Ally McBeal is currently my main source of wisdom, so here's a piece I've bitten off:
'Imagine thinking when you go, it will have mattered that you lived. And then consider the alternative.'
While it's seen as a silly mania, I cannot overemphasize the span of emotions that tickle through my body with the simple act of watching characters develop week by week. As a result, the following instances are my greatest causes of concern:
So my suggestion is to tourniquet that bicep and push in the fat DVR needle, because once it flows in your over-stimulated blood you can never go back. You start to obsess over fallen President Palmer, four shitheads owning a bar, and a 60s cheating husband that just can't go wrong because his hair is too good - it's really quite invigorating, and I suggest it especially for losers with no friends, or people who wish to become losers with no friends.
Now I think I'll settle in for some whiskey and a cigarette...perfect way to start the day.
An awkward, mildly uncomfortable pickle, inevitably involving my ass and a qualified professional.
Let me break it down for you.
My good friend and mentor, Tina the Waxer, informed me approximately 2.4 years ago of a mole she discovered while waxing my backdoor area. (This is included in the price of a Brazilian. This is NOT something I ask for special.) She told me I should get it checked out, but not surprisingly, I've just lived with it since then. I've also forced a boyfriend to look at it, and he didn't seem concerned. So neither was I.
Now I'm sitting here, sweating at my desk, slaving over the embarassing moment that is sure to lie ahead when I (if I decide to) drop trou and bend over. I'm more than inclined to dial the receptionist on my way over there, and make sure that this MALE doctor is old and unattractive. If not, I might be more than willing to acquire an illness as a result of this unsightly mark, rather than show it to another human being.
I did it. After a full body scan, during which the little bugger stayed hidden, I went balls out: 'Well...there's a really embarassing one I could show you. If you want.'
Aaaaand...he LOPPED IT OFF. That's right folks. Mole-Be-Gone. And it is.
I was instructed to lie on my side, ala Rose in Titanic, and spread my own butt cheeks apart. (In reviewing this again, I suppose I'm grateful I was asked to spread them myself, rather than someone doing it for me.) The next part was fun - getting a SHOT in the ASS. As pleasant as this may sound to the laymen, turns out it's surprisingly painful and unappealing. I, most likely, will not ask to have it done again in the future.
My experience was decidedly less sexy than this one.
Finally, this unwanted piece of body was scraped from said ass, and I'm now mole free. There's an actual bandage in the crease of my buttocks, which is quite possibly what I find to be the the most amusing part of this entire episode.
Thank God the doctor was old. Thank God he was old, named Millard, and all business.
Because now I have a sore ass, without the foul play.
It's hardly worth it.
***How I've ever had a boyfriend is beyond me.
We all deal with struggles differently, and none of us is better or worse because of it. But how great it would be to use hard times as a fuel for a bolder flavor and more fierce personality. Instead of becoming hard and cold to the outside world because of the things we've faced, it might actually be possible to - dare I say it - grow because of them.
It seems that it's often easier to thrive on being angry at people we care most about purely because we'd rather do that than actually figure out what the fuck is wrong with ourselves. There comes a point when bitching about what everyone else is doing to make YOU feel bad is merely a means of filling time and conversation, and nothing productive at all. Yes we all hurt each other, and yes in the moment, we think we can never recover. But once the steam blows over, if it's something worth it, you're left with a stronger brew than you had in the beginning. (Forgive the pun. I couldn't help myself, my fingers typed it against my will.)
How CREEPY is this??
I don't know why she doesn't have feet.
Biker man is well-equipped for a day of riding up steep hills and through rough terrain, only he doesn't realize that the gym is, in fact, not outside. He still has his racing sunglasses on to shield him from the fluorescents, and his skin-tight neon outfit to outline his ba donka donk and monkey business like no other short can. Lost without his two-wheeled friend by his side, he resorts to the stationary bike - and does interpretive dance with graceful arm-circles while he's at it.
Rockstar jams along out loud to her ipod like she's the only one in the effing gym - what if I don't want to listen to to Whitney? (Who am I kidding, I always do.) But my favorite is A.A.S. - she does 80s-style aerobics EVERY DAY I'm there while she's pumping away on the eliptical. I think if she keeps it up she'll soon whither away and be nothing but negative space. But at least I won't have to wait as long for a tready. But really, can you stop distracting me from my run, because all I can focus on is how annoying your showcase of flamboyant exercising is. It's really unfair to ME.
There is just a really abnormal amount of weirdo in Los Angeles.
For instance, I can't help but discuss the amount of freakazoid currently taking over the patio of this Coffee Bean. I don't care if it has nothing to do with the gym, it still has to do with freaks, so this remains a cohesive entry. Boom.
The patio: Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, 'talk to me, I feel lonely'? Do I look like I'm aching for someone to discuss wireless internet and phone companies with? I think I need to start doing my hair differently, or wearing more unapproachable clothes (jeans and sweatshirt is apparently an invitation to interrupt my peaceful evening and blabber to me about your own bullshit, even though we've never met and never will again). Also, thank you to the lady who said she'd watch my computer when I went to pee, and left before I came back. Real classy.
Also, go to the gym.
Frankly, I love living in a land where people don't care how the outside world perceives them. Not only so I can relentlessly make fun of them, but also so that I can write about it and put it all over the internet. So I invite you to fly your freak flag loud and proud.
Lord knows everyone else does.