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Relationship Status Update and a Bug Bite On My Boob

Forty-two days ago I wrote a blog entry about being at the cusp of a new and healthy relationship..  It was basically my opportunity to tell the world, “Yes, I am capable of dating someone who does not shit the bed OR have stories about the time they underwent 72 hours of psychiatric evaluation.” It was like a breath of fresh air after two years in a closet with Carrot Top. I have a feeling he smells bad. I have no factual evidence to back this up.

Well, needless to say, that relationship dropped dead about a month ago and I haven’t gotten around to blogging about it. Not necessarily out of depression because it was a mutual decision, but because it seems like a weird thing to blog about. You know, like talking about my huge boobs or how I pee when I sneeze. Oh, wait…

We haven’t spoken at all since I ended it via text message (I should be shot). The thing is, Gerard (pseudonym) was a grand chap. We had a lot of fun together but unfortunately too little in common and too far of a distance to sustain. I think and hope we both agree on this.

So now I’ve been single for about a month. Unfortunately within that month my market value has depreciated. Though my body has begrudgingly surrendered five pounds to my slightly healthier eating habits, my overall body-bettering efforts have been lost.

I got a bug bite on my right boob.

At least I think it was a bug bite.

It was red, swollen, and looked like it may have been filled with pre-historic DNA. If that’s not a bug bite, I don’t know what is.

So naturally I assaulted it. I started to pinch it and squeeze it and treat it like a third nipple. But then it started bleeding so I put alcohol on it (terrible idea). Then it turned a weird white color. Then a few days later it was all red with a tiny scab on it. Now it looks like my gingerbread man mosquito bite scar from last summer which is only cute when it is not on my right boob.

So  basically I am single with a mangled breast which isn’t even a secret anymore because I’m posting it on my blog which happens to have an international audience, with highly judgmental feelings about breasts. And as an added bonus, I am apparently a bitch, as this conversation just went down on Facebook:

So who wants to be my friend???? Let me know so I can start devaluing your existence ASAP.

Love,

The girl who has spent her morning singing a country rendition of “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry

Gingerbread Scabs and My Fiery Displeasure with the Tennessee Heat

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. Pennsylvania is basically the deep south of the north. For this reason, one would assume my recent relocation to Tennessee would be as easy a transition as switching from regular to lite mayonnaise. But since I am alone in my insistence that regular mayonnaise is the only mayonnaise option and lite tastes like ground up rat testicles, I will also insist, that this transition has not been easy.

The move has been a welcoming experience at best, and a padlocked, electric fenced sauna at worst. Everyone here is nice. All the time. No really, ALL the time. Milfy grandmother types come out of the woodwork while I’m walking down the street just to compliment my outfit. Children say “sir” and “ma’am” to anyone over 3 feet tall. But most importantly, I have yet to see one of those hanging rubber ball sacks so many of my male peers attach to their rear bumpers, in their chivalrous attempts to attract wife material and settle down. Though I do expect a sighting any day now.

Gas prices are lower and Sabra Hummus is cheaper ($2.99/container, suck on that Mason Dixon Line!), so I’m sure you are wondering what could possibly be the problem with my newfound Utopian lifestyle. Allow me to explain.

Mosquitoes are a summertime staple, I get that. But in my first week in Tennessee I counted 726 separate Mosquitoes bites on my mangled body. Or something more realistic. The exact amount is unimportant. What matters it that it was an all around bad time. I itched, I scratched, I took steel wool to the calf, but nothing. There was no relief to be had. But on the upside my painful itching was met by adorable gingerbread-man shaped scabs. Could they be friendlier? Well sure. But more charming? I think not!

Aside from my new skin-dwelling companions, my only major issue has been dealing with the heat. The air is thick, the heat is palpable. There is no escape from the 100+ degree weather I am being so rudely subjected to. These conditions have inspired angst, suicidal thoughts, and the following poem.

Burning: My Fiery Displeasure with the Tennessee Heat

   By: The girl with sweat stained undergarments

I am burning

Every inch of my skin

Shriveled and red

From my three minute mailbox excursion

I am burning

Like the unfiltered urine

Of an actress in porn

After filming a twelve person orgy

I am burning

With the intense loathing I feel

For a heat no less brutal

Than a botched medieval abortion

I am burning

This seat buckle branding

Leaves permanent scars

I answer now only to “Ford”

I am burning

Leaving deep pools of sweat

On the leather car seats

Only Southern swamp ass destroys

I am burning

With regret as painful

And discomfort far exceeding

The chafed privates of a twelve year old boy

Despite my irrational sentiments, I have faith that over time either one of two things will happen. I will either:

A. Grow accustomed to these extreme conditions and later refer to this experience as a character-building tool much akin to walking 20 miles in the snow to get to school, or spending an afternoon watching Mob Wives.

B. Die

Here’s hoping for option A.

Love,

The girl with evaporated tears