Homeward bound

People have been asking me lately why it is that I don't go out anymore. Because I can't ever, ever be trusted to act like a sane, sensible person, that's why. Case in point:

Yesterday, I took my dear friend LJ down to the Lower East Side on a school night, where we allowed cute, cute Paul to pour booze down our gullets until we barely knew our names. You know you've lost your goddamned mind when tequila shots seem like a good idea. Hard as it may be to believe, this was actually the right thing to do. LJ, after all, was here from Denver just for the day, and he's going through some brutally crappy stuff, and we hadn't seen each other in a couple of years. It was wonderful to hang out with him again, and we had a great deal of fun, to the best of my recollection. (Did I mention that Paul is cute? He is. Really cute. ) All in all, it was a pretty awesome time.

Until 6 AM, that is, when I barfed in the shower.

It's after 2 PM now, and I'm still not at all sure that I'll get through the workday without doing it again. Barfing, that is, not acting like a lunatic.

There will be no more leaving the house.

Penis envy?

So I finally break down and do the celebrity face match thing on MyHeritage.com, only to discover that I look just like Chad Michael Murray.

Suicide impending. I recommend submitting your claims on my stuff now; I'd hate for battles over my Wolverine telephone and crappy Ikea furniture to erupt amongst my loved ones after I'm gone.

But hey, at least now I understand why the gays love me. I'm a damn fine piece of man-meat.

Nice tit.

Catch-23

I don't know what pisses me off more...the fact that we've created a culture in which the prevalence of celebutarded female body images in the media has necessitated the existence of size 00 pants...


...or the fact that I can't fit my sloppy American ass into them.


Anorexia: It's what's for dinner.

Upon spotting a giant cockroach in my apartment...

Four years ago:
Screamed. Jumped up and down. Ran from room. Approached both tears and reverse peristalsis (but, for the record, succumbed to neither.) Left frantic note for sleeping roommate, all in caps with many underlines and exclamation points, expressing insistence that we move immediately. Considered leaving worthless, filthy shithole of a city once and for all.

This morning:
Arched one eyebrow, impressed with size and boldness of insect invader. Calmly wadded up toilet paper. Smashed without mercy. Cast into toilet. Muttered "take THAT, motherfucker." Flushed. Resumed makeup application.

Progress?

Picture this

Okay kids...I'm about to take the next step toward getting this loopy photo project of mine off the ground: buying the camera. I'm leaning toward the Canon PowerShot A620, but any input and/or advice you may have would be most helpful. Recommendations, for or against? Where to buy? Anybody? (Keep in mind that I'm a) completely retarded, technologically and otherwise, and b) on a budget.)

And just how will I repay you for your time, kindness, and wisdom, you ask?

By posting the pictures of my giant boobies taken with my new camera, of course. Duh.

Bring on the tofu, Part Deux

New sign, posted sometime in the last 24 hours, in the same window of the same Caribbean butcher shop a few blocks from my apartment:

We have blood
FRESH!

You can't possibly imagine my excitement at the prospect of whipping up a batch of burnt cow face casserole with blood sauce (known as Santeria Surprise, in culinary circles.) No way will I be single for much longer, not with my special brand of home cookin'! Mmmmmmm...

Glurk.

God Bless Albert Swearingen

Things I've learned from watching Deadwood:

1. There's a right way and a wrong way to scrub blood off a hardwood floor.



2. When a man needs to think through a problem, the best thing to do is shut the fuck up and blow him.



3. Big moustaches weren't always just for archetypal villains, porn stars, and child molesters.



4. Child molesters can, of course, still have big moustaches. They can also still get great roles in Hollywood, and work on-set with children. Awesome. Or something.



5. If someone challenges you to a fight and then proceeds to pretty well hand you your ass, all you gotta do is get one arm free, reach up, and snatch the cocksucker's eyeball right out of his head. Works every time. And after that, be sure to kill the bastard for fucking with you in the first place.



6. Easiest way to dispose of the bodies of bastards you've killed: Feed them to pigs. (I hope the Sopranos guys are paying attention...that whole head in the bowling bag thing was SO unnecessarily violent and messy. Seriously.)



7. Laudanum is quite an effective aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, it also gives you opiumgoggles, which are far, far more powerful than beergoggles. Or scotchgoggles, even. Yikes.



8. Not only are whores people too, but they are people who can quit being whores if they want and become accountants, bankers, or philanthropists. (This lesson has served to explain a great deal about many of my colleagues here at Unnamed Big Four Accounting Firm.)



9. No matter how much they denied it, even non-whores got laid all over the place in the olden days. (God, my mom is SUCH a liar. But I already knew that.)



10. It's okay for a woman to get cracked out and knocked up, even by someone else's husband, as long as she has a shitload of money. (Note to Paris Hilton: You didn't invent this schtick, honey. Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are.)



11. When you get right down to it, even the most ruthless, hardcore, coldblooded motherfucker in town is really just a guy with unresolved mommy issues.



12. As painful as my kidney stones have been, I'm really fucking thankful that a) I'm not a dude, and b) it ain't 1876. Having a metal rod stuck up one's peehole seems like a dubiously valuable treatment method to me. I am now more enamored than ever with oxycodone. (Let's refrain from discussing oxygoggles, mmmkay?)

If you don't get it, I can't help you. Get your shit together, call your cable guy, and come back when it makes sense. Cocksucker. (Sorry! that too will make sense once you've watched it, I promise.)

Reason #63,426 why I love the gays

Because whether it's true or not, it never, EVER hurts when a remarkably handsome man, especially one who has seen you in a bikini, says, "You've never had ice cream in your life, you tiny thing!"

Yeah.