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::: Reading: Tunnel of Love, Hilma Wolitzer Check out: *Sniff* Fluffy would have wanted it this way... Artifact:
I like to pretend I'm being chased by paparrazzi sometimes. Wow, what a "candid" shot! | Tuesday, March 22, 2005
::: Oh, did I stop talking about being pregnant for ONE GODDAMN SECOND? Well, let me fix that. Why didn't anyone warn me about the blue-veined monstrosities my breasts would morph into? I mean, it's bad enough I'm wearing a bra size that rhymes with "Plorty Snee", but I was not prepared for the blood-engorged sight that greeted me in the bathroom mirror last night after I took my evening tub soak. My god, it's like something out of Gray's Anatomy - I have never been able to so clearly observe exactly how oxygen flow works, and frankly, I could do without this freaky new road map on my chest. Man, next time I have to go in for labwork and they're rooting around for those wussy-ass veins in the crook of my arm, I'm going to whip out a boob instead. "Don't bother aiming, ha ha, looks like I've got plenty to go around!" GAH. Also, the zits - I have HAD. IT. with the breakouts. Jesus, I'm 31 years old, I thought my days spent spackling myself with Clearasil were over. But noooo, I pretty much get a new volcanic outburst every couple days, usually right under my nose or near the corner of my mouth, for that oh-so-special herpes look. And all that crap about "not picking"? Give me a single, solitary break, okay? If there is something on my face that brings to mind the word "pustule", that fucker is going down. I don't care if I'm left inflamed and bleeding, I cannot leave a whitehead unsullied by human hands. I've tried every soap, salve, and overpriced goo known to mankind - my only working weapon is squeezing, dammit. "Glowing", my ass. I'm more like "radioactive". ::: I've developed a really weird habit lately. While I start out my evening commute listening to my iPod - alternating between music and the seemingly endless audiobook version of "Be Cool" - more often than not I turn it off about 5 minutes into my drive, so I can talk to myself. What, pray tell, am I saying? Well, I find myself rehashing almost every irritating conversation I had throughout my work day, and re-enacting my end of the dialogue. During my daily stint on eastbound 520, I tell a choice selection of coworkers exactly how far to shove it up the old tan track. I tell them to rub it, spit on it, and wedge it good and tight. And when I'm done, I start all over again, this time with more prison slang and references to baboons. I'm not really sure how healthy this little exercise in catharsis is. Work has definitely been extra frustrating lately, but I should probably stick to the iTunes action - an angry, hormonal pregnant woman muttering the term "dick mittens" to herself while alone in the car...well, it just isn't a pretty picture.
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