The Joys of Bromance

It's no secret that I'm obsessed with reality tv, to the point where I often fantasize about trying out for shows and cashing in on my alloted fifteen minutes. I obsess over the contestants, acting like I know each and every one of them on an intimate level. I feel their joy and their sorrow, their elation and their devestation, and at the end of the day, all I want to do is open my arms to them and cuddle them. Unless it's someone like Saleisha from ANTM, then I just want to punch her in the face and cut off that hideous haircut of hers.

I find myself constantly addicted to shows as they come out. I cry with Ricky on Project Runway, I root for the beauties on Beauty and the Geek to finally understand the basics of 3rd grade math, and I imagine that someday, I'll be able to turn the oven on without screaming, like the contestants on Top Chef. (Seriously, ovens are horrifying.) There's a special chamber in my aortic region for each and every reality show out there.

But a new show has emerged from the genius' at Bravo, and it's blown every other reality show completely away. This masterpiece combines models, both sexes, actual talent, and some of the most provocative photo shoots I've ever seen. This show is Make Me a Supermodel.

And it's one big bucket of sex.

Now, to be fair, the contestants really do have a lot of talent, and a lot of potential. The vast majority of them are very high fashion, and even those that aren't quite there could still do big things. They improve every week, they take their challenges seriously, and best of all, the judges and the rest of the country takes them seriously as well. When the ANTM girls march out on the season premiere, everyone laughs their asses off and knows they're doomed to a life of Sears Catalogues and Chili's commercials. The MMAS contestants, on the other hand, could legitimately go on to do big things.

But again, none of that matters when we look at just how hot these models are, and at some of the shoots that Bravo has lovingly bestowed upon us. After a quick Google search, here is a lovely collage made up of images I yanked from here:

BRB, taking care of business.

Okay...

I'm spent.

Moving on. The show actually creates high fashion-esque shots, which is something a lot of modeling shows won't do. Sure, ANTM had that one shoot where the girls posed naked together, but even that was ridiculous. There was no real emotion it in, and certainly no excuse to get all hot and bothered during it. (Basically, what I'm trying to do here is justify my lusty ways by making MMAS look like a superior show - which it is - so I feel better about myself in general. And so I can start salivating over the models again.)

But beyond any cheap sexual thrill I get from watching Perry and Casey grope and lick each other all over while on that bed, you know, the shoot where Perry was like humping Casey, and they were both rolling around together, and they were like sweating, and...







...just a sec.

Okay. So beyond just acting like there's a shit load of sexual chemistry between two people, we come to the ultimate awesomeness that MMAS embodies: the Bromance. It's like a Dupont Circle version of Romeo & Juliet; straight, tough prison guard Ben (who's married) from Tennessee meets fairly flamboyant, gay student Ronnie from Chicago, and sparks fly. Quite literally. Watching the two of them together is like watching a couple on their honeymoon; they're affectionate, adorable, and the chemistry between them is palpable.

Wife and all.

If you google "Make Me a Supermodel," you'll find at least two dozen sites talking about Ronnie and Ben's "will-they-or-won't-they" relationship. Hell, even Entertainment freaking Weekly wrote about it:

The Unlikely Wisdom of Supermodel Wannabes

If you haven't been watching Bravo's newest reality series, Make Me a Supermodel, you're missing a whole lot of gratuitous on-air nudity and — now that we have your attention — one of the most provocative relationships on television. Ronnie, a gay 24-year-old student from Chicago, is enamored with his roommate, Ben, a straight (and recently married) 22-year-old prison guard from Nashville. Here's the kicker: Ben not only welcomes the attention but seems to have genuine affection for Ronnie. This unconsummated ''bromance'' has become the show's buzziest story line — and it's igniting plenty of will-they-or-won't-they speculation. Right now, it's nearly impossible to find a blog that doesn't refer to the duo as ''adorable.''

If the culture war is indeed over, then it's safe to say that reality TV played a major role in helping to end it. Had a show like Supermodel existed 20 years ago, a guy like Ben would have been far more likely to refuse to bunk with a gay man than to flirt with him...

...Of course, none of this resolves the most pressing moral dilemma still facing us today: Should we actually be rooting for Ronnie and Ben to hook up? Probably not. But it's hard to avoid. They're pretty adorable together.

Even established entertainment publications are commenting on the tension between them. And sure, I feel slightly bad for Ben's wife, as she appears to be a sweetheart, but still. April - your dude is gay. And it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside to watch him with Ronnie. And you have to admit, they're adorable together. They practice walking together, they encourage each other at the end of the runway, they always pair together, and they always happen to be groping each other, or rolling around on a bed together.

(btw: the last two icons were during runway training, when Ben was "encouraging" Ronnie)

Soooo. Yep, that's love right there. I kind of want to jump right in the middle for a Chelsea sandwich, but I don't want to ruin the wonder of it all. Yes, for once I'm putting my own sick, twisted perversions aside, so that others can enjoy themselves. I think this counts as growing as a person, or something.

At any rate, come Thursday night at 9pm, I'll be cheering on my boys. Maybe this week, we'll finally get to see them making out in the bathroom or something. And so, I would like to leave you today with this gift:


You're very welcome.

2 Girls, 1 Cup, and a Handful of Sex-Crazed Neighbors

Days till Christmas: 26

Today I saw the jauntiest bow tie; it was almost neon-bright, boasting a plethora of retina-burning colors that just screamed for attention. And not only that, but it was easily three times the size of a normal bow tie. Sometimes I swear that life just smiles down on me.

Other times, however, life enjoys seeing just how far it can push me until I snap and end up drooling and screaming in a padded room in an asylum somewhere in the Berkshires. Point in Case: Upstairs Neighbor.


Dear Upstairs Neighbor,

I get it. Your woman is a cheatin', stealin' bitch and it's your duty to put her in her place. I've raised quite a few pimp sticks to hos in my day, so I understand that you just gotta keep them in line sometimes. Instill the fear of God and all that. But could you please refrain from doing so after 1am? I'm all for freedom of domestic violence, but a little consideration goes a long way. Especially if you get particularly riled up during a beating, and decide that the logical follow-up to such physical exertion is a healthy, exciting, ear-splitting romp in the sack. Usually my girls were too weak and bloodied to have a go, but hey, to each their own.

Just please - not after 1am. It somewhat irks me to hear you two throwing furniture at each other (and feeling the shocks of it as it slams against the floor) and screaming obscenities, and then going at it like rabid rabbits moments later. Oh, and word of advice: tighten your bed frame. Not only does it squeak enough to make me dream about giant killer sex-crazed rabbits before I wake up and curse at the ceiling, I'm rather convinced that some day the bed will give out, and it will - along with the two of you - come crashing down on top of me and squash me to death, and that is not my desired course of action for entering the after life.

Much thanks,

Chelsea


Luckily, the deceptively cute and meek female neighbor to my right has started blaring what I can only assume are pornos at all hours of the night (otherwise, she has a hell of a boyfriend, with a delightfully deep baritone voice - who I can only assume is a milkman and electrician by day, depending on his mood) so at least something drowns out the violence. Although I must admit, when the pornos and the upstairs makeup sex is going on, it sort of blends into one nice, soothing harmony of filthy begging and pleadings.


Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive Very Loud, Very Sex-Crazed Neighbors

Step 1: Purchase a set of earplugs. Preferably the squishy, fits-to-your-ear-cavities kind, so that you don't feel like you've jammed an ear of corn into your ear.

Step 2: Invest in a set of heavy, down-filled pillows. These are great for blocking out low to medium noises (and the expensive ones can even block out loud noises) and they give the feeling of sleeping in a cocoon of sorts. Simply press the pillow over your ear, and attempt sleep.

Step 3: Take a page out of the Old Sitcom Book and bang on the ceiling with a broom. Loudly. Stop only when plaster begins to fall and comically shower you in white soot.

Step 4: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Move your laptop out into the hallway, and Google search for 2Girls1Cup. Crank the volume up all the way, then dash back into your apartment. Wait for the sounds to lure your neighbors out of their apartments, and then sit back and enjoy the silence after they all drop dead from witnessing the horrors on screen.

WARNING: Do not, under any circumstance, allow yourself to watch even a moment of 2Girls1Cup. There's a reason that it's a last resort tactic. There are no known survivors of that web video. True story.

Well Played, Al Gore, Starbucks

Days till Halloween: 19
Days till Omaha: 5

So, unless you've been entirely cut off from any and all media sources - or you're still asleep because it's 9:17am on a Friday of all times - you've seen that the fabulously rotund and deliciously diabolical looking Al Gore has proclaimed himself Grand Emperor of the World by snagging the Nobel Peace Prize for "Global Warming" crap.

Well, Al Gore, I see you've worked your leprechaun-like magic over the people of the world, causing unnecessary panic by claiming that the "polar ice caps are melting" and "greenhouse effect is hurting our atmosphere." Of course this is all a bunch of liberal propaganda, forced onto the unsuspecting masses so that the Democrats can fund their death crusade and pay the Jews to keep aborting babies in the same back alleys where they're housing terrorist group leaders that they've supplied with bombs, rappelling equipment, and maps of all major transportation systems in the country.

Gore/Lieberman '08 Part Deux!

Yeah, like I believe what you say, Mr. I Lost Fair and Square in a Just and Entirely By the Books Election to George W. Bush. You're just bitter that the popular vote went to your opponent, don't lie. The people love him! This bitterness is evident in the way you're trying to scare the public into believing these outlandish stories - like the polar ice caps can melt? Ha! You expect me to believe that? Next thing you'll be telling me is that the oceans are like rising or something hilariously false like that, or that the dodo went extinct years ago. Nice try!

In happier news, this morning I had my first delicious Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season. While I haven't been on much of a coffee kick lately, it was freezing outside this morning and I wanted something to warm me up on my leisurely stroll to work. I popped into Starbucks for my daily muffin, and realized that duh, come October all the tasty autumn seasonal beverages have made their way out. The pumpkin latte is pretty much pumpkiny crack in a warm little cup; it's so good it's shocking. I'm a huge fan of anything and everything pumpkin related, and it put me in a great mood as I let the caffeine pry my still-closed eyelids open so that I could start my day. (That is until, of course, I felt rather masochistic and looked up the nutritional values online, and realized I had eaten 420 calories worth of muffin, and imbibed a further 240 calories of latte - and that's with skim milk, and without whipped cream.)

They're love calories, baby

Last night was a new episode of Supernatural, which further cemented two longstanding ideas of mine: 1) I never, ever want children, and 2) Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki are seriously fucking amazingly hot. It gets me every time. Every Thursday I turn the CW on, and turn into a melted pile of gooey hormones, wishing that more men in this city looked like them. Then I go outside and realize that all the ones that even somewhat resemble those levels of beauty are very gay, and much prettier than I am, and I go home and eat a tub of ice cream to drown my sorrows.

But seriously, children are just instruments for the Devil. Either they are the spawn of Satan, or they are some sort of angry, fiesty creature like an imp or a changeling or Dakota Fanning, and all they want to do is suck the life right out of you and put you into an early grave. No thanks; I'd rather get into an early grave via a drinking problem or a spectacularly dramatic and publicized murder that forever makes me an infamous, posthumous star and legend in my own right.

Bang me to death, and we'll both be legends

Damn right.

Ghosts, MySpace Creepers, and The Horror of America's Next Top Model

Days till Halloween: 20
Days till Omaha: 6

I'm not entirely sure which is scarier: Halloween, the night of ghosts, mayhem and general tomfoolery, or my trip to Omaha, the great void in the middle of no-man's land. To be fair, the people in the Omaha office seem fabulously nice, and I am looking forward to meeting them, it's just that I have a deep fear of any area that is entirely landlocked. Rivers and streams and lakes don't count - it's ocean or nothing for me, my friends. It also doesn't help that just thinking about taking two different planes on consecutive days makes me want to scream and hide under my desk in the fetal position.

Speaking of hiding under my desk in the fetal position, I am tempted to do as such for two reasons: 1) it is roughly 20 degrees below zero in the office right now, and 2) I am the only one in said office, and I am convinced that there is something moving around in the main room, but I am too frightened to go and investigate the noise (meaning I have seen too many horror movies, and am too intelligent to go in and see what's making that noise that sounds just like a roaring chainsaw in the dark closet.)

Your bejeweled bell bottoms are terrifying!

In all actuality it's probably, like, a paper clip stuck in the vent, but I'll sit at my desk and convince myself that it's a zombie and I have to type very quietly so as not to catch it's attention (which everyone knows would mean I'm doomed, since I type with the grace and delicacy of an elephant.) Sadly, this is a normal state of being for me, heightened only to a fever pitch by the deliciousness that is the Halloween Spirit. I think part of it has to do with the fact that it's finally not 95 degrees with a 200% humidity rate outside; if it feels cold and spooky, and I'm stuck alone in a giant, dark office (where the hell are those back lights, anyway?) my mind shall fill in any and all blanks.

On the topic of blank spots in the brain, last night's episode of America's Next Top Model reminded us all yet again that Tyra Banks' head is full of helium and pop references to her days in the Inglewood 'hood. One would think that if she wanted the next Top Model, she'd be picking girls with strong high fashion looks, not a few commercial girls and some hideously disfigured burn victims she found when she mistakenly entered the Shriner's hospital, thinking she was at Bloomingdale's. There's maybe two, three girls top, that could actually have a shot at walking on a runway. The others are doomed forever to the hell that is the Sears Seasonal Catalogue.

This week, the ever-obnoxious Victoria got the proverbial boot. I really wanted to like Victoria, because she was a Yale student who seemed above all the stupidity and cruelty of the house, but my optimism for her ground to a screeching halt as she turned heinously prickly and began arguing with the lovable, fabulous Tiwggy at each and every judging panel. Of all people why Twiggy? She's the only one up there with any sense whatsoever - well, Nigel may have some sense, but I'm always imagining us having hot, steamy monkey sex, so I'm never actually sure what comes out of his mouth. At any rate, it has to be better than Miss J's incoherent, often times flailing ramblings.

The irony!

If you're like, 99% sure that modeling is the stupidest thing in the world, and you go to Yale of all places, why on earth would you ever audition for ANTM? You failed, you have to return to a student body that will forever, ceaselessly mock you, and everyone told you that you sucked. Congrats! Let the neurotic self-hatred begin!

Speaking of dumb pictures and even dumber people (see what I did right there? I'm leading every sub post into the next one, and tying this together so nicely it's like it was gift wrapped at Papyrus. Am I good or what?), I received a message on my MySpace account this morning, which read:

Cheklsea,

Hi I looked at your overall profile and you seem pretty cool. I liked it very much.

Your pics I have to admit were very nice, but let’s be fair. You already know that so I am not telling you anything new:)

I apologize in advance what might be perceived as a rude out of the blue e-mail. ...but I am moving from NY to DC/VA because of a job offer I cannot pass up and I don't know anyone here. It would be comforting to hang out and meet some new people. I recognize that you don't know me from a whole in the wall but I can assure you that I am normal, sensible, give people lots of space and respect their privacy. While my profile portrays a narcissistic and perhaps even an immature side of me, let this e-mail reflect a much deeper, down to earth side of me, and if you give me a chance I’m confident you’ll mirror those same views as well. So I hope you'll feel comfortable talking to me and getting to know me.

Generally I like to have a relaxed time when I first meet someone. Go out have drinks, just chilling out. Yes I do like dancing but that doesn't control my interests or the people I hang out with. It's just another type of activity I like which I have many. Makes sense?

You can IM me on hotmail as ___ If you have AIM, you can IM me as ____. If you use yahoo you can Im me there as well as a fall back option ____.
If texting is easier for you, you can do that as well. My text number is _____.

I know I hit you hard with the e-mail but at least it wasn't some 2 line boring cut and paste hello. I hope to hear from you but either way have a great day and know this…. If your pics reflect your true personality, then you’re an amazing person.

Hm, where to begin with this gem. First of all, my name is Chelsea. Contrary to popular belief, there is no "K" in my name. Second of all, of course my pictures are good, that's why I put them up there. I debated with putting up the "Drunken Chelsea Slips and Falls Down Stairs and Lands in Bloodied Heap" picture, and the "High as a Kite Chelsea Attempts Stripping on Coffee Table in Middle of Frat House" picture, but ultimately decided perhaps I wanted to portray myself in a different way. Plus, I'm wearing a ton of makeup in those pictures, so of course they're fabulous.

Moving on, I do hope this is some sort of hoax, as this just gets sadder and sadder. Okay, you're making a big move, I understand you don't know anyone in DC, but why not... oh, I don't know, make some friends at your new job? Hit up the bar at happy hour? Make small talk with your neighbors? The last thing you should be doing is trolling MySpace - given the site's statistics, I'm probably a 400 pound man that likes to capture smaller, weaker men and trap them in my basement for months on end, so you should be careful with giving our your personal information there, buddy.

And oh boy, the personal information. All I need his is social security number and I'm getting myself a brand spankin' new identity. For his sake I left the spots blank, but it's safe to assume that his screen name and email address are very similar to something like hot2trot@moron.com. It's that bad. Also, how did we get to such a "deep" level via a one-sided email conversation? Saying you're deep and mature doesn't make it so - I could say I'm Paris Hilton, but I didn't magically develop a wonky left eye and a fresh case of herpes. Sorry.

To say farwell to all of you, and to my new best friend, I end with his last comment: If your pics reflect your true personality, then you’re an amazing person. Well, since my pictures are from my brief modeling stint and from some drunken sorority escapades from my college days, then I'd say they sum me up pretty nicely: a frigid bitch with a taste for the sauce. Right on!

The Great Boston Adventure: The Aftermath

Days till Halloween: 23

Once again, I have overcome the odds and triumphed - I have made it, intact and in one piece, back to DC. Oh, and I didn't kill Erin, either. We survived the overnight Amtrak, handled my family with poise and grace, and conquered the foulest beast known to mankind: the UHaul truck.

Warning: May Smell Like Dead People

We bravely picked up our truck in Randolph, MA, a place where it's not usually safe to go alone outside after noon, at a gas station called - no lie - Divine Favor Gas and Auto. I'm not entirely sure why someone would chose to dub their gas station as such, but I managed not to ask the terrifically nasty attendant, even though he was wearing a lanyard that said "Jesus is my friend." Regardless of any longstanding camaraderie between the J-Man and said attendant, clearly the 'divine favor' name was one of intense irony, as the station was frighteningly dirty, and I'm certain there were corpses stashed in the locked bathrooms.

I was wondering where I left you!

The truck itself was merely a continuation of the horrors of its surroundings, and were clearly instruments of the devil. Upon opening the door, we were first blasted with the smell of dead, cheesy, rotting feet, and were then immediately blasted by a swarm of fruit flies, so numerous that I literally had to shriek and shut the door and run away - since I'm super brave, and all.

I informed the attendant that the truck was full of a swarm of flies, and he helpfully picked up a soaking wet squeegee. About five minutes later he realized that shaking the squeegee around only made the seats wet, and didn't actually get rid of the fly problem, so he aired the car out (courtesy of my receipt and insurance information, which he crumpled up without realizing what they were), and then proceeded to speed the car across the lot to get the last of the bugs out. He informed us there had to be a piece of rotting fruit somewhere in the car, but he wasn't sure where it was, so he wasn't going to do anything about it; then he taunted us for being afraid of the bugs. While I'm terrified of spiders, I don't mind a fruit fly or two - it's 500 of them that I don't enjoy. Especially when they're enclosed in the small cab of the truck that I have to spend the next 9 or so hours in.

Obviously, whoever had driven the truck before had been a filthy, filthy animal, and after dropping it off the attendants hadn't seen any reason to clean the truck, or air it out, or even check to see if there was anything seriously wrong with it. Fabulous!

Also fabulous was the fact that even though I ordered a truck with a dolly, a furniture mover, ropes, and, you know, the ramp that comes built into the truck, none of those things were actually included - made for a fun loading experience!

After getting the truck home (and managing not to asphyxiate along the way), Erin and I found a rotten banana (well, I believe it had once been a banana) that Rory said we should eat so we could get drunk, Febrezed the hell out of the cab and the seats, and wiped clean any and all surfaces that we could even remotely come in contact with. After a night getting aired out, and half a can of the delicious Berries and Paradise Febreze, the truck no longer smelled like a mortuary covered in Brie, and we were set to go!

I-95, here we come!

Oh, and UHaul also conveniently forgot to give us a lock for the truck. Not like anything would've been stolen, because the door would've opened on the highway and we would've killed someone when my couch came flying out and onto their windshield, but we decided not to be charged with some degree of vehicular homicide and stop on our way out of town to pick up a heavy duty lock. $15 later (and half an hour, since I forgot my microwave and my mother had to come meet us at Lowe's to deliver it), we were on our way! We had a cooler of ice cold Diet Cokes and Coke Zeros between the seats, Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwiches in our bellies, and a shitty $9 shower radio to hang from the rear view mirror, since oh yeah, the radio didn't work. Until maybe 30 minutes on the road, which meant 1) it scared the fucking shit out of us, and 2) we were out $9 for a crappy shower radio that didn't even work, and wasn't even entirely water proof. Go figure.

Heinous death trap of a UHaul aside, we hit the open road gleefully, and actually made great time as we hurtled along 95 South, narrowly avoiding hitting cars that kept passing in front of us and insisting on going 25 mph on a 65 mph highway. I didn't even get my customary road rage, since I was filled with the happiness of the blacktop; there's something magical about road trips, especially when I have the power of a massive truck at my disposal.

We decided that next year, when Erin's tenure with The Feminists is up, and I'm in the process of probably moving onto a different job (considering my bosses know I'll be here for a year or two and then move more into my chosen field), we're going to have our very own Supernatural adventure and roam the midwest and the prairie lands, stopping at well known haunted locations and detailing our travels. We discussed inviting the Reds, but figured they'd probably kill us along the way and then take off with all our money (hahaha what money?!) so we decided we wouldn't put them through that ordeal. And maybe along the way, we'll meet Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki, and marry them. And by 'marry' I mean 'kidnap and make them our sex slaves.' God, Erin and I have some brilliant ideas.

Why is there a trail of cookies and softcore pornography leading to that abandoned warehouse?

We made it down to DC in about 9 hours (with breaks and gas stops included), and spent the rest of the night relaxing and watching Supernatural, since we can't stop ourselves. This morning I officially signed my lease (!!!!) and began moving some of my lighter belongings into the brand spankin' new apartment! It's small but cozy, lots of light and nice rugs, and a giant freaking walk in closet and bathroom area. All-in-all, I'm very pleased. Erin and I are going to unload the couch and my bed once we're out of work, since we both have to work today. Well, Erin has to go in for the full day, but I'm only in for a few hours since it's moving day and everything. Haha, Erin.

I shall update later with pictures and appropriate ramblings. I know you just can't wait.

"The Tudors" is French for "I Should Have Sex With JRM and Henry Cavill"

I should have sex with Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Henry Cavill.

I don't really mind the mechanics behind it; Jon first, then Henry, or Henry first, or both at the same time, or with Natalie Dormer who plays Anne cause she could join too, whatevs, as long as there's none of that chick who plays the Mary-Margaret hybrid, I'm set, cause she's too frail and I'd snap her in half. I'm very powerful in bed, or so I've been told.

The great thing about Showtime, and about The Tudors, is that everyone's either waging war or getting buck wild, and really, isn't that the only way to live your life? Why wouldn't you want to be slicing and dicing with one hand, and getting laid with the other?

Yeah baby, I'm totally kicking Spain's ass for you

Never mind that the show completely butchers the history behind the story. So what if Catherine of Aragon was only 6 years older than Henry, and not 15? So what if Mary Boleyn was mistress for at least a few years (and probably birthed two king spawns), not ten minutes? And so what if the entirety of Henry's courting of Anne and Wosley's downfall and death and the entire Mary-Margaret-hybrid-off-kilter-timeline were all completely screwed up?

I get to look at this every episode:

Yeaaaah boy!

History holds no meaning for me if all I get is a picture of a fat old man with red hair and four chins. Give me live action washboard abs any day of the week, my friend. That's the great thing about premium cable: no one cares about the validity of the story, as long as it's chock full of naked people, delicious fornication, gay scandals, and lots of violence and bloodshed. Thank god we have The Tudors OnDemand at Erin's.

Oh, and Days Till Halloween: 28

CVS, "Knocked Up" Enjoy Other People's Misery

Days till Halloween: 29

It would seem Murphy's Law of Customer Service has decided to latch itself onto me, much in the way a rabid dog latches it's teeth deep into your leg. My doctor called a prescription in to CVS yesterday around 11am, leaving a message on the pharmacist's voice mail that I had to have it filled and absolutely needed it by the end of the day - something totally par for the course, as my doctor often leaves messages, and the pharmacist checks them regularly and voila, you get your prescription in about an hour.

However, CVS thought it would be brilliant - when the regular pharmacist was out sick - to bring in some 100+ year old, Alzheimer's riddled, Spanish-only-speaking goblin creature to handle the high volume calls and patient numbers in the pharmacy. Which meant that when I went in, at 6pm (7 hours after calling the prescription in), they hadn't even checked the voice mail, and had - no lie - about 50 prescriptions waiting.

fandangled computers!

Usually I'm a pretty calm customer, but after waiting for over an hour - and not having anyone actually help me get anything accomplished - I started getting cranky. When I finally talked to gollum, he yelled at me because he hadn't done his job. Well, I told him! Not only did I cause a scene in the middle of CVS by screaming, but then I started bawling like a baby, and can you see why I need my prescription?? Without it, my hormones are completely insane. Like, way worse than usual - and that's horrifying.

Anyway, another day, another corporate headquarters to call and yell at (and probably sob at.) After the debacle, the Reds came over and brought Knocked Up, which I've been dying to see. I never got around to actually seeing it in the theaters (it was some combination of being a homeless nomad this summer, and, you know, having $1.64 in my bank account at any given time.) I was beside myself with joy that it was actually as funny as everyone had made it out to be. I laughed my ass off the entire time.

Until the birthing scene, that is. Now, when I was in the third grade, I stumbled upon a birthing exhibit with a group of friends when we got separated from the masses, and we watched, horrified, as a woman gave birth on a terrifically terrible video projection film. I think I blocked it out, because try as I might, my subconscious just can't conjure up the images (save for the sound of never ending screaming on behalf of the mother.) Luckily, Knocked Up decided to smack me in the face with the image, and reawaken all those horrible nightmares I had for months after witnessing the sight of a baby's head CROWNING THROUGH A WOMAN'S VAGINA.

That thing's supposed to come out of where?!

I feel you, Katherin Heigl! That look of horror on your face is echoed on my own, believe-you-me. When I saw that giant watermelon of a baby's head trying to force it's way out of a vaginal cavity roughly 57,000x smaller than it, I got sympathy pains so badly that I thought I was going into labor. God only knows what I would've birthed, but that's beside the point.

Real point is, Knocked Up teaches us some very priceless life lessons:

1. Smoking weed is good. Smoking weed is very good.
2. One night stands can lead to some very awkward moments.
3. Babies are like tanks bursting through tiny, delicate lace curtains. They will rip and tear and explode and my god, I think I'm going to be sick.

So there you have it. Smoke weed, try to think logically when attempting a very drunken one nigt stand, and whatever you do - for the love of god - don't ever, ever birth anything out of your vagina.

The Art of Seduction

I've been lucky enough in my time to have been seduced by some of the masters. My sex life is a tapestry, woven together with steamy nights, hot tub thrills, and multiple orgasms, the kind that comes from Cosmo articles claiming "Crazy ass moves he wants you to do to him there!" (No, seriously, that's on the cover of October's issue.) Take, for instance, a text message I received last night from a guy I've known for awhile now:

Hey, where did you guys go?
Girl i want to give you some sex
that will put me on the wall of fame!
I have always had a crush on you. Ha.

How am I supposed to resist this? I want to be given some sex by such a stud (ignore the question of "how does one give sex?") Ladies, this is what we've been looking for all along: someone that knows how to speak to us, with the right amount of charm, bravado, and sincerity.

What it all comes down to is that I've realized I am a magnet for these paragons of virtue and manliness. I must give off some kind of light - perhaps I am a beacon in the darkness, calling out to these men. I know you're all very jealous, and will try to prove that, in fact, I do not get all the good ones, but don't you worry - I've compiled a list of some questions I usually get from girls seething with jealousy, so have a look here now and stop yourself before you get too embarrassed:

"Hey, have you ever hooked up with a guy with a receding hairline in a bathroom after a hoe-down?" Yes, and it was so romantic.

"Hey, were you ever mauled by a Mormon who did lines of coke during a party you threw and kept asking if there were onomatopoeias in the stuffed shells he ate off your roommate's lap, before proceeding to fall asleep in said roommate's lap?" I was, indeed, lucky enough to have such a gentleman try to impress me in so many ways!

"Hey, have you ever had a Marine pee in your bed and then not remember the next morning, even though he woke up naked, wrapped in a pee-stained sheet in the hallway, then tried to convince you to go to ihop with him?" Oh, Sorbie...

As you can see, there's just nothing I can do to stop the onslaught. I mean the steady, happy stream of suitors. Who knows? Maybe next time I'll get lucky enough to get involved in a serious relationship with a guy that falls down every time he drinks, writes poetry on the starlight cafe, and cries like a baby over every little thing. Oh wait, I already did that! Man, am I on fire!"