come over here and kiss me, so you can catch my m0th3rfuck!ng rhinovirus.
it's actually kind of minor at this point, but there's always the chance it will worsen! :D
i also happen to be experiencing a lovely monthly ritual which compounds my misery. you know, the one which reminds me that i don't have a penis? (and yes, i know it's good for me to remember this once in a while.) yeah. AWESOME TIMING, universe. cramps AND a cold!
oh! and i managed to get some kind of eye infection-thing in my left eye. THIS is funny. settle in, minnows:
i call it the curse of my dead bettas-- i was disposing of siamese fighting fish corpses (three died, mysteriously and simultaneously last week) and changing the water of the two fish who are pictures of health, when i accidentally splashed something toxic in my eye. this is all hearsay, you see. or read, rather.
why am i repeating a rumor vs typing a memory? ah, that would be b/c i was crunked when i decided to do this shit on a friday night. i had gone to SJM's farewell party/roast but i left somewhat early b/c it sucked (more on that later)...aside: everyone's leaving the east coast and it's kind of crazy how they're all ending up in SF.
apres SJM, i went out to "float" in dupont (that's for you maisnon) and left bank in the morg...when i got home, the roomie teased me and said i was a bad mother to all me fishies and i went apeshit. fishshit? suddenly, i was a tasmanian devil, ministering to the two living bettas and holding funeral rites for the dead. please, people...for the love of all that is sacred...don't give me ideas when i'm crunked. SHEESH. my ability to change fish tank water isn't solid unless i'm SOBER. duh.
now you know. there's a reason why i didn't leave the house this weekend, it's b/c i'm a gimpy, whimpering, one-pink-eyed, kinda cough-y FREAK.
brown people are boring pussies. here's why: SJM's roast was barely
tepid. i brought the pain ("SJM can't drive stick, which will make him way unpopular in SF...when it comes to sex, our boy is a cuddlebunny...Salil...Jay...whatever the fuck your name is...reach between your thighs and find two globular objects. those are your BALLS. cup them gently in your hand and know them, for they shall fill you with bravery and set you free..."), then two others tried, but the rest of the
30 people present were just personality-free sheep with glazed-gazes,
staring at us before returning to their bullshit appletinis and closed
conversations. so frustrating.
at one point, when he left to get a drink, i took it upon myself to remind these pneumatic champions that the entire purpose of the evening was SJM. perhaps, oh, i don't know, paying attention to HIM instead of clustering amongst themselves might be kind. i even exhorted them to insult him, since he actually DID want to be roasted. i tried. SJM came back, full of hope that he'd be pummeled by their cruelty. they, of course, did nothing.
my independent and wholly unscientific research indicated that the three "roasters" all grew up with no indians, and went to really white colleges. this is why we were able to be assholes. apparently. who knows. all i'm certain of is i (and at least one other roaster) was ashamed of us on friday night.
if you were at a roast where the porkchop-of-honor had to say, "fuck. do i have to roast MYSELF? come on you guys!" you'd be as hateful as me right now, too.