my wheeze temple of steel

now liz has me wondering about something. does that EEE noise i make when i'm happy constitute a guinea pig sound? have i turned into a human guinea pig?!?! there is the case for it, based mostly on my crazy hair cowlicks - err, i mean rosettes - and an aptitude for choking on fresh vegetables until they hacked up into my sinuses and little bits fly out of my nose.

but on to more itching... just kidding! i'd hate to get more hate mail for making other people scratch themselves into anguish and scars. hehehehehe, ain't i a stinka?

there's just one thing on my egotistical mind tonight:
i feel pretty. in fact, i give you ALL permission to feel pretty. pretty like the kind where there's nothing special going on and your hair looks perfect because you have nowhere to go and it's the middle of the night anyway but who cares because you're effortlessly fabulous type of pretty.

have you ever just noticed your own butt and thought, "hell yes, i rock. look at my junk, baby," while craning to stare at it? so maybe it's another body part. maybe it's that bitchin' your fingers fan out to looks elegant. or it could be that you have the perfect feet with cute little toes. today i was sitting on the train when i reached over to scratch my arm and felt the most awesome tricep muscles ever. (without even bumping into my fishbelly arm flaps of waving flag fat!) strutting home was an exercise in kick ass posture. going up the stairs only served to tighten my buns of steel. today i had the body of a supermodel.

until i got home. my swollen feet and dewy tomato head gave way to a change of clothes and some blobbing around. the subsequent scarfing of unsalted cashew bits and cold sliced turkey while standing in front of an open refrigerator led me to believe that the victoria's secret models are in no danger of losing their jobs to me. on the other hand, i thought as i washed it all down with some grapefruit juice straight from the bottle while holding a spoon and thinking of taking a dip into the ice cream, so fucking what. no matter. i'm a supermodel.

watching cartoons as an adult is almost jolting. thanks to the replay button on the DVR thingy you can watch that funny bit a billion times in a row and then skip all the commercials. you can laugh out loud in the stooooopidest ways possible. you can giggle until you wheeze and no can say jack shit about shit. it's a liberating experience. tonight i laughed so hard (thank you for existing, bobby hill) that i think i broke my spleen. in the end when i was grabbing my side it occurred to me that cartoons are great exercise. perhaps i could use them as a kind of laughter pilates. hey you! check out my cartoon abs of steel.

i'm a fucking supermodel. with a sense of humor. and cashews. excuse me now, my fellow supermodels, but i have to go and stare at my butt now.

you look very very pretty tonight, sweetmeat.