Sick

I am sick. I woke up with some kind of horrific flu-type thing that came out of nowhere. Last night I felt totally fine and today I am barely able to walk the length of my tiny BK apartment. Illness allows me the luxury of watching a few zillion hours of reality TV. A quick rundown:

-Laguna Beach: My friend Kate is obsessed with this show and has been begging me to watch it ever since I got cable. At first I completely didn't get it, but after watching several episodes in quick succession, I finally understand. Watching vapid bleach blondes cavort in their multi-million dollar houses, drive around in their gas guzzling motor vehicles, lust over lame unattractive dudes who are addicted to hair gel, and get manicures (they seem to get one in every episode), really makes me feel okay about my life. I would rather be poor, passably attractive, and smart than rich, charmlessly beautiful, and completely stupid.

-The Girls Next Door: Playboy bunnies are real people too. Real people that cavort in bathing suits 24 hours a day and have sex with a famous octigenarian on a daily basis. They are just like us. Really.

-Breaking Bonaduce: Watching this show is like being addicted to watching a horrible deadly train wreck. It's so awful it is almost impossible to tear one's eyes away. Danny Bonaduce loves his kids and his wife, is addicted to working out, takes steroids, and is a horrible alcoholic. If this is your life, what would you do? Get a reality show documenting your therapy sessions and your horrible self-destructive neurotic lifestyle? But of course.

-My Fair Brady: This is a super boring show about a lackluster ex-celebrity (Chris Knight of the Brady Bunch) dating an idiotic self-obsessed 22-year-old super model. I fell asleep during this show.

I redeemed myself slightly by watching a bunch of shows about Alaska on the Travel Channel. I now really want to go to Glacier Bay National Park.

Illness: Bad for the soul, excellent for reality TV ratings.

Hard Up

I was sitting at a sidewalk cafe in BK yesterday when I overheard this part of a conversation as a woman passed behind me walking down the street:

".....orgasms. I haven't had an orgasm in three years."

I turned around to see who this woman was and who she was imparting this information to. Answer: No one! She was walking down the street talking to, I guess, herself, or an imaginary friend.

My love life may leave something to be desired, but at least I am not wandering the streets telling an imaginary sex therapist my problems. This sure puts things in perspective. Thanks, Crazy Unsatisfied Lady!

The Perfect Weapon

Last night I had a dream about getting away with the perfect murder. My solution was to carbo-freeze water into bullets. Ice Bullets. What a fucking brilliant idea. Once they impact they melt leaving the police, I am sure, scratching their heads. If my acting career goes south (or more south, to be accurate) I will open a weapons store callled Glock 'n Roll that only features ice weapons. I am a genius.

Double Edged Sword

Tonight my friend Christina and I went to a local bar in Brooklyn and quickly discovered it was a shark-infested sea of single drunk men. When Christina went to check out the jukebox, an extremely drunk middle-aged man came up to me and slurred the following words before stumbling away:

"You are too hot for your own good"

This was in stark contrast to earlier in the day when I was walking through the streets of Carroll Gardens and passed a gang of pre-teens sitting on a stoop.

"Weight Watchers!" yelled one of the chubby pre-adolescents.

Weighing the two options, I am not sure which scenario I would rather endure: being hit on by a drunken desperate 45 year old or being berated by a fat tween.

My life is awesome.

FINALLY!

It's about time that someone posted a website that explains how to properly dance goth. Classic.

My favorites are definitely:

Stuck in My Coffin

My Aritfical Hip Joint

and the classic:

Ow! I Cut My Wrists!