Holy crap my brain just imploded.

I'm warning you, watch this video at your own risk. Fork in the garbage disposal? Lost contacts? A man named Kiki?

It is highly plausible that I am a gay man after watching this video.

I'm not saying Cloverfield, but I'm gonna have to say Cloverfield

Earlier today, I was tipped off about an incident that took place on Long Island this morning. Apparently, this thing washed up on a beach in Montauk:



Are you thinking "What the eff is that?" I am. And I've been staring at the photo for little over an hour. Oh, it's also 4:15 a.m. This is what I do when I can't sleep. I geek out about possible monster carcasses and blog.

So what do you think it is? Rumors are circulating that the creature is a dead dog. If this is the case, I don't ever want a dog. I would never be able to look at it the same way. And if the thing ever got pissed off at me, I would naturally assume it would take the form of whatever washed up on the beach at Montauk and eat my face off.

Others are saying that the monster is a turtle, minus the shell. If this is the case, I now understand why turtles have shells in the first place - they are uggo. Fuggo actually.

I'm going to go with the hypothesis that this is a retarded version of the monster from Cloverfield. Or maybe it's the baby of a bigger monster yet to come. All I know is this - monsters can read blogs so I'm obviously on the list of people to eat if this thing ever emerges from the ocean, I'm hightailing it overseas. They've dealt with Godzilla. They can certainly deal with this.

The meanest thing I've ever said is...

"Man, The Diary of Ann Frank doesn't hold a candle to Project Runway."

- Mary Ann, 2008

Nostalgia sucks.

While walking home tonight, an ex-boyfriend from four years ago wandered into my train of thought for no apparent reason. I was listening to the Beastie Boys on my iPod and the next thing I knew...BAM! There he was right in my stream of consciousness.

I got to thinking about heartbreak and what exactly constitutes a broken heart. This boyfriend in particular broke my heart. Matter of factly, he is the only one that has the privilege of earning that title. And man...did he break it good. Nice and good. He might as well have ripped out the organ like Robert De Niro did in "Frankenstein" while attacking Helena Bonham Carter's character. That's what it felt like at least (disclaimer: This boyfriend did not look like a gimped up Robert De Niro).

Anyway, when I got home I looked up "heartbreak" on Wikipedia. There is actually a pretty extensive entry on the subject. They even have a list of symptoms (I had 18 out of the 20 listed after the aforementioned break up):

A perceived tightness of the chest, similar to an anxiety attack
Stomach ache and/or loss of appetite
Partial or complete insomnia
Anger
Shock
Nostalgia
Apathy (loss of interest)
Feelings of loneliness
Feelings of hopelessness and despair
Loss of self-respect and/or self-esteem
Medical or psychological illness (e.g. depression)
Suicidal thoughts (in extreme cases)
Nausea
Denial
Fatigue
The thousand-yard stare
Constant or Frequent crying
A feeling of complete emptiness
Feelings of being sad
Feeling of emptiness

However, my point is this: Wikipedia does an excellent job of summing up heartbreak by pin pointing how much it sucks. Kudos Wikipedia. You've done it again.

This might be something to be concerned about.

I just walked three blocks and noticed that for the duration of the walk from the video store to the loft I'm sleeping in, I repeated the word "weiner" over and over again in my head. For the entire walk. Just the word "weiner".

Anybody know a good therapist?

Truf - If I don't have a boyfriend in six years, I'm moving to South America.

Apparently, white guys find me repulsive. But...the South American Latinos are all about it! In the past three weeks, I have been hit on by a total of eleven delivery boys. The latest incident was last night while taking the elevator up to a friend's apartment, a delivery man said the following:

"I. Do. Not. Speak. Much English. But. I have to say. You are beautiful. You have boyfriend? Manfriend?"

He actually said "manfriend." Melted my heart I tell you. However, he lost points with the pony tail he was sporting. I just can't handle long hair on the dudes. Also, I have a bit of doubt in regards to his sincerity - I was sweating like a pig and there is a good chance I had a case of the B.O.

Truf - The one day you don't live by the triple check rule when it comes to your fly being up...

...it will most definitely be down and it will take a man noticing your red undies and pointing out that your fly is indeed down for you to notice.

Normally, my routine consists of:

1. Pull pants up.
2. Button up.
3. Zip up.
4. Open bathroom door.
5. Recheck fly situation.
6. Wash hands.
7. Recheck fly situation.
8. Exit bathroom.
10. Recheck fly situation.

Dammit! The one day I skip steps #5, #7 and #10, I totally drop the ball. On a more positive note - the guy who pointed out my undies, well...I think we had a bonding moment. And not in a pervy way.

Sue Simmons - my new favorite news anchor.

For you New Yorkers, this is probably a bit old. However, I am still at the end of the Earth in the middle of nowhere and only heard of this yesterday. Please watch the following video clip:



I'm guessing you are probably thinking to yourselves that Sue Simmons is now my favorite news anchor. Well, you're right. Any women that curses like a sailor on live television earns my respect. And what a diva! What do you think Sue was swearing at? Leave your ideas in the comments section!

Truf - I have the same sense of humor as most 10 year old boys.

I noticed today that whenever I rub my hands together, for example, to warm them in cold weather, I can not avoid making farting noises. My hands are incapable of silently rubbing together. And do I laugh every time I hear said farting noise? Yes. Yes I do.

(rubbing hands together right :: now ::)

Challenge #1: Get Preggers People!

To my friends -

I'm not going to explain my intentions, but I have a plan. And I think once I tell you the reasoning behind it, you'll be pleased.

Go get pregnant. All of you. Don't have a boyfriend/girlfriend? I don't care! Get knocked up.

I'll explain everything later. At this point, I'm a little confused as to why you are still reading this blog instead of dropping your pants and getting it on.

Get. It. On. Do the nasty. You know what I mean.

Broken arms are like having a socially appropriate limp dick joke at the ready.

Last Thursday, I broke my arm. I wish I had an eyebrow raising story on how this happened, but the reality is that my tale is more of a mix of every first draft of a Woody Allen movie script ever written and hanging out with your grandma. This is how it happened:

I'm somewhat merrily leaving my annual optometrist appointment, learning that I don't need to change my eye glasses prescription (side note: why I was excited about this, I'm not too certain. Perhaps I'm either more easily excitable than I thought or possibly I have been suffering from a lack of excitement in my life.). It should be noted that my eyes were still slightly fuzzy from the eye drops my optometrist used during the exam, so the fact that I thought there was only one stair when in fact there were four stairs was not a huge mistake on my part. Also, the lobby was dimly lit, so there is a huge portion of society (mainly the over 70 or cataract-stricken crowd) that would have made the same faux pas. But alas, I went airborn and the next thing I know my chin is hitting the marble floor below and I'm somewhat dazed, but not dazed enough to where I couldn't manage to drop the f bomb a couple of times and roll over on my back. Besides the fact that my knees were already bruised and my wrist and chin hurt like hell, I wrote myself off as klutz and headed for the subway.

I noticed that the slightest nudge to my arm sent shockwaves into my body as my fellow passengers swayed with the flow of the moving subway car. But still, I thought, nothing is seriously hurt. By the time I got back to Williamsburg, I had decided that something was actually wrong with my arm, but at worst, it was a sprain. Then I tried to take my coat off. Now what can only be described as the most incredible pain you've ever felt but marginally better than what I imagine child birth to be like, I finally realized that my arm was seriously broken after trying to take my coat off. After successfully getting said coat off and realizing I could not properly extend my arm, I put said coat of painful death BACK on, called my roommate as I had no clue where a hospital was and after receiving his advice, headed back into the city to visit the Beth Israel Emergency Room on 1st Avenue and 16th Street. To make a long story short, I broke my arm at the radial head, which is just a fancy doctoral way of saying "Hey dumbass, you completely fucked your elbow."

For the past five days, I've had a splint and sling attached to my body. The sympathy was fun at first, but after you realize that going to the bathroom involves a 15 minute operation of knowing ahead of time that you have to pee so you have enough time to try to unbutton your jeans with only one hand AND THEN pull down your pants with only one hand, all the while trying not to jar your weak limb, you begin to think that the broken arm is the worst thing that has ever happened to you and must be punishment for calling that 10 year old girl on the show "Kid Nation" a cunt (She really IS a nasty bitch of a 10 year old! Watch the show once and you'll know what I mean!).

Yesterday, I had my first orthopedist appointment at Dr. Arscht's office in Union Square. One thing the receptionist doesn't tell you is that when you visit the office and are sitting in the waiting area, you have voluntarily entered the fourth circle of hell. Now I want you to imagine this: Think of every time you have ever gotten stuck behind an old person in line. It doesn't matter where - the movies, a fast food restaurant, a bank, where ever. Now think about how every action that is required of them takes at least 5 more minutes than it does anyone else on the planet. Also, I need you to envision how they ask questions about everything, even after being told for the hundredth time that yes, they can have a soda, but no, they have to fill up their cup themselves with the self-serve soda machine DIRECTLY behind them, and no, the soda machine is not over there it's OVER THERE, JUST TURN AROUND!. Now imagine taking those old people and giving them an injury that in some geriatric fantasy land means they can talk at a decibel normally reserved for sportscasters about how their bowel movements have never been the same since they broke X, Y, and Z. Now, I didn't go to medical school nor do I claim to be an expert in the field of human science, but I'm pretty confident when I say that a broken leg, elbow, hip, etc. DOES NOT effect your bowels and or their "movements." On the upside, I feel alot closer to Gloria of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn after over hearing the exact details of her bathroom habits for the past six months.

Lucklily for me, my diagnosis is better than Gloria's. To breeze over the subject, my bathroom habits remain unchanged (bonus!), and in even better news, I don't need cast. Now don't get me wrong, my arm is in a sad state of affairs but because the break involves the elbow, I must start physical therapy immediately to prevent a permanent loss of movement in my elbow. If you can see my sad, pathetically limp arm in person, you'll agree that you have seen better flexibility in your life. But hopefully, my crack team of physical therapists led by Esther will be able to get me in tip top shape again, or at least enough to where I can bend my arm without wincing. Also, expect a posting about me being hit by a bus in the coming weeks since I just dedicated an entire paragraph to ragging on old people.