Me, my drums and you

So, I've been watching a lot of movies lately. A lot of movies. Here are some gems that I recommend:

Unfaithful
High Art
Giant
Freaks


The first two contain very little dialogue and were shot beautifully. And the sex scenes you ask? Not too shabby. And High Art is about lesbians on drugs and was shot almost entirely in Williamsburg, NY. Giant is the epic starring James Dean, Liz Taylor and Rock Hudson. Freaks, starring real circus performers (not actors), will fuck your shit up. Bearded ladies, midgets, dwarfs, hermaphrodites . . . it is beyond disturbing. And quite brilliant.

I have a bad habit of ironing my clothes while I'm wearing them. Sitting at my computer, I stare down at the untoned flesh just above my left knee at the remains of last week's burn. It made sense to me at the time. I don't have an ironing board. And, I've seen costume designers do it. Yet, I suppose, their iron is more of a steamer and they're professionals and they're not wearing the clothes which require the ironing. I stand, half-asleep, just out of the shower, thinking, well, the front of my skirt is ironed rather nicely given the lack of ironing board, the back . . not so much, I'll just reach around and ow.ow.ow.

I've become deeply concerned about the roll of armpit flab I've developed. I'm confident I didn't have this roll as recently as last summer ... no, come to think of it, the roll began last summer. Now, the roll has come to fruition, to harvest in my armpit. I'm scared that once you have acquired the unfortunate armpit roll, you can't get rid of it. I tell myself that I've seen pregnant women with yoga arms and if they can have ripped arms, surely I can remedy this situation. I always told myself that no matter how dimpled and pasty my thighs became, I would at least have an attractive upper half. Now, I'm not so sure.

I've also been drinking a shocking amount of beer recently. The last year or so saw me blacking out repeatedly and making poor choices in terms of men and men-related activity. Hence, I've laid off the strong stuff and am only drinking beer and wine. I feel great about this decision but I have developed a bit of a paunch.

I'm going to shit, is what I'm saying, dear readers. The armpit flab leads to borderline BO. I attempt to cool down by drinking cold, delicious beer. Which makes me fatter and gives me more rolls in which to gather sweat and create additional borderline BO. Which makes me even more neurotic about my appearance and I iron my clothes while I'm wearing them. Surely, if my blouse is ironed, no one will notice the armpit roll just sneaking out of the sleeve.

Speaking of fat, I could really go for some sushi. But sushi is vaguely healthy, you say. But I love the philadelphia rolls: avacado, salmon, cream cheese nestled on a bed of white rice, dipped lovingly in sodium-laden soy sauce. Hmmm. Sodium.

One nice thing about the summer, besides iced coffee and pedicures, is that, if you lick someone's neck, it tastes like salt. It's sorta like doing part of a tequila shot. I like salt. Who needs a licking?