This is the chart my roommates use to decide how to deal with objects.



I know it's none of my business; they're not my prematurely brittle tortillas and unspreadable peanut butter, it's not my unused black-and-white film. Still, when The Unfridgables are edging out my cherries, my hummus and my bowl of underpants, it's hard not to get annoyed.

Two True Stories About Right Arms

I. Around 4am yesterday I woke up, still quite drunk, and realized I needed to get out of bed for some water. But, wuh-oh-- my arm was asleep! I started rolling my wrist in circles with my other hand, but no sensation returned. It wasn't until I noticed that I was using two hands to roll the wrist of my third hand, that I dropped Colleen's right arm as gently as possible and stole out to the kitchen.

II. Several hours later, Colleen and I were on an interminable 4-mile bus ride. In front of us was a man so obese that my emotions completely bypassed the first four stages of the Morbid Obesity Encounter (curiosity, sympathy, gratitude that I'm not that heavy, fear that I might be someday) and settled on Stage 5: Blinding Rage.

The man's arm was draped over the back of the seat next to him, but it looked nothing like an arm. Save for two very faint impressions where most people have an elbow, it could have been a sack of pressed turkey. I was sitting all the way back in my seat and was still afraid that his arm would smother me if we went over a bump wrong. I hated this man!

And then he turned to look out the window, and my fury instantly dissipated, because he had a broomhandle moustache. And suddenly he wasn't that fat.

I'm going to start putting moustaches on my thighs and belly and the backs of my arms, because now I know: moustaches make fat invisible.

Hey! You!

Have you ever been in the mood for the exact opposite of an avocado? Why not try a Florida avocado?

With its pondwater flavor, quick-browning fruit, and a consistency wholly unsuited for guacamole, you'll hardly believe that the Florida avocado has just 1/3 of the calories and 1/2 the fat of its palatable cousin! One-third of the calories! That's only a 1500% calorie increase from every other vegetable ever!

Seriously, fuck Florida.

Stop saying "gummy" so much!

This op-ed piece is about Trevor Corson's adorable hope that the severely endangered status of bluefin tuna will bring about an American Sushi Renaissance, one in which American sushi bars offer more traditional Japanese choices, and diners sit at the bar and really get to know their chef.

The article uses the word "sushi" 22 times, so that by the time you're done reading, you think it's a made-up word.

It is exactly 11 paragraphs long. I like to think that the first time it was turned in to the editor, the article came back slashed to ribbons with red pen, and a note reading, "TREVOR, WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS. ONLY TWO PER PARAGRAPH! I AM ALSO RETURNING, UNUSED, YOUR ARTICLE 'OBAMA CAMPAIGN SUSHI AHEAD OF SUSHI IN SURPRISE SUSHI SUSHI SUSHI.' SEE ME."

This is where I would put a Harry Potter spoiler if I knew one, because I haven't told anyone about this blog and I'm too embarrassed for anyone to see it like this.

BIG HARD COCKS AND BIG FAKE BOOBS = More hits!

I'm still getting used to using my own computer, having paid daily visits for the past four months to an internet cafe (whose outer display is a white plastic banner reading, INTERNET) and thus grown accustomed to periodically x-ing out any page that made me look pervy or otherwise revealed any information about me.

I don't know why I bothered doing this, as there was a gentleman-- another regular-- who on more than one occasion stayed inside until they closed at midnight, watching porn at the computer closest to the Internet Proctor, who remained quite unperturbed.

It wasn't depraved porn or anything, but if BIG HARD COCKS AND BIG FAKE BOOBS BOUNCING ALL OVER THE SCREEN don't raise an eyebrow, then why should I furtively glance around and navigate away from a picture of a Lindsay Lohan nip-slip?

Anyway, I was about to do that just now, in my own room, on my own computer, and then I realized I don't have to, that only I see this screen and that I could set really gross porn as my wallpaper if I wanted to!

A Google Image Search for "really gross porn" led me to a number of disappointingly inoffensive pictures, but also to this article, which is from January but brand new to me:

"BON APPETIT," said Chilean artist Marco Evaristti as he presented his friends with his newest creation: meatballs cooked with fat from his own body, extracted by liposuction.

It's really comforting to know that there is someone out there who is this dedicated. I'm serious. I'm sure a lot of people have had this idea while sitting around joking with their friends, or when they had to go to the store for meatball lard but didn't feel like leaving the house. But who actually takes all the steps necessary to pull it off?

I wonder if the friends he asked to eat him gloated to the ones he didn't. I bet it gets brought up a lot in "Never Have I Ever."

I signed up to read a passage from the Harry Potter books at Barnes & Noble next Friday, so I'm going to practice now. Voices? Oh, you better believe it.

Actual Advice; Approximated Diagram

My mother didn't go in for cliched mneumonic devices.

Per usual...

I was cutting the lining out of my new bra with a steak knife, and thought, "If I had a blog, I could blog about this. And in the future, I could say things like, 'Well here's one for the blog!' when something unusual happens." So I made a blog. It's going to be way better than my LiveJournal, just you watch.

The liner made my boobs look anime-pointy, and that's not really an ideal look for me. An ideal look would involve a tubelike bra that dragged down my boobs and brought them together in a pendulous 'V' formation, like this:


I drew an "inner view," showing how the nipples would meet in the middle, but nipples are porn.

But while I'm waiting for the folks at Victoria's Secret to seize upon this particular definition of "sexy," I'll settle for anything that doesn't create a poking hazard to me or to anyone else.

I had to buy this bra because my newest bra until today has been falling apart for the past year. An eye came out, then an underwire. A slave to symmetry, I was forced to remove the other underwire, and-- well, suffice it to say, with this as my sexiest bra (and oh, it was), I have been in no need of birth control.

My new bra was purchased at Family Dollar for the price of 2/$7, and yet is of surprisingly poor quality. It is itchy, clearly modeled on a very angular mannequin, and was until half an hour ago padded with styrofoam. I did a fantastic job removing the padding, considering that I live in a scissor-free apartment and have had only limited success with dicing in the past.

Because I am a disgusting human being with little regard for the wellness of her breasts, it should not go without saying that this red lace monstrosity is temporary. It is, however, and at such time as a suitable replacement is found, it will be retired from active duty, except when I put it on my dog to pretend that she's my sexy maid. It should go without saying that this is a daily occurence.