stop it, tom cruise!

It was a fluke. I wandered into a vacant, public love den, its occupants completely unaware of my existence. I presumed them to be children, intoxicated by the colorful protective gear and enchanted by the sugar. I walked into this area around eight in the morning; surrounded by screaming children on their way to work camps or factories, parents dragging them by one limp arm so that they might get to their cardio barre class in time to flirt with Brad before Elizabeth appropriated all of his free time. Fucking Elizabeth.

But then, yesterday evening, I saw this:



I was about five miles from the original condom spotting and there were no Twinkie wrappers or loose Skittles. Then it hit me... I was being followed.

I am being stalked by a masturbatory germaphobe who relishes primary colors. That morning in the park? I'm usually there by seven, but was running late. There's a 7-11 a few blocks away and, with the constant loss of fluids, he might have been getting light headed and needed the sugar rush to keep him going. I'm rarely late for my evening walks, which explains the absence of excess packaging.

Does he hide, naked in the shrubbery, or does he protect his manhood underneath his breathable clothing, passing as a health conscience chi walker? Do I say hello as we cross paths or does he never get close enough to appreciate the fact that my poop bags are scented, daring you to find the baby covered in powder somewhere on my person?

If I weren't so creeped out, I might appreciate his active imagination.

4:12 PM

need it/hate it

I've been using Facebook to network animals and rescues, which works amazingly well. That said, I truly hate Facebook. Why do people need to "check in" at Ikea? Why do I need to know you're eating at Chili's? Maybe it's helpful to know that others shouldn't bother taking you anywhere nice, but do you think broadcasting your horrible taste is newsworthy? Do you picture us breathless, waiting to see where you land next? Will you be checking into a doctor's office to ask about those bumps? (They're not ingrown hairs.) I can't wait! It seems even more narcissistic than Twitter to check in while you're shopping at Target, getting your hair cut, picking up the kids from soccer or getting your lady parts waxed. This website may be related, in some twisted way, to the drive behind all that, but it's hardly me telling you I'm at Walmart. (I was there yesterday to pick up a prescription. Waited in line for 4 minutes. Made small talk to the cashier. She was dull. Picked up lotion on my way out.)

I guess it's apparent that this is week 3 of my never ending period. I hate everything, except for sugar-free Red Bull. And cheese. And egg whites. Not together.

8:54 AM

some like the world to know just how wonderful they are

They want you to know how many orphans they've subscribed to O Magazine or how many octogenarians they've helped off skateboards. Me? I want to share the dirty truth. I want you to know my ugly side. I want you to be able to understand when, one day, a female friend tells you that she's been having a period for three weeks. I want you to know that, today, I beat up my printer.

Yes, I punched my HP LaserJet for a good fifteen seconds and it felt like heaven. That piece of sh&t has been begging for it for months, so today I caved and thoroughly whooped its ass.

F*ck you, you huge piece of prehistoric crap.

3:01 PM