Shorty Got Low

Today, I went into Whole Foods at 7:30 am to pick up a coffee before work, and they were playing "Low" by Flo-Rida and T-Pain. That was a really, really good start to my day. (Additionally, I didn't get that Flo-Rida was a pun on Florida until I had to type it out just then. Good for me.)

My lovely Claire has contracted some kind of minor deadly illness and canceled her Friday evening birthday party, which means that I'm going to be going to the star-studded Dr. Phil Holiday Party before flying away from Los Angeles for ten days. I hear that at the party, Dr. Phil gives all of his staff a gift. I'm retardedly excited for this. I think I'll get drunk and hook up with a runner.

Girl With The Broken Face - Part 7

On Friday, I went to the dentist to get my permanent fake teeth put in. Lord in Heaven. Nothing is easy. Firstly, I'm a fucking baby about novocaine shots, so I had to get the laughing gas just to get the four regular shots. And then one of my teeth would not, for the life of it, numb up. So after the first four regular shots of novocaine, I had to get two extra shots on the left side of my face. I was numb and swollen up to my left eyeball, which was a really special experience. Before I left, they gave me a mega extra strength Motrin.

Then, I went home. My dentist instructed me to eat, and take a viccodin if my teeth hurt. The novoaine wore off and my mouth didn't hurt that bad so I ate and had a beer. Which was probably a mistake, but whatever. Then, later, my teeth started to hurt so before I went to bed I had a viccodin.

So I woke up Saturday morning, sick as a dog, vomiting up my stomach acids. Apparently, the amount of novocaine itself could've had that effect (according to the internet), but I certainly didn't make it better. Sorry, body.

Names

New boss-of-me at The Amazing Race. I do not know this man's name. I will try to avoid ever having to admit that I don't know his name. In my defense, he did not introduce himself.

Milk

Okay, after my jerk-off, now something of substance.

I saw Milk last night with my friend Emily, the new Gus Van Sant one about Harvey Milk, the gayest gay to ever be elected to public office. While mostly about that man, and how gay he was, the movie was also about James Franco being attractive, and Emile Hirsch dancing during celebratory parties.

To jerk-off some more (I guess no substance after all): it was, as you've probably already heard, pretty haunting to watch this movie just a month after Prop 8 got repealed. Though the gay rights movement has made so so so many advancements since 1978, the time does resonate in a few strange ways to 2008. I think overall, gay people are much more accepted now on a personal level, but the movie was about politics and the political arguments that politicians were having in the movies - the debates, the arguing about various gay rights statues and amendments and such - were pretty much the same arguments that people are still having today. Nobody gets on TV and says "gay perverts" anymore, but the same points are still argued in the same way, just with PC-ed-up terminology.

Slow and steady wins the race, I guess.

Fakery

Today, during my lunch break. I went out to the parking lot, and masterbated in the hatchback-trunk of my creamsicle-orange Honda Fit.

Okay, so I didn't do that. I called State Farm to sort out some car insurance stuff. But masterbation would've been much more fun.

Read Books

The other night (when I had the pork belly), I bought a book called Anagrams by Lorrie Moore, which I began last night. I tore through about a hundred pages. Do you ever read a book and have that strange feeling that it was written just for you? Obviously it wasn't, but it just speaks to you about yourself, and is perfect for where you are in your life. Usually, I like that, but last night it was just making me feel itchy and uneasy, like someone was looking over my shoulder all the time. That isn't to say I don't like the book, I do, it just makes me feel strange.

Pork Belly!

Lately, I've been falling down on my self-professed wish to be much healthier than I was during the last semester of college. Better food and less alcohol was the goal, and I was doing pretty well for a while, before falling backwards a little bit since moving to LA.

So, to get back on track, yesterday I got myself a (delicious) kale salad with fake chicken breast for lunch and all morning long resisted the Dr. Pepper that's been haunting me. But sometime, during the afternoon, my will broke, and I drank two cans of Sprite. Then went and got pork belly and a glass of Malbec for dinner. Then went to bed on a cocktail of whiskey-and-apple-cider and a Vicodin (disclaimer: I'm actually prescribed this as a result of fucking up my face recently, so this was not recreational drug use in the strictest sense, and it certainly wasn't illegal.)

I fell asleep singing "Werewolves of London" to myself and felt great, but this morning I felt a little guilty about the whole thing.