Mildred has arrived. She’s already ruling the apartment with an iron paw. She also spends a lot of time walking in circles around my neck which is mildly distracting – and a-frickin-dorable.
I think she might be stupid.
Most importantly? I know you’ve all been waiting with baited breath to see if she would pass the crucial test to qualify as the next love of my live. And she has. I can totally fit her head in my mouth. I took pictures, but Rocco said I’m not allowed to post them on the internet. There was something about PETA and hate mail and legal proceedings.
He was really quite adamant, so no pictures of me with Mildred’s head in my mouth for you. She really prefers to spend the bulk of her time in my crotch, anyway. Then again, who doesn’t?
In other news I really can’t stop thinking about the whole dead body / organ donation thing. I was talking about the whole “tainted organs” thing with Gwen, and she was pretty sure at least some of my organs could still be used.
“They were able to use my mom’s eyes, even though she was blind as a bat,” she shared as we wandered through the park. “I bet they could use your eyes.”
“Do you think they gave the recipient a copy of your mom’s prescription?” I asked. “Maybe a pair of her glasses?” I continued. As usual, Gwen looked at me blankly and shook her head, horrified.
But seriously! I need to know! When this apartment sells (And it WILL GODDAMNIT!! This fucking weekend. Mark my words. *sigh*) I’ll leave the manuals for the a/c units, the microwave, the fridge, et all. I’ll leave my pile of delivery menus. I’ll leave my collection of house keys. I’ll leave them everything they could possibly need to work all the gadgets in this joint.
When you sell a car, you leave the manual in the glove box, don’t you? If you sell your old Nintendo on Craigslist, you include all the controllers and set-up instructions. If you order a wife off the internet, you expect some sort of operating guide as well as the necessary visas. It’s just standard practice, Interwebz. Why wouldn’t you do the same with body organs?
For example, if someone inherited my liver I assume someone would hand them a small glossy notecard that says “Saturate fully with wine or other spirits at least 2x per week. During the months of June, July, and August, focus on white wines, vodka sodas, and cheap, shitty, domestic light beer. Stick with red wines the remainder of the year. Approximately once a quarter, swear to your liver you’ll be nicer and drink less when the weather changes. But don’t. She can take it. I promise.”
I’ve promised my kidneys to no fewer than seven people at this point, so I can’t imagine they’ll still be around by the time the slicing and dicing begins. But if they were, I assume there would need to be a wordy disclaimer explaining that the surgeon is unable to guarantee the filtering ability of those bad boys since they’d already worked their way through fifteen lifetimes of margaritas.
The heart – that would take an epic manual with a long, long “Troubleshooting” section. “Q: My new heart seems to shudder and race each time I hear a Police song or spot a sparkly vampire. Should I be worried? Can you make it stop? A: No. That feature comes standard.”
For the person that ended up with my bladder, a simple scrap of notebook paper with these scrawled words would be sufficient: “Sorry it’s so small. PS – don’t break the seal.”
Man, I just hope they don’t use chunks of my skin for penile implants. I don’t need more reasons for people to call me a dick.
Oh snap! Today is the last day to enter my contest and win your very own custom original one-of-a-kind Elly artwork. Hell, if you win, you could make me draw a penile implant made out of cadaver skin on a greeting card for your least favorite boss. Please don’t make me do that. I’m having enough nightmares as it is. I’ll announce a winner on Monday. Oh the excitement!