May 6, 2010
I said I was going to write something yesterday, but as it turns out, yesterday is the day that my stomach decided to do some Spring Cleaning. I don’t know what happened, maybe my stomach has been watching Martha Stewart while I am asleep or something and it heard that now’s the time to purge, because that’s what it did, alright. Today I am okay, although I feel like I have a hangover. If there’s anything I hate more than a hangover, it’s having a hangover when there wasn’t even margaritas, beer, mystery shots, gays, drag queens, strange photos on my iPhone, or memory loss involved. And usually if your body decides to punish you by making you sick for no obvious reason, you can at least count on losing a few pounds to make it all worthwhile.
Last time I had food poisoning I lost eight pounds, and although sitting on the toilet with a bucket on your lap is not pretty, or fun, the eight pounds lighter aftermath definitely is. For about 48 hours I could even wear my skinny jeans!! But this time, the scale says I’ve gained three. Seriously? How is that even possible? I looked on Web MD and can’t find any sort of virus or bacterial infection that has those symptoms. As a matter of fact, when I type in “headache, backache, diarrhea, vomiting, weight gain and weird dreams about Bon Jovi,” it says “These symptoms, while possible separately, are in no way possible as a cohesive unit of illness, with the exception of vomiting and dreaming about Bon Jovi, which usually go hand-in-hand.” Web MD suggests that “you may want to contact the government’s Alien Abduction office, because we think that maybe you have been a test subject for some weird, green bulbous-headed extra terrestrials who like 80’s New Jersey hair bands.” Well, maybe it didn’t say that EXACTLY, but that is how I understood it anyway.
While I totally and completely believe that there are, indeed, aliens flying around up there, I really have my doubts that they chose me as a test subject. From what I understand, you only get chosen if you are (a) a male, (b) dropped out of school before the 8th grade, (c) are missing at least 4 teeth, (d) usually fail to put on a shirt except when it’s church goin’ time, (e) have a first name that either sounds like a nick-name (Cooter, Chicken or Buster), or is really two names (Bobby Joe, Billy Bob or Jimmy Ray), (f) drink actual moonshine, most-likely from a pickle jar, or (g) live in a town that has the words “Forge” or “Holler” in it’s name. Although I AM from Missouri and probably have relatives that fit some or, let’s face it, most of these criteria, I just don’t. While I honestly wouldn’t mind being an alien abductee (just as long as they’ve abandoned the anal probing part of the program), I really have my doubts that it’s gonna happen for me. But man, it would make a great blog.
If only I had Dr. Oz’s phone number. I would really love to ask him what’s wrong with me. That guy knows everything about everything that is body-related. I once heard him say that if you have cankles you were probably a whore in high school, and if your poop is black that means you’re gonna die in a boating accident at age forty-seven. Yes, I’m usually busy with after-school stuff while I half-listen and half-watch The Dr. Oz Show, but I heard what I heard. I am 100% positive that Dr. Oz could tell me what is going on here, but I am just a regular person and regular persons don’t have a direct-line to Oz. He is the most awesomest Dr. on the planet, but you only get to ask him something if you will agree to go on TV and ask him in front of millions of people, becoming, for the rest of your life, the person who went on national television and admitted she sticks junk food up her vajayjay while sleep-walking, or sometimes coughs up worms, or something equally as disturbing.
While I would be more than happy to tell his audience about my symptoms, I don’t think I would be deemed exciting enough to warrant a segment on his show. That is, unless I can find photos on my iPhone of an alien abduction. Maybe there’s a new breed of gay, drag queen aliens who for some reason like to listen to Bon Jovi. Maybe these new-age ET’s have different criteria for their abductees. Maybe instead of hill people they like suburban moms who write blogs because, like most club gays, they like attention. Maybe the drag queen aliens dressed me up like RuPaul and took some snapshots or (yes, please) video of their handiwork, while they pranced me around like a puppet dancing to “You Give Love A Bad Name.” And maybe, just maybe, the reason for the vomiting and weight gain is that they liked me so much they implanted me with a little gay alien drag queen baby. This explains alot. And Dr. Oz, you can suck it. I’m going straight to Oprah with this one.
*ALERT* I have been informed that my most favoritest high school teacher, Mrs. Zink, will now be reading my blog. This news is both exciting and uncomfortable at the same time. Mrs. Zink, I know you always loved me because you told me so many times. I also know that you knew that I was trouble and that secretly that is why you liked me so much. I want to thank you for teaching me so many important and useful things in your Home-Ec classes. I took every single class you had, and I learned lots, such as how to make a gingerbread house (the prettiest one), how to bake a cookie with a mini snickers bar inside (the tastiest one), how to sew an apron (ok, the most pathetic one), and how to be the orneriest kid in class while also being the teacher’s pet. These are gifts that I cherish. xxxooo
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