fupafighter

One Secret of the Universe Revealed

Finally an explanation why British people are so fucked up.

Where Credit Is Due

So I should've actually included this in my era defining inaugural address, however I just figured out how to make a word blue and have it connect to another page. The inadequacy of my tech jargon aside, the former obstacle was not due to my own retardation, but rather to the fact that you can't link things through Internet Explorer on a MAC (thanks again, crApple). Here's my chance on a PC, then, to pay gratitude where it is owed:

My friend very graciously helped me set this whole blog up after I relentlessly mocked her monthly for having one of her own. And even though it's easy enough for a 10 yr. old (2 yrs. old in some parts of Asia) to navigate, I needed someone to hold my hand and tell me that everything was gonna be okay. Which she indeed did, so you should check out her site, b/c unlike me every now and then she has something interesting to say, and when you least expect it, will pinch a mental and/or emotional equivalent of a calcified terd of wisdom. However, she sadly not only owns a T-shirt that has BLOGGER prominently displayed on the front, but has the dorkacity to wear it in public. Hmm, maybe one of these days I'll just fess-up and tell her that she can pull it off. Anyway, this is my long-winded "thank you."

A Word About Doctors

Those of you who have spent any amount of time with me in the past 2 months are well aware that I walk like a gimp. This is because though I have the mind of a 15 yr. old boy, I have the body of a 50 yr. old post-menopausal, pre-arthritic, in-full-swing-osteoporatic woman. I was quite certain yesterday morning when I visited Dr. Kastenbaum's office at Beth Israel Medical Center that I would be leaving with a new right hip by the afternoon. After a series of X-rays and sitting in a waiting room where I was well everyone else's junior by at least three decades, I had a pre-exam by some newbie Asian doctor who ran through a laundry list of possibilities of why I'm falling apart. His thoroughness and concern truly struck me, but I think what stood out the most was his final suggestion that I should also go get a gynecological exam.

Now hear me out, I'm no doctor, but what the hell does my vagina have to do with my hip? Does he think that my fallopian tubes have somehow miraculously wrapped around my hip flexors? Or is it just that I looked like such a dirty slut that day that he felt the need to make that suggestion in passing? In any case, when Dr. Kastenbaum finally did arrive and simply suggest an MRI and a shot in the side, I was pleased. I think this is where that fine line between "you're a good doctor" and "please stay the hell away from me" is delineated.

Nothing Good Can Come...

...of me going out on a Sunday night. This has been proven time and again, but it's that euphoric lure of socializing (and alcohol) and the attempt to spread the weekend as far as one can. Seriously though, am I alone here? What is up with the self-imposed torture of getting up Monday morning to go to work, sweating the prior night's misconduct? Or do I just seriousy have a problem? Damned rhetorical questions.

Brooklyn and Back (barely)

Last night I sucked up my upper-west-side snobbery and ventured into the outer burroughs. Okay, it was only Brooklyn (not like Staten Island or anything, b/c oh-mi-god that would be outlandish) and it was but one stop in off of the F train, but hey, I had my Let's Go guide out and everything.

There's a bar/restaurant there that I cannot recommend highly enough. It's called Superfine, and lemme tell ya, it was both super and fine...until the crowd started swaying. Oh wait, that was just me. This bar has the coolest space and friendliest (not to mention hot) staff. It was a fairly perfect evening, until MTA decided to run the C train express from 59th to 125th. Doesn't help if you live off 72nd. God bless the NYC subway system.

Morning Sickness

This morning on the subway platform I observed a rather unfortunate woman. Not only was she severely obese (and of course that immediately places her in the 'unfortunate' category) and flooding through all of her pores, but her right foot was stabilized in a brace that I've seen used only once before on an injured elephant at the Bronx zoo. I thought to myself, if I just pushed her in front of the next train, I might be doing her a favor. I realized then, though, that it wasn't her I wanted to hurl onto the tracks, it was actually myself. Silly me, I have to stop projecting my own self-loathing misery on others.

*Seriously, I wouldn't really throw myself in front of a subway train. I'd prefer a city bus, b/c it would be wah-hay more cinematic*

Inaugural Address

Just when you thought that the internet couldn't get more populated with stupid, inane websites, here I come along with a "blog." And who the hell came up with that word anyway? For me, a blog is the sound produced by vomit and severe intestinal trauma upon simultaneous impact. It's when you don't know who's talking faster, your ass or your esophagus. That's what the definition should be. However, since it's not, and since I really have no authority on the English language, I'll have to settle for vomiting my own nonesense onto typepad for the rest of the world to see and affectionately call it blogging. This is my gift that I give to you.

I can only promise to offend someone at some point and maybe incriminate myself (and more than likely others) during this process. And, if you do feel like you need to send some hatred my way, please refer yourselves to the original "Sample Post" on this site, b/c I wholeheartedly believe that it is true. Though not posted by my own hand, I'm keeping it to remind me (and everyone else) that said statement is the foundation of my existence. From now on, however, your collective IQ's will be slowly depleted.

Sample Post

Natalie is a big loser