health and whatnot

I’ve been putting on weight and not the good kind either. The shapeless kind of weight where my thighs are now beginning to chafe and my abdomen is beginning to bulge forwardly and laterally, forsooth! I used to have a boy ass that would turn prisoners into raving lunatics shanking each other unreservedly for the rights to stake their claim on my ass. Alas, my boy ass is no more and prisoners do not even deign to give me a second look now. In retrospect this seems to be more of an (immediate) vanity issue than any sort of health issue since I feel alright for now. Ladies, fret not, I still look pretty much the same (unless you see me naked (ha! If you are so lucky!)) so you know, don’t stop throwing yourselves at me on account of my gluttony.

This is not like days of yore where I could shovel any old bit of food down my throat and let my metabolism do its thing. It seems my body is taking more of a hard-line approach and most likely my GI tract adopting the attitude of “fuck it. I am not a landfill. Get some self respect you filthy pig.”

This means I now have to watch what I eat and get some exercise and generally be healthy (yuck). I started off by swapping my standard breakfast fare of Reese’s Puffs and Hersey’s chocolate syrup with a splash of whole milk to some disgusting almond flak cardboard like cereal with that swill they call reduced fat milk. No dear reader, these extreme measures don’t stop at breakfast. 

Lunch consists of some cold cuts with lettuce, which for those of you who don’t know just tastes like water so it isn’t too bad and some other calorie deficient veggies on brown bread(wheat apparently). Sweet, delicious, wholesome mayo was replaced by raspberry vinaigrette. The less said about this vinaigrette the better. I miss that queasy feeling I would get after swallowing a whole sandwich drowned in mayo. Post lunch I am filled with misery, pining for my ephemeral youth in hopes of recapturing my former glories.

By dinner time I am so emotionally wasted from toiling with that vinaigrette that if I have any vestige of an appetite left I order some pizza. But that is very rare. Really. I swear. 

My niplets are on fire (with passionate love)

Well passionate love if you consider football my third love behind the human portion of the Little Mermaid and the girl from that one Moto Razor commercial with the smile. Now those of you who know me (all six of you), know that I waste not an opportunity to make fun of the practice of men having to protect their nipples whilst running a marathon like applying butter or covering them with band aids or something. I believe women do not need to do the same due to the advances in sports bra technology (do not quote me on that. That is based purely on conjecture. I haven’t really spoken to a woman about that because I am shy.) It’s funny, that of all the things that could happen with running these distances the nipples are the ones that are guaranteed to break. I would like to take this moment to apologize to all the gentlerunners (especially my uncle at whom a lot of these jokes were aimed at behind his back) for all the silly jokes I made at their expense.

It hurts a lot, nipple burn. I was playing football in the rain the other day and my t shirt was soaked and a curious thing happened as I was taking a lovely hot shower later; the forward most points on my body, most notably my right breasticle seemed to build up an internal churning manifesting itself at this one dime sized point on my body at which point it burst through like a laser searing my delicate little niplet(s) causing me to hop about ooh-ing and aah-ing. In fact I was unaware that I had these things until the great conflagration. Of course as per standard practice, I applied copious amounts of Vaseline to soothe my soul and assuage this incredibly debilitating injury.

I was terribly inconvenienced in the days following this incident; think about it, I had to be shirtless the whole week so as to not aggravate them and couldn’t go out and this was hard because I am such an extrovert, I couldn’t sleep on my stomach (which is the best way) and had to be curled up like a dirty fetus, I couldn’t chest bump any of my homies which is one of my favorite things to do and most unfortunately I could not take part in the bi-weekly neighborhood wet t-shirt contest where I was the 3 time defending champion having just wrested the crown a week and a half ago from the local legend Chastity. Fine, jeez, we don’t have a stupid neighborhood wet t-shirt contest but it is not for a lack of trying on my part, trust me. Stupid Community Authority Board (fascists).

The affliction

It begins and you don’t know quite what to make of it. It shows up one day, you don’t really know when but it’s just there. And now you have to live with it, deal with it, learn to know it. It spreads, amorphous, encompassing you, harvesting your body, using it, wasting it, like weeds. A malaise, a vulgarity, a realization, an acceptance, a tolerance. You believe it can’t sustain itself, but it thrives, defying your every annoyance, itching, clawing at you, begging for your attention. It makes you conscious, makes you look around, look to see if people are watching, gnawing, whispering, reminding you of its presence. It mocks you with its false mortality, a self replenishing density sprung from the fountain of youth itself. Its unsightly, putrid tentacles reaching out to conquer previously pristine, untouched lands, coming under the influence creating veritable swamplands, their innocence stripped. A coarseness it doesn’t attempt to disguise coiled in unceasing cowardice, unfriendable in every sense. An arrogance that belies its stature, filling you with feelings of contempt and self loathing, beseeching you to take action, to do something about it, but it’s part of you, borne out of you, you and it are one.

New York

Now I am aware that this blog is supposed to be primarily a lamentation about the hardships of my life but there are those rare occasions of celebration that bring out such strong emotions that I absolutely must write about it. To my regular readers, who usually cannot wait for my dark, melancholic pieces, I ask that you make an exception this one time.

This is about New York. Every time I find myself pulling into the city and see the skyline I can’t help but do my best Alicia Keys impression and belt out ‘Empire State of Mind.’ But to be more specific it is about my cousins who live in Manhattan. The cousins are devilishly fun and truly awesome partly due to the fact that they make me the most delish food (at the behest of their wonderful mother). But to get to the point it’s about the bathroom in their apartment, which for all intents and purposes is a regular bathroom, but it has a shower radio. Need I say more? Try taking a shower and then hear Rolling in the Deep come on the radio, and not lose your composure. I am telling you it is awesome. But that is all beside the point; no, this blog is really about one thing. Clean and Clear Morning Burst Scrub with Bursting Beads.

Now look. I have lived a pretty good life. But the first time I used this scrub on my face (it’s a soap for the face for you neanderthals who are not aware of this product) I felt like everything that had happened in my life before that moment was inadequate. I will say with no hesitation that this ranks in the top two experiences in my life and its only conventional wisdom and the fear of being ridiculed that is telling me not to put it in the number one spot. This thing has beads in it that explode on your face, creating this most fascinating sensation unlike any other. It makes the face tingle. And not the pins and needles variety you feel in your foot after you have sat on the pot for too long. It is a very controlled tingle like it is reawakening the nerve endings in your face (screw you, it’s not lame). If this is going to be your first wash, do not be overwhelmed by its face melting capabilities, embrace it, you will never get that moment back again. And you all know that I am not one for hyperbole and overstatement, so believe me when I say that this stuff is the tits.

And this isn’t the only products the esteemed cousins have in their bathroom. My hair smells like fruit, my skin tastes like shea butter (with a hint of vanilla) and my face is aglow. I think all I really needed after that was a fluffy white robe and a cigar and my life would actually be complete.

Armageddon

What with it being 2012 and all I was thinking about Armageddon the other day. The film, not the actual end of the world. Only Michael Bay could make a film of such depth and sensitivity and somehow weave tightly knit actions scenes and blockbuster special effects in between. The man is clearly talented. So overcome was I after my first viewing that against my better judgment I stood up and applauded with such enthusiasm and fervor that I was nearly arrested for inciting a crowd (I was 9 at the time so they let me go with a warning). It stars Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck and some pale elven broad. Any time this movie is on the television I drop whatever it is I am doing, prepare a fresh pot of hot cocoa (marshmallows included), grab a warm blanky and curl up in a tight ball readying myself for this rollercoaster ride of emotions, tissues near at hand. For experienced viewers such as myself, I have learned to prepare myself for the emotional wrecking ball that is about to crash into my fragile psyche. First time viewers be warned, it can be draining.

While the whole movie is a cinematic marvel the defining moment arrives in the climactic encounter between Willis and Affleck. These two heavy weights of the silver screen slug it out in the most significant roles of their careers and cement their statuses as legends. Ben Affleck is at raw, visceral best in this one. After having watched his entire repertoire, I do not believe that he has ever quivered his lip better. A stunning accomplishment given his body of work. Seriously, the lips are perfectly moistened to a point where it seems like he is on the verge of dribbling, pregnant with spit, but like a tight rope walker he balances it perfectly leaving you mesmerized, amazed and fearful in a gamut of emotions that you can’t quite comprehend. And you can tell that it’s not chapstick as well because it has that reflective sheen that only saliva can provide. I have had weaker moments where I watch him quiver this lip in slow motion.

If that wasn’t enough Bruce Willis sheds a tear. Just one, but you can see the pain as it rolls down his craggily cheek and that is enough to tug at the heart strings. So yeah, it’s a good movie. I am rather exhausted from writing this piece. The aftermath of a viewing usually lasts a couple days with the emotions lying just beneath the surface and whatnot. It’s pretty heavy stuff. But if you are in need of a good cry, looking to get in touch with your inner self then look no further than this exhibition of high drama. 

The immaculate fart

Flatulence. That glorious expulsion of sulfurous gases to the sweet symphony of organs, pipes, whistles and the rolling of drums, that causes one to sigh with immediate relief followed by almost equally immediate feelings of repulsion and self-disgust.

One lazy Saturday morning, as I lay in bed overcoming a vicious hangover, passing a stream of wind without much resistance under the heavy warmth of my goose down comforter my thoughts naturally turned to farts (for the lack of a better term). And as I am inclined to do, I dedicated the better part of an hour to these thoughts, every so often raising a cheek to cut one (I was unusually gassy that morning. This is not a Saturday morning ritual in case you are wondering). Alas this was not the best course of action, but really who is at their best on Saturday mornings? So anyway as I finally get up to take a leak, tossing the comforter off with a casual flick of my hand, I am hit with what can only be described as a fog of such palpable, suffocating density that my body instinctively recoiled at the first inhalation of this vaguely spicy smelling gas and my head snapped back in such a sharp manner that I banged it against my headboard.   

Having overcome my initial shock, I rubbed my head rather gingerly as I gathered my wits. Of course my natural reaction was then to let out a little chuckle and a shake of the head that could be translated to “you devil!” Well anyway, I aired out my room and all that and then went to prepare some food. Refried beans; Breakfast of champions.

A lament

So I am 23 years old at the time of this writing. I recently noticed a troubling trend in my life which needs to be eliminated or corrected at the very least. I have a feeling that this may be a pretty widespread problem mainly among men but I sure some women have experienced it too. Well to get to the point this blog is about t-shirts. And ex girlfriends.

Granted I have very little experience when it comes to relationships, I have only been in two, but for the life of me I can't understand why I keep losing my best t-shirts to these wretched, thieving whores. Okay, I exaggerate. Both these women were nice, well decent I'd say, or rather tolerable and that's a stretch. Now, normally I wouldn't care if they took any random shirt which has little value to me. However there are those shirts that just have a special place in your heart. And I have lost two of my dearest. And anyone who wears t-shirts on a semi regular basis knows how hard it is to find these blessed threads. My wardrobe has been robbed of two of its brightest stars. When I used to wear either of those t-shirts women would ogle me from across the street and rape me with their eyes. I am going to miss that feeling of being violated. Of course when I would approach them about this they would just play dumb, but I guess that's how the game is played these days.

Which brings me to my second point. These bleeding ex girlfriends. When a relationship is over, the respectful thing to do would be to return all personal effects especially if you are the breaker. The breakee needs something to lift his spirits after this woman with a black hole for a heart dumps this poor sap (me). I feel like the break up would go so much more smoothly if all my t-shirts and CDs were nicely packed in a box and gift wrapped. "I think we should break up, here is your break up gift". At least that way I would have something to rip open, and lo and behold, its my favorite t-shirt! "Aww thanks honey. You're the best"!

Anyway, I have thought about asking for these t-shirts back but I'm too nice (read: I'm a big pussy). So if and when I get into a new relationship I am going to be completely honest with the woman and tell her my closet is off limits to her. Or the more likely scenario where I am frantically searching for a hiding spot for all my t shirts worth retaining.

So yeah. Currently I am wallowing in self pity at the loss of these t-shirts. I am going to have to start aggressively looking for new favorite garments. Maybe a new girlfriend. But I'm not too sure about that. Which reminds me, I should probably never let these floozies see my awesome Pink Floyd boxers. I will jump out of my fourth floor apartment window if I ever lose those.