A Cross Between Sweet Valley High and Ginger Snaps*

                   
I've got the bloat, the bitchies, the munchies, the crankies...

I'm consuming disgustingly vast quantities of popcorn, chocolate, potato chips and french onion dip (contrary to what you think, dip isn't always eaten alongside chips. It can be eaten straight out of the jar. With a spoon. Not that I know anything about that...)

Parts of my body are currently 5x their normal size. You know, my butt, my gut, my boobs, my ankles and my cheeks.

I have lost all sense of personal hygiene, meaning, I may or may not have stopped showering, brushing my teeth, brushing my hair, shaving, wearing deodorant**...

I may or may not be wearing these pants (click to enlarge)...

...holed up in my room and avoiding going out in public at all cost (hello! Did you see what I was wearing?)

If you don't know what any of this means, I can only assume that you are male. And not having sex on a regular basis. Meaning you must not have a woman in your life right now. Or else you would totally understand.

You're probably wondering what this all means to you, right? Well, not that much, but I thought I would mention it. I also thought I should mention that in a few days I will be venturing to my sisters house for a week. We have big plans. Mainly, the LOST series finale on Sunday (yeah, I'm driving 5-6 hours for a TV show. What of it?). There will also be tons of nephew bonding, a game night, and a party for a 3rd birthday.

Unfortunately, my sis does not have wireless internet, which means I can't use my laptop there and am limited to her desktop that lives in the upstairs hallway. Which means, I can't promise much in the way of posts for a week beginning on Sunday. I'm trying my hardest to pre-write and schedule some posts, which is going well seeing as I have no intention of venturing out into the real world until the bloat is over (one of the only bonuses to being unemployed).

Can someone please remind me that I've got shit to do on Friday. You know, that whole you're-a-smarty-pants award thing? Thanks.

For your entertainment, I present to you, my toe wound (you're going to be tempted to click on this image to enlarge it. For the love of god, don't do it! You've been warned.):

Incidentally, the toe is starting to smell a little. And it no longer looks like this as I took this pic on Monday. I'm slightly concerned. Especially since the skin flap is starting the shrink away from the edges of the gaping wound, which, although you can't really tell from this pic, is quite deep. I'm thinking I might have to preform some surgery here in the near future. *sigh*

UPDATE: I just managed to drop a knife on my toe (yes, that toe) while making toast. I am, by far, the most consistent uncoordinated person EVER. 

UPDATE ON THE UPDATE: And then I proceeded to trip across my bed (yes, across my bed. Don't ask) on my way to post this update and dragged my toe across the bed. That skin flap is so toast (haha).

So, in conclusion, my gut feels like Mount Saint Helens***, my toe smells like Limburger, and I'm on the verge of becoming a super-hairy, super-smelly, hermit/recluse. Or maybe something more like this:

(Original source)

And furthermore, what is up with the world being sans PMS-meds right now? Seriously, that shit should be handed out like candy to every woman anytime we walk into a drug store/grocery store/post office/coffee shop/liquor store...

* See here and here if you didn't catch the meaning of this post's title.

** If you're new to this blog, at this point you're probably imagining how seriously freakin' hot I am, right? And you would be right. I am smokin'!

*** This site says Mount Saint Helens is a volcano that "erupted in 1980 and wreaked havoc on the people once again." I was born in 1980. Coincidence? I think not.

Call me morbid or absurd, but to me...

                        
...old age is a four letter word*

          

I recently (tonight) concluded that I do not wish to participate in the "Golden Years" of old age. Let us put aside for a moment the fact that I am only thirty and thus far, in good health. (Knock on wood! KNOCK ON WOOD!) This does not mean I am not permitted to be concerned about these things. 

I blame Glamour and that man with popcorn lung from Colorado (I eat a lot of microwaved popcorn. Not as much as this dude, but still). I picked up a Glamour magazine for my trip to the laundromat the other day, and it just happened to be the issue they printed the article, Your skin this summer: What's normal, what's not, in. 

(I tried to find a link on their website for this, but incidentally skin cancer must not be a pretty enough ailment to warrant a spot on their site. They'd rather make you pay for the chance to save your own life, I guess. Maybe if skin cancer was a growing threat to the ta-tas there'd be a bigger stink made about it.** But I digress.)

Where was I? Oh, right. Glamour scared the shit out of me tonight when they printed a picture of my someone's funky looking freckles. Like I need any more reasons to be concerned about skin cancer. 

• Blonde hair? Check! 
• Blue eyes? Check! 
• Fair skin? Double-check! 
• An unfathomable amount of exposure to UV rays in your lifetime because you were made to play outside when you were younger and no one believed in sunblock back then? Triple-check!

At any rate, I've decided that when I go I want it to be before I'm covered in festering lesions or hooked up to any tubes and hoses (or bells and whistles for that matter). Therefore, I'm looking into alternative routes.*** 

Since I'll never be an old, balding fat man with a bad heart, I can pretty much rule out croaking during sex. Bummer. There's always the Choose Your Own Adventure route. You know, like free-falling off a cliff. Or swimming with the sharks. Or marrying a producer for Survivor. Me, I'm just not that adventurous. 

One night, a friend and I were chit-chatting, and he outlined the plan for his demise to me. I don't want to ruin the surprise, but I will tell you that it is going to be pretty. All sparkly and colorful. But it's probably going to smell really, really bad.

For my quest to find my ideal fast-track to death's doorstep, I've drawn up, if you will, some criteria (in no particular order):

1. It can't hurt too bad. Some pain is fine, but no suffering. And certainly no pain that'll last for extended periods of time. In other words, NO SUFFERING. That would defeat the whole purpose.
2. No messes. I don't want to go splat on the pavement somewhere. Or end up a mangled mess after a car accident. Dismemberment would be fine as long as it doesn't violate number one. And I want all my pieces collectible. As in, they can easily be gathered up and shoved into the same trash bag. A beheading might be interesting...
3. Making the news or some list of unusual deaths would be cool, but not mandatory.
4. No one else can perish with me. And my death cannot result in the death of others.
5. An ironic death would be ideal. Like this dude, who died while giving a farewell speech.
6. No burning, drowning or asphyxiation.

Um, that's good for now. How about you? Do you have any preferred ways you'd like to go? Or not go?**** 

And because, unlike Glamour, I care about you're opportunity to identify questionable moles for free, here's some scary pics (in order of grossness):

(Source: My camera. Don't worry, I paid for the magazine. I made them nice and big so you can click on them and enlarge the images. You're welcome!)

                                                                                                  

* these words are brought to you by "Friend is a Four Letter Word" by Cake. And this source.
** please don't attack me for being anti-Save the Ta-Tas. I know women who have died from/have had/have breast cancer. I'm all for supporting the boobs, but come on. Share the wealth a little. Where's the promotion to Save the Nut-sacks? Ooh! Or Cup the Nuts! Sorry. Tangent.
*** I'm not suicidal. Well, at least not until PMS rears it's ugly head again.
**** let me assure you, again, for the record, I don't intend on offing myself.