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I remember running into people in the elevator of the building that houses the Time Out NEw York offices and they recognized me from TV and were surprised that I actually had to work real office hours, as if all I did to earn the small bucks was wake up early and go on TV. They were savvy.

I just walked past a guy who was saying “no worries” so many times in the course of his conversation I wanted to stop him and ask if there were any worries.

Wendy sent me this. Looks like I’m falling down on my own self-googling or else I surely would have found it myself!

In New York, white nose syndrome means something else.

I just want to clarify something in the below post. When I say my fingertips are like baby asses, I mean the unchafed butts of babies, not young donkeys, although if they were like baby donkeys, that would be so cute!

Also, is The Hills Lauren Conrad on drugs? This is the second season where, when she makes flirty eyes at some guy, I want to throw a shoe at the television and then take a shower. If I were the guy on the receiving end of that uncomfortable unblinking stare plus shoulder shrug plus strange palsy/shimmy, I would make my way to the exit, and yet they don’t. Maybe the camera adds ten… times the embarrassment by proxy?

And finally, I figured out the way to enjoy the low-sodium miso soup mix from a few blog posts ago: Eat it plain, resulting in a very salty, powdery 25 calorie snack. Like a soy sauce flavored pixie stick with crunchy crap in it.

I played guitar three weeks ago, which was surprisingly painful, though fun, since the calluses that I once had were long gone and instead my fingers were like ten little baby asses, and my wrist like some kind of weak little unborn bird—like the consistency of the beak of an unhatched chicken—anyway, have I made you barf yet? I can keep going.

So what’s weird is that my fingertips are just now—three weeks later–starting to peel, which is phase one of the calluses. Well actually, it’s phase two. Phase one is pain. It’s like I applied Rogaine to my fingertips, which I didn’t, and the tissue is sloughing slowly.

If anyone would like a piece of fingertip skin, please write an essay detailing why and put it in a bottle and throw it in the ocean. I’m curious to see whether that form of communication works.

His name is Charles Chips. http://www.bissell.com/redirect.asp?page_id=47167&Pet=787

Blogfans, because I got called out for it today, I just wanted to take this special moment to tell you, my special and extremely attractive readers, that when I post stories I wrote a long time ago it isn’t because I’m lazy and sitting there thinking “I don’t have anything to post, I know! I’ll post something old!”

It’s that I’ve been going back and reading stuff I wrote from the OC Weekly because, if you must know, I’m trying to see if there’s a book in that old stuff, and anyway, unless you happened to be reading the OC Weekly 8 or 9 years ago, I assume this is new to you, and if you are a fan of mine which you so certainly should be if you’re still reading this piffle, then I assume you would want to read the stuff that I personally think is probably better than a lot of what followed, or if not better than at least on par with. I mean, when you love someone, as you do me (right? RIGHT?!?!?!?!?!) then you love everything about them unconditionally. The way I burp in my sleep, the way I’m covered with pustules, the way I use my uterus as a weapon (I throw it at people) and my penchant for posting old stories. These things make me human. Hence, when I serve up a story from 9 years ago you should just be happy that I have a tenuous grasp on math because it’s occurring to me that I really mean 8 years ago. What? I don’t know. I don’t really sleep-burp. I do like Facts of Life though.

Do I make you laugh? Is this funny to you? Do you find me humorous or perhaps humourous, if you’re ‘across the pond’? Because I assure you that is not my intention. I’m trying to communicate my deep psychic wounds, people. I am serious as a heart attack. Okay, maybe not that serious, but certainly on the level of acid reflux, which many people mistake for a heart attack. It’s tough to tell the difference, you know. So what I’m saying is that I’m serious as GERD, which is no laughing matter, so if you find yourself laughing at my blog it’s probably because you have no empathy and you yourself have never experienced the kind of heartburn you get after a night of drinking 151 and hanging out with cheap whores and smoking cigars and wearing clown suits. No, I have never done such things and I thank you to keep your assumptions to yourself. When you make an assumption you make an ass out of you and mption.

Anyway, I guess I just wanted to set the record straight. The echoes of jackhammers are still in my head. The faint insanity-producing drone. Oh: here’s a list! A list of things I’m not in!

Things I’m not currently “in”:

quicksand
a quagmire
“style,” more or less
a good mood
a pickle
a tar pit
a sports arena
the desert
a good place vis a vis myself and the universe
a time machine
a phase of my life where I care to eat Borscht
an airplane
the running to become America’s Next Top Model
“the money”
“the pink”
“the red”
my blue period