Nipple.

I'm having a big titty week again. Sadly, big titty weeks only accentuate the lopsided nature of my boobies. Or, rather my scoliosis (sp?) that makes me a little crooked, which may cause the lopsided boobies. If you're a fan of "Arrested Development," and I hope you are, you're well aware of Kitty's titties, which, once enhanced . . .well, let's just say one nip was one place and the other was completely not on the same level. My boobies are much the same.

Onto more pressing issues. There has, it seems, been a rash of violence against children in New York as of late. Finger-pointing appears to be the MO . . is it the Administration of Child Service's fault? Parents are either beating their kids to death, or unwed mothers are allowing their boyfriends (not the fathers of their children) to abuse their kids or unwed mothers are allowing their children to starve or freeze to death. In one horrible instance cited recently from ten years ago, one drug addicted mother forced her beautiful little daughter to eat her own feces after starving her.

In the news, folks seem to be blaming the ACS. I think they're missing the mark a bit. Why not question why there are so many impoverished unwed mothers with so many children living in NYC? Why not, rather than point fingers and assign blame to public officials . . . question where the fathers of these children are? Why aren't the couples using condoms? What is to be gained by having unprotected sex and raising children without a father in New York City, one of the most expensive cities in the country? Why are we removing the onus of personal accountability from the mothers and fathers themselves? Why is it up to a public official to determine the welfare of our children? Use a condom or don't fuck. If you get knocked up, you have options: adoption, abortion . . . Why is the public so afraid to admit it? We have to address SEX. Having it, not having it, birth control, the risks . . . We have to address SELF-ESTEEM. Are these women scared of losing their men? Is that why they agree to unprotected sex? Why do these women stay with men who abuse them and their babies and then, after they're both convicted for killing a child, why does the woman forgive her man and profess her love for him after he killed her daughter (not his)? Why, after having one fatherless child, do some women go on to have another five, often with different men? Are they scared that they'll never get married? Do they feel so unloved that they need to keep having more babies to love them since their man has fled?

Are we scared that by bringing up these questions we might step into the murky dangerous waters of race and socioeconomics? Without investigating the root of the problem, we will continue to treat and bury its victims.

"The safe word is banana."

Wow, Family Guy is funny. I made Family Guy my myspace friend.

So, it has come to my attention that one of the stars of my first-ever produced play in NYC is a convict. Well, will be most likely. In a drunk driving hit and run, my 23-year-old acting school buddy killed a 25-year-old NYU grad student. He's being charged with vehicular manslaughter. It's very sad. He's very talented.

I recently took six, yes six, pairs of pants/jeans that I could wear this time last year and can no longer wear due to what I call "beer thighs" and hurriedly folded them and put them in a duffle bag with a sign "try me on . . on march 1. no cheating!" It is my hope that in the course of the coming weeks, I will be on my way to being able to zip them up. Then, in April, may be I can actually wear them without hurting myself or offending the eyes of others.

I've taken to wondering about the iPod. Has its ubiquitousness upset street-side hooligans, previously known for their "sssssssssssssssss"s and "hey baby"s and "smile, sweetheart"s and "ooh, i'd like to get with that"s? How much of the impetus for sidewalk threats found its base in a woman's actual response and how much of it was just instinct . . . rather than, "hey, hissing at women sure does seem to work. surely, if i continue to grunt at a woman she will most assuredly let me bend her over that bench and fill her with my massive manrod."

In other words, will the catcalling finally cease or have we just stopped hearing it?

If a tree falls in the woods . .

The Constant Flusher

I never thought it would happen. I swore up and down that I was against it. That it was unsanitary. Unnecessary. Unhealthy.

I have become . . . wait for it . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a bathroom reader.

A former co-worker of mine, a temp at the age of 52, the most uncouth slovenly creature you can imagine for multiple reasons, used to steal whatever newspaper he was too cheap to buy, tuck it under one flabby arm and shuffle off towards the men's room, yelling at himself (he was also insane). Should you interrupt him on the way, such an exchange was common:

"Hey Scott, oh, I'm sorry, you look like you're in a hurry -"

"Ts'alright. I'm just about to make a big stinky."

Ew. Ew. Ew.

However, I've taken to opening my mail on the can. (at home). I especially enjoy flipping through Time Out New York and making sure everyone I hate is a failure, that their names aren't in bold print anywhere. It's incredibly healthy, especially while taking a dump. But when you get in the habit of reading on the can and you go to dump outside of the home .. well, you can imagine. I sit there, in the office ladies room, a high traffic area to be sure, wishing for anything, even my wallet. I'd read old ATM receipts. I'd check the expiration dates on my credit cards, drivers license. I'd remind myself how to spell my name. I'm terrified enough as it is dumping in public and now, without the comfort of reading materials or the sense of accomplishment other than the dump itself . . . I'm absolutely stymied.

And I can't bring reading materials in with me. I work with girls who smell good. Who dress well. Who have shoes that make noise when they walk. Whose trousers respectfully hug their buttocks without looking office-inappropriate, a feat I've never managed to pull off. These girls frequent the gym. Their engagement rings twinkle in fluorescent light. I'm confident that they don't keep their underwear in an antique wooden milkcrate or have a broken vibrator that sounds like Gilbert Gottfried's voice upon use. These women actually buy new mascara every two months and moisturize everywhere everyday. Their hair is shiny, their lunches healthy and they have names like Jodi, Lia and Ashley. I cannot dump with an Ashley in a bathroom with me and I certainly can't enter or exit clutching this week's People to my not-as-perky-as-it-used-to-be bosom.

And so, in the workplace, I have become the constant flusher. If even so much as a silent one, which may or not ultimately be silent, hints at emission, I flush. And flush. And flush.

It's like a mouth full of joy!

It's hard to eat oatmeal when you really want some sausage. (hiyo!)

So, it's been a long time, no? Much has transpired, including my first sojourn to Boston which also included my first boxing match, Fight Club-style in a friend's kitchen (I beat the shit out of a chick named Raquel, who is not to be confused with the Cuban Cookie, my dad's girlfriend, although that would surely be a fine boxing title) as well as the near-promise of a promotion sometime within the next year, hopefully before I turn 30. Christ, I'm old. If I don't wear makeup, I look like Sarah Jessica Parker, aka fugly. Talk about a butterface. Oy. She does have hot-girl arms, though. Ho-basket.

My office's "break room" features a Starbucks machine; however, the coffee it produces tastes like dark, rich asswater. I drink it nonetheless. I hear water's healthier but who needs health when you're hungover? Not this girl.

There's a new invention out and you can find it, in some states, not all, in the vagina section of most drugstores. It's a vibrating cockring, made by Elexa (the female component of Trojan). I will not go into detail but could I put
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESDEARGODYESSSSSSSSSSSSSSFUCKYESSSSSSSSSSSSS
GIVEITTO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" into proper words, I would advertise this product via several media, including skywriting or some sort of happy-vagina-bat-signal to be seen across the globe. What does a smiling vagina look like anyway?