Le maudit Mo D.

the strangeness of our love

Earlier today, after eating bagels and lox with a smattering of Geegsters and their honeys, I came home to find my honey wrapped up in the blue flannel of our bed, babuschka-style. He was being marsupial and cute as fuck, and I immediately jumped into the bed to be with him and put my cold, dirty feet on his legs. He likes that. We had our usual dorky conversation, in which I suggested to him that an appropriate tattoo for him would be a turtle pushing a lawnmower.

This is funny.

Bob plaster-casted my pectus today. We used plaster mask-making strips that you dip in water and then they harden. I had to slather my chest with Vaseline like a porn star. The cast doesn't look quite like what I expected, though it did confirm that the shape of my chest is not such that I would have spent the last half of my life alarmed about the severity of my PE. I am shaped like a hardcover book open to the middle.

There is slippery Vaseline all over my shower.

Little Bro makes his triumphant return to the ATX in exactly one hour. It is his spring break, and he is spending it in style with his sis and bro-in-law, eating cookies and breakfast tacos like the tourist bitch he is.

Before I put on a shirt and depart for points AUS, let me just say that the last handful of NYT "Modern Love" columnists have all had forthcoming novels of the "Los Angeles beautiful person who parties with the stars is forced to confront her booze/drug habit in the face of a devastating breakup/humiliating incident in front of persons more beautiful than her" stripe. If that anal-crustation-passing-as-literature is what's selling these days, I am FERKED.

FERKED, I say.

Posted by Zerd at March 25, 2007 07:50 PM