Sometimes I suspect that there are cramps and then there are Cramps. And then there are the things I’m having right now, which might just be Cramps of Mass Destruction. Esteban sent me a dozen roses, though, which was lovely. They are apparently ‘Sorry You Have To Be A Girl’ flowers. He also fetched me cheese and mushroom pizza from one of my favorite pizza places, one that doesn’t deliver. He is very understanding of my plight. Esteban says that he’s an atheist, but he seems to believe in God once a month, when he utters a prayer of thanks that he was born with a Y chromosome.
I spent most of last night in bed, watching some show that was like American Idol but with models. I have to say that I’m addicted already. I’ve set up Ricky Fitts to record the entire season, even though it conflicts with the ‘Less Than Perfect’ show (which I have been watching much like a scientist observing a germ under a microscope, because it is essentially the show about my life, except that I would never be content as someone’s assistant nor would I hang out with Andy Dick). My only regret is that the ‘big girl’ is crazy. Not that she’s REALLY a big girl. In fact, she and I are the same height (5’9′) and the weight she lists is well within the healthy weight for our height, but they seem to always bring up that she’s destined to be a ‘plus size model’. Like, she’s pretty. For a plus size model. She has a good look. She’ll be a plus size model. Just like saying ‘Hitler was a good artist. For a mass murdering psychopath.’ It’s like they’re trying to say ‘ don’t forget, y’all, we let in the fattie! Who says the modeling industry is cruel, look at us with the heifer!’ But no, they can’t have a regular normal healthy girl. Instead, she’s crazy. They have to have an uber diva who simpers when she’s chastised. Oh lawd lawd lawd yes lawd. I want to like her, but I already know that I’d hate her and I’d be hanging out with the excruciatingly thin Elyse, who also happens to be the prettiest one there. I hope she wins. And uses her earnings to buy herself some chocolate.
Are there any male readers still here? Hi! How are you doing! You rock!
So McGriddles.
I’ve been mainlining them for the last week in the worst way. In fact, after the really bad day when Gen died I remember thinking to myself ‘Hey, cheer up, tomorrow you get to have another McGriddle!’. And it cheered me up just a little bit. And if that’s not proof that deep down I’m really a trailer trash princess, I don’t know what else is. I mean, there’s syrup right in the pancakey bun things! And they’re hot. And filled with sausage. Sausage and syrup and pancakes that you can eat as you drive to work. It might very possibly have been the most perfect food.
But then yesterday.
Oh lawdy lawdy lawdy yes lawd yesterday.
I shouldn’t have been tempting fate. Sometimes when I have a migraine or, in this case, extreme abdominal trauma, the idea of food is not a good thing. I know. I don’t understand it either. It’s like being told that instead of clothes, now everyone will wear suits made of noodles. It just doesn’t add up. But there it is. Sometimes even the fat girl says ‘No thanks, I am really not hungry. No. Really.’
Except that the idea of a McGriddle sounded good. As did the effervescent bubbly cup of icy cold Diet Crack. And then in the middle of eating it, it happened. The world turned upside down and instead of a lovely steaming pillow of goodness, I was now eating essence of pig between two grease sponges and I could taste every bit of disgusting thing that pig ever wallowed in. I attempted to just eat a pancake thingy but it was done. My love affair with the McGriddle. Never again. End scene.
Ah McGriddle. We hardly knew ye.
From the Girls Always Dig the Philosophical Guys Department:
Esteban: watching a really boring documentary in which the narrator droned on about danger on the high seas) I wonder why they always call it ‘the high seas’. Why not ‘the low seas’.
Weetabix: Because the low seas just sound wussy. Like a kiddie wading pool.
Esteban: Maybe it’s because ‘low seas’ sounds sort of like ‘feces’.
Have you signed up for the Web Writer’s Weekend (aka JournalCon) yet? Have you? Have you? Have you? Well, click on the link down there. You’ll see me there. And also Invincible Girl, who is way funny. And supposedly my arch nemesis will be there as well. And you don’t want to miss the smack down there. I’ve already told her ‘Bring It.’. And I’m certain it gone be broughten.
Ouch. That actually pained me to write like that.
So go. Sign up. Get yo’ ass to Austin.
That didn’t hurt as much. Perhaps I’m becoming immune.
There’s a new Quoted up.
