the left giving you Christmas-morning-toddler realness.)

Babygirls, it's been a year since I wrote here. Why did I stop again? Ah, yes: Extreme wealth and popularity entered the picture. It all started when I turned pro with my freakdancing. Then I married several Vanderbilts at once, and now Milton Bradley is releasing my new religion next week. "Blogging" (if that's what this is still called) is for thetans, and I have thetans in my bile. And so can you, for a FEE.

Ugh, no. I'm not a billionaire. I didn't even become the Grand Poobah of a cool anorexia cult like I promised. But much has changed since you last waltzed with Louis. Not his dapper use of the third-person, thank God.

The long and short of it: I'm a "TVLine" contributor at Movieline.com, where I dissect American Idol, Project Runway, and other third-grade recreational material. I've had this job since August, when I stopped working for Hollywood Life, my company's other entertainment journalizzum venture. (J-izzum for short, if you catch my drip. Heh-Ha! Lick you.) It's a great gig, and I write with marvelous people who understand that Glee is fucking horrible. Who is watching this unruly barf cotillion? It's more cloying and uncomfortable than anything else on the tube, and yes, I know who Kara DioGuardi is. Someone spare Jane Lynch and have her play all the parts in a Night Court revamp. The rest of the faculty and student body can turn their somersaults on Satan's award-winning jazz hands. In a light-and-sound spectacular! Forever! "Do-on't STOP!"

I've also moved from Inglewood (where I lived for eight months) to Hollywood. There are subtle differences. For one, Magic Johnson feels less obligated to own every business here. You don't see his picture on all the walls like Chairman Mao. Also, Hollywood is located next to Los Feliz, West Hollywood, Silver Lake, and Echo Park -- all happenin' neighborhoods of assorted stripes. Inglewood shares borders with a highway and clues to your upcoming death. Not as happenin'. Not as cool. Not as dotted with Entourage locales or lesser Kardashians named, like, Kjennifer. (Speaking of which: I went to traffic court in Beverly Hills, and Rob Kardashian's name was called. He didn't show up, but I gave myself a low-five under the bench, because fame is like a distant aunt I might meet at my First Communion party.)

My roommate is my friend Leonard, who writes Ryan Seacrest's American Top 40 radio show and continues to claim that Ryan is normal. Leonard is also a sociopath, so you never know. I keep a few friends outside the apartment too, including a mega horde of homosexuals and enough straight people to make the application process appear fair. My dear confidant Erika went to j-izzum school at Iowa with me, and she lives just up in the street in giddy Glendale. I have cousins in Culver City. I have a Lemont, IL native in the hills, and she wrote that movie Jennifer's Body about my dick. (Well played, Megan Fox!) I'm forgetting others, and unfortunately that is glamorous of me.

After a year of living in LA and working roughly the same job, my standout issues remain the same. Prepare thy grumbles for the humorless bitching graf! 1) I write every day, and it is difficult to like everything I write. Subject matter is the least of my concerns; I'm talking about what I contribute -- the punch, the impact, the meaningfulness of my work. That's hard to get over, the dread that I'm not representing myself with my best writing, or my funniest writing, or my funniest bestness. Being funny has been my paramount concern since middle school, when I'd work on my Judge Judy impersonation until I peed on my leg and had to inform myself it was raining. Now, sometimes I like what I write. On other occasions I don't have enough time to edit and re-edit thoroughly, and I think the work sounds clumsy, juvenile, or wordy in retrospect. I admit, I sometimes think I'll never win my Pulitzer in the category of Making Fun of Heidi Klum Three Times a Day. I just think Bob Woodward's going to take it all sometimes. I really do.

Oh, wait, that was a list. Uh: 2) I can't cook. That's always hilarious and tragic. 3) Clementines were on sale today, and I ate 35. All while mumbling made-up, psuedo-Stephen Foster "clementine" lyrics as the scurvy antidote stinkfisted me raw in the feelings. 4) Facebook has this delicate quality where I want to find every fucker who wronged me on it and nail their gay lips to a bulletin board over this great nation. I spend too much time on it, I mean. 5) I'm also on Twitter too much. (A theme is building here!) Do you know what this Twitter carnival is? Everyone's barking on it. Follow me! I try really fucking hard at it, which is neither endearing nor the point of Twitter. If you don't understand a couple of the Ruth Buzzi references, that's fine. Just don't tell me, or I'll explain them before FUCKING YOU UP.

That'll do it for now! Maybe some fun-size (read: SMALLER) updates are in our future. I'll try to not rewrite St. Augustine's Confessions for a suburban gay youth group next time. At any rate, thank you for reading. And tolerating. And calling poison control when the words started turning upside down.

Love,
Louissss