First the good news: not only am I still cancer free, two and half years later (WOOT!) I also had a magnificent dream last night where by future BFF Neil Patrick Harris and his partner lived in a bus next to my window and we played ukuleles together all night long in a desert while sipping Arnold Palmers. Clearly I should eat cake while watching Dr. Horrible right before bed every night.
Oh see, having started this post off with “first the good news,” now it seems like I should insert some bad news. I don’t really have bad news. But I feel like if I don’t put something here something bad WILL happen to fulfill the bad news prophecy. So…um…the bad news is my pedicure is flaking already. And I discovered yesterday that I can no longer put my foot on top of my head. I blame the parasite. And global warming.
Now on to the actual post, eh?
Why is it that when something horribly embarrassing is happening, we make loud noises to attract attention to ourselves? I mean, while still unlikely, it’s possible that I could have limited the number of people on Lexington Ave that saw my hot pink granny panties yesterday if I had managed to avoid screaming when I stepped on a sidewalk grate and my skirt blew straight up about my face and completely obscured my vision.
It’s also possible that Rocco could have saved me some embarrassment if he hadn’t been so enthralled by watching another chick wrestle with her skirt instead of turning to warn me. He turned when I screamed. Which? Was a solid ten seconds too late.
Thank goodness I decided to buy some new underwear in honor of my hot date with Aloysius. Lately I’ve been wearing my ancient, super stretched out (and occasionally elastic-cut) bloomers because…well…parasite.
In other news, it turns out they have a little alarm system in the computers at Sloan that goes off if a patient gains or loses more than ten pounds since their last visit. I mean, it totally makes sense in that environment, but who knew?! Learn something new every day I suppose. Like, for example, approximately sixty people learned yesterday that I own a pair of hot pink granny panties. And that I sound like a chihuahua with a bullhorn when my bits are practically on display.
Oh and I Sprocketed. Seems you can get Gastric Mind Band surgery these days. Like I need to pay MORE people to fuck with my mind.