Letters to my miscellaneous anatomy.

Dear Thyroid,

Here it is, the start of a brand new year – a time of renewal, of positive change, of hope…

…and there you are, the same lazy asshole, wallowing in your own filth and doing absolutely nothing productive with your existence.

You make me sick.
Literally and figuratively.
You’re a 2-for-1 sale on sickness.

Good job.

Fuck you.


Dear Tits,

Jesus Christ, Chesty La Rue, why can’t you be more like Busty St. Clair? CUP SIZE IS NOT A RACE. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to prove, but nobody likes an overachiever. Why don’t you just go ahead and shrink back down to a more reasonable order of magnitude like your sister there on the left and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened? I’m fed up with having the goddamn Odd Couple staring back at me in the mirror; sort your shit out.


Dear Legs,

Yes, we have started jogging again. No, it isn’t the end of the world. Quit yer bitchin’. You think you have problems now? Just wait until I decide we’re up to another squat challenge like the one we did last summer. THEN WE’LL SEE WHO’S LAUGHING. (Neither of us, because OH GOD IT BURNS.)


Dear Digestive Tract,

Thanks so much for choosing the past year to induct me into the “need to drink a tall, swirling glass of psyllium fiber every day to poop right” club.

Really. It’s great. I don’t feel like I’ve become my grandparents at all.

Not one bit.


Dear Booty,

I know you have one of the most thankless jobs around here, getting sat on all day and being in such unavoidably close proximity to my less endearing bodily functions (see above), but hot DAMN do you look good in those new workout pants I bought us.

I’m sure you already knew that from the way I’ve been staring at you in oh, I don’t know, every reflective surface we pass, but I just thought I’d say it anyway, just in case you were somehow oblivious to how totally rockin’ you are.


Dear Uterus,

DIE IN A FIRE.

Save

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I have your boobs.

I feel it necessary to inform you all that I just nearly sprained my neck in my haste to go back and reread a Facebook comment that I was 99% positive said, “I have your boobs.”

Well well. This day just got a couple of cup sizes more interesting, now didn’t it?

Me being me, by the halfway point of my double-take I was already doing what I do best: logic-ing up my own explanation for what could possibly have been meant by the statement without any regard whatsoever for context or common sense.

Four little words, so many potential interpretations. See if you can spot the correct one below.

(a) Commenter is holding the OP’s boobs for ransom but lacked any magazines or newspapers with which to construct a proper non-social-media ransom note, because really who has magazines or newspapers lying around the house these days when you can just access them all online?

(b) Commenter borrowed the OP’s boobs for the weekend and wants to return them but OP hasn’t been answering her texts, so commenter resorted to contacting her publicly on Facebook instead.

(c) Commenter is OP’s daughter. She’s always thought her mom had an awesome rack, is super stoked that genetics favored her with a matching set, and figured it was high time she let the world know it.

(d) OP was announcing an author Q&A and what the commenter actually said was, “I have your books,” and I’m just an idiot.

If you were around for my A to Z Challenge post where I mentioned my habit of cutting corners when I read and the hilariously baffling literary misunderstandings that ensue, then you’ll know the correct answer is (d).

You’d also think I’d be wise to my own shenanigans by now and jump to the conclusion of (d) myself in the first place, but you there you would be wrong.

So very wrong.

NanoPoblano, Day 3: Tits at 40,000 feet.

I don’t consider myself a prude by any means. I mean, you’ve seen the shit I talk about here. I can churn out unfiltered, swear-laced TMI like nobody’s business.

And yet…there’s just something that feels so unwholesome about watching an R-rated movie on a plane.

It’s like those people you hear about who use library computers to watch porn. There’s nothing wrong with watching porn in itself, but there’s a time and place for bouncing bazooms and mid-morning at a public library just generally doesn’t make the cut.

Similarly, watching a steamy sex scene, however simulated, on an airplane as the flight attendant asks you how you take your coffee and the little boy in the seat behind you takes a breather from kicking your seat to lean forward and scope out some brief cinematic nudity, well…there’s no way that’s not going to be at least a little awkward.

Which is why I was a bit surprised to see this in the lineup for available on-demand movies on our flight to Japan:

Mainly because of these:

I don’t know if you’ve seen The Ninth Gate or not, but Johnny Depp and Emmanuelle Seigner drum up some major heat in this scene, and not just because everything around them is on fire.

Depending on who’s sitting around you, judging your life choices, that has the potential to be an awfully long minute and a half of jiggling jugs and O-faces.

And before you ask, no, not a damn thing was censored. I know this because Nutty Hubby and I immediately selected the movie and then fast-forwarded right to the bit where SatanTits and Johnny get it on.

Purely for research purposes, you understand.

Luckily, the woman in the next seat was too busy watching Magic Mike to notice.

60% chance of scattered brains.

Oh, hi. How long have you been standing there?

I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.

I really didn’t intend for my blog to be this starved for material after the A to Z challenge wound down, but I think my brain just went into “Holy shit, FREEDOM!” mode and decided to stop working according to any kind of logic.

Okay, to be fair my brain almost never operates according to any kind of logic, but this was an even more fractured lack of logic than usual.

As in 2 + 2 = hmm, I should buy limes to have with my beer. Am I eating too many avocados? I want to go for a bike ride but that means I have to fix my bike seat. Screw it, I’m taking pictures of everything in my apartment that I hate.*

Meanwhile I was somehow getting way better blog traffic in the weeks following the challenge than I actually did during the challenge, and that didn’t help matters because it was all too tempting to interpret that sudden surge in viewership as you guys thanking me for finally shutting the fuck up after my 26 day word barrage.

(If that was the case, you’re welcome. Don’t say I never did anything for you.)

I think I may be experiencing a little May mini-repeat of the March Blahs, which has not been helped by the fact that at work I keep accidentally writing “Mar” on things instead of “May”, which has also really not been helped by the fact that I am by no means the only one in the office who keeps making this mistake.

I fully expect the same thing to happen for Jun/Jul, but I won’t care then because I’ll be spending my weekends topless on Wreck Beach, and once you set yourself down on that piping hot, deliciously fine sand and let the girls out for a bit of summer sun, you kind of stop giving a fuck about all the dumb shit you did that week at your job.

Anyway, long story short my thoughts have finally started settling down enough for me to write semi-coherently again, so hopefully I will have a proper new post up soon. Possibly almost certainly inevitably complaining about something or several somethings.

Also, to whoever got here recently by searching “people nut in the gril ass hole”, I don’t even want to know.

 

*This may or may not turn out to be relevant to my next real blog post.