August 9, 2011

Please excuse me while I go vomit/dry-heave some more.

The fact that I live in a split-level apartment and have to stagger back up the stairs after wasting all my energy down the toilet is infuriating.

I am counting down the days WITH FERVOR until I can go home and to my primary care physician and figure out what the fuck this nonsense is.

Why why why why why why why.


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Life Sick Vomit ERR'YWHUR Ugh

August 10, 2012

August 25, 2012

When I was 17 and my grandfather died, I discovered “Miami Ink” while I was down in Florida with my family, getting ready for the funeral. Now, if you’ve been reading long enough, you know I love two things in almost equal amounts: Jewish Israeli men, and Jason Statham. You put these two things together, and you end up with Ami James. At a tender, young, uninkable age, I decided then and there that Ami James would be the first man to ever penetrate me…with a tattoo gun needle. I figured that his overwhelming attractiveness would cancel out my fear of pain, and we’d promptly fall in love and live happily inked ever after, or something, and I’d get to admire his sleeves when they WEREN’T on the TLC channel. I had simple desires. That’s really all my young self wanted out of life for myself.

I’m bringing this up because as I was neatly projectile vomiting into a stainless steel trashcan in the middle of a busy tattoo parlor yesterday as the tattoo artist and his assistant were running around with juice and wiping the running sweat off of my exposed back and arms and panicking that I was about to pass out, I remembered this repressed teenage fantasy, and was promptly pleased as punch, even mid-puke, that I decided to stay local, cheap, not famous, and only relatively good-looking for my first tattoo, and bucked the fuck up. Because there’s something that tells me that watching me boot into yesterday’s trash would NOT have endeared me to Mr. James. Or anyone, for that matter. The shop assistant certainly wasn’t.

Such is life. Scratch that life goal off the list.


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