Broken condoms suck. Big time. Okay, so it happens and I'm thinking, it's okay because Plan B is available over-the-counter. So we get dressed, truck it over to Shopper's Drug Mart and ask for Plan B. The guy at the counter tells me he'll get the pharmacist, who then drags me and Chris into his little office. He then pulls out this 2 page questionairre that wants everything except my blood type and favourite colour. Now, I'm 29 years old and really don't care what this pharmacist thinks of me and my broken condom, but it really must be uncomfortable for a teenage girl to have to be grilled like that (I mean, if we wanted the questions, we would have went to the damn doctor). Then to top it off, they charge $14.02 for the damn consultation! Did I ask for the fucking consultation? Grrr. So forty bucks later, I get the joy of feeling like shit while I take these two pills. Luckily the rest of the weekend was okay. We went to see Mom on Friday (she's acting fairly normal, although extremely paranoid) and went out for dinner with Elizabeth on Thursday night. We pigged out on shrimp at Red Lobster, so that was awesome. She brought me back some cool gifts from her Scotland trip, including some funky Celtic earrings and some Ray Fiest books. Today is my first day on the South Beach regime, so this should be interesting.