Weight, 105. Yeah, in your bra!

I think I'm gonna have a boobie auction.

Because honestly, I have no business owning a pair as large as this one, and all they do is take up too much room. Too much room on my short upper body, and too much room in cute clothes for flat-chested women.

Here's the thing: I'm short. Shorter than average. Short enough that boys that are 5'8" are still tall to me, and short enough that my feet dangle from my desk chair. When a person inhibits such a squat amount of space, the need for bigger-than-B-cups drops drastically, though this is something the ta ta layman is seldom aware of.

I just for once would like to be able stretch my arms without popping a button. That's all I'm asking.

This was just a brief rambling of my current complaint. Peace out.

Hi. I'm a recovering crack head. This is my retarded sister that I take care of. I'd like some welfare, please.

I've developed an unnatural and certainly unhealthy obession with television.

I realize that I'm not the first person to make an assertion such as this one, but I can also say with great certainty that my issue has reached far beyond the normal human scope of HD entertainment.

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:

• I cry hard enough when Fishers go Six Feet Under that they may as well have been real people I've known and loved who've died in my life.
• I find serial killers wildly attractive, and even the name Dexter brings a tingling to my unders.

• I've considered pushing more babies out my boom boom than previously intended, just to have more Brothers and Sisters around.
• Sleeping around and acting like a dick have become desired qualities in a man, and David Duchovny could probably put it in anytime and I'd weather the results of the impending diseases as long as Californicating took place.

All these things.....real problems.

As can be attested to by several of my friends, I've also become a dealer, pushing new shows I discover like they're precious rocks of crack. But instead of the monetary compensation most wholesalers and pimps require for the infectious drugs they force-feed into other people's veins, the shared addiction is more than enough satisfaction to make me drool at the misfortune of another fallen tube victim.

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.

I'm not too worried about it, really. I wouldn't worry about it. Don't worry about it. I'm not worried at all.

I have a situation.

An awkward, mildly uncomfortable pickle, inevitably involving my ass and a qualified professional.

Let me break it down for you.

BEFORE:
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.

This looks like George W. Disturbing.

But now, here I am, waiting to go to a derma appointment at which I should probably bring up said skin tag. And I don't effing want to. I mostly feel awkward being tricky, and getting in that sterile room and going, 'Yeah, I just wanted to get a general skin check. Oh and also, I have something suspicious IN THE CRACK OF MY ASS.'

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'd also like to note that upon consulting my mother regarding this difficult matter, she instructed me not to 'show him the first time you meet him. Wait till you know him a little better, and then do it.' I in turn reminded her that this is not a man I'm trying to get into a relationship with, but rather a professional skin doctor.

AFTER:
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.

I didn't see where it started I saw where it ended.

Fair warning, this entire entry is dedicated to the biggest donkey ding dong I've ever seen, and hope I will ever see.

Over this lovely Fourth of July weekend, I had the privelege of going to a little place called 'Hippy Hallow' in Austin, TX. This is at one of the more beautiful lakes I've seen in the states, that looks more like the Mediterranean than the middle of the Lonestar State. And along with that Euro feel comes a little something special about this part of the lake: naked gays and fatties.

Why is it that at nude beaches, the ONLY people who will take off their clothes are the fat-asses and women who could sweep the floor with their ta tas? Doesn't ANYONE with a semi-decent body want to show it off? Or are we forever stuck with tummies that resemble a Shar-Pei's face and saggy balls that should never see the light of day? It's almost not worth frequenting nude beaches at all.

Wait a minute - that's entirely untrue.

After nursing a hangover with more beer and sunshine, the faux B.D.D.D. (Biggest Donkey Ding Dong - try to keep up.) arrived with his lady friend directly across from our sunning area. Now this guy had something going for him - a little too much something if you ask me, but to each his/her own. He sat perfectly bare-assed and spread-legged on the cliff, and his little-big friend LAYED on the rock with him. How that shit didn't third degree burn immediately is beyond me - but the tan complexion of Mr. Big Even Flacid suggested that this wasn't his first day in the sun.

The day carried on, vaginas and nutsacks came and went. After packing up our things and hiking back up the cliff on the way to the car, the Official B.D.D.D. was finally unveiled - and there is hardly any way to describe this sight. First off, I want to note that its owner was not a particularly tall man. Granted, he was definitely more...urban than our first contestant, but most certainly shorter. This was a sight so unbelievable that I made the mental note to mark in my mind where this thing ended - and I'll tell you right now, it was the better part of the length of his quad.

I'm sorry - if I were to see this monster in a bedroom situation, I might actually scream out loud. Pee my pants a little, and run for cover, mother fucker. If he's that big loosey goosey, I don't even want to KNOW what he looks like all dolled up.

And this is the moment where I decided he was cursed rather than blessed, and sign of the cross-ed the wang in sympathy for his poor fortune. As Eric so aptly suggested, 'I bet he's a show-er, not a grower.' My God I hope so.

I guess everything really IS bigger in Texas.

Angela, I thought that was your sexy ass..

I have made the informed decision that 'So You Think You Can Dance' is the best foreplay out there on the market today.

I mean, think about it - you have all the elements necessary for a good time: hot writhing bodies that can dance much better than you can or ever will, and the free entertainment of watching them girate against each other to the exact rythym of your rapidly burning loins. The doctor couldn't prescribe a better antecdote to an otherwise boring Wednesday nite.

There really is something to be said for this kind of carnal on-screen stimulus - even though some of the modern moves are classics that I perform in my own bedroom when no one (or everyone's) watching, there are also hot little numbers that make me want to grab the nearest man and never let go.

Such is life.

I really do believe that shows like this one are sneaky pornos in disguise, set forth to spread horny into unsuspecting living rooms across the nation. Granted, many of the pieces are also as moving as they are lusty. I'd be lying if I said I haven't teared up. But oftentimes the innate hunger for lovin' that comes with watching this show overrules my tear ducts, and I'm okay with it.

Though I deeply enjoy the strange sensation I get watching these powerful dances on stage, there is also something to be said for the fact that they in turn make me loathe my pitiful non-dancing existence. My body will never move the way theirs do, and I'm pretty sure I won't be allowed to wear a half-dress and frolic onstage in front of millions of viewers any time soon. (Though the world would undoubtedly be a much more scary place if I did.)

So for now I'll continue to blush from the couch, and cross my legs tighter than I thought possible while I live vicariously through the life of an artistic wonder I'll never be.

And wonder bashfully if anyone else has the secret fantasy that a sexy dancing man will suddenly and accidentally appear in their living room.

Yes please.

I'm petrified of nipple chafing. Once it starts, it's a vicious circle.

or, The Weekend of Mexico and a Marathon.

And what a weekend it was.

That's right bros and hoes, I FINISHED the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon. And don't ask me if I ran the whole thing, most people don't. So piss off. I finished.

But this epic and equally tragic event cannot fully be appreciated without reiterating the events that occured on the eve of the marathon, because these proceedings will go down in history (I hope) as the stupidest thing I will ever do.

One thing that this evening proved to me, is that talking on the phone using a wireless headset is in no way less distracting than holding the phone in your goddamn hand. Because regardless of where my actual telephone was while I was gabbing to my NY running guru on the 5 freeway, I STILL took the 5 south from downtown, and STILL didn't notice until it was too late. Much too late.

That's right, people. I ended up in motherfuckingmexico. MEXICO. Accidentally. I ACCIDENTALLY DROVE TO MEXICO. What?!

The best part of this momentous occasion was the fact that when I phoned my friends, naturally, hysterical about the fact that I was LOST in motherfuckingmexico, without ANY GAS IN MY TANK, mind you, they most definitely did not believe me. How could you be in Mexico? 'Well guys, there's only Mexicans here and all the signs are in Spanish. Oh and there's lots of Raiders gear. So...boom.'

After asking a cab driver how to get back to 'Saaan Diiiiieeeegooooo,' turning the wrong way down a one-way pot-holed street, finally finding the endless line of wonder that is border control, and waiting 50 effing minutes to cross back into the land of fake-but-just-as-good-when-you're-scared-of-pumping-gas-in-real-Mexico Mexican food, I eventually arrived at the blessed window of freedom.

'I accidentally came here.'

'You "accidentally" came here?'

'Yes.'

'Didn't you see the HUGE sign?'

Blank pitiful stare.

Sweet lord almighty.

And somehow, I ran a marathon the next day. A motherfuckingmarathon, after being in motherfuckingmexico just 7 hours before. So no, I didn't run the whole thing. And yes, the last 6 miles felt like a slow and painful death in the Desert of Pain and Misfortune, but it was hands-down one of the coolest things I've done or will do in my life.

I may have walked like a Mexican over-laid hooker for the next three days in an attempt to avoid actually using my obliterated muscles, but it was all worth it.

Olé.

If it wasn't this, it'd be something else.

Brace yourselves - there MIGHT be a serious tone to our lil blogosphere this evening. Uh oh. The day has come.

I read a story today about the ways people deal with struggle - and what a fitting moment to read it. A wise old woman (isn't there always a wise old woman?) told the token naive young girl to boil three pots of water, and to put carrots into one, an egg into another, and coffee in the third. After all cooking had commenced, they were left with soggy soft carrots, a hard-boiled egg, and delicious coffee. The carrots appeared strong in the beginning, but when faced with the hot water, softened and couldn't take the heat. The fragile egg was timid at first, and after being boiled, became hardened inside. The coffee, however, when faced with the strongest adversity and proposed damage, changed for the better because of it.

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.)

Relationships of all kinds can be such beautiful disasters - that effin' Kelly Clarkson really knows what she's talking about. We fall in love with our friends and lovers, seeing something in them that reminds us of ourselves. And the moment certain barriers are broken, certain colors are shown that we don't want to see, we'd rather clam up at the struggle than let it envelope us and teach us something.

How CREEPY is this??

Ladies and gents, all I've loved, liked, laughed with and fought with, try your best to be rich, bold and hearty coffee. You might actually learn something, you lazy assholes.

'Who can say if we've been changed for the better, but because I knew you, I have been changed for good.'

Peace out. A town.