The cough that killed me...

Every now and again, I take what I learned in journal writing(basically, you know, how to write in a journal) and I chronicle important events in my life. Here's an excerpt taken from my journal that I wrote the last couple of weeks. Enjoy!

Journal Entry #1:
I've been noticing a little tickle in my throat today. It's not too bad, probably nothing to worry about. Maybe I should double up on my Vitamin C intake...which basically means I should actually intake some Vitamin C. That will surely nip it in the bud.

Journal Entry #2:
It's 2 days before Amber's wedding, the tickle is nowhere to be found. I nailed that throat ticklin little effer...sayanora, sweetheart! PS...my rack looks great in the bridesmaid's dress.

Journal Entry #3:
Amber's big day...felt a little tickle this morning, maybe I celebrated prematurely. I'm gonna drink lots of fluids(and eat a Choco Taco) before the wedding. Due to the slightness of the throat tickle, I'm really not that worried. I'll be sure to suck on some Ricola's, it's probably just dry because of all the talking I've been doing...and the screaming and celebrating and drinking I did when the Cubs clinched last night, but seriously...not that worried.

Journal Entry #4:
Okay, so the tickle brought his stupid, ugly, big-brother Hacker yesterday...and right in the middle of Amber's wedding! So embarrassed, right when we were having a moment of silence for the loved ones we've lost, and then again during the vows! I could just kill that jackass Hacker! I'm hoping no one but me noticed, but I bet you can hear it on the video. Of course, once the ceremony was over, Hacker was nowhere to be found(probably gorged himself on the delicious buffet, abused the open bar and went home, asshole), and the tickle made itself scarce as well. Oh well, everyone seemed to have fun, and no one said anything about me ruining the wedding, with my coughing, so I guess I'm in the clear. Haven't heard from the tickle or Hacker in hours, but I'm taking some cold precautions, just in case...Emergen-C, Airborne, Ricola, I'm well equipped...

Journal Entry #5:
I spoke too soon. The tickle came for an extended visit last night, along with Hacker, and they were here this morning when I woke up. They actually woke me up. I'm starting to get nervous. They might be stronger than I thought. More of the same today with the cold precautions, but I'm losing my confidence in them.

Journal Entry #7:
It has been days since my last journal entry. I have been unable to write due to the throat shredding coughs that have been racking my body and clouding my vision. They come quickly, right on top of one another, like waves in a typhoon. The coughs have been unproductive, no mucus to speak of, they just rip at my throat and make my eyes water. My chest has weakened, it strains with every choking cough, the muscles are pulling and causing my shoulders to cave in. I look years older than I did just days ago. Sleep has been sparse, I'm up every hour for 10 rounds with Hacker. By the time my eyes begin to close, he pummels me again. I've resorted to sleeping with a medicated Halls tucked into my cheek, and Robitussin next to the bed. I have slathered every inch of my chest, throat and nose with Vick's Vapo Rub, staining my pajamas and sheets. I have been consuming gallons of water a day, still I'm dehydrated, still my throat is dry, and still the coughs are producing nothing but misery. Do not take the tickle and Hacker lightly, they mean business.

Journal Entry #8:
This may be the last journal entry I write in this lifetime. I'm not sure if I'll ever see any of you again, and if I don't, well...we've had a good run. The devil has invaded my chest cavity with his demon spawn. With each cough, he punches at my sternum, hoping to break free and unleash hell on earth. I'm not sure how much longer my ribs and collarbone can withstand the pressure of the internal earthquake he is producing. I've tried to fight it, but the muscles in my entire body have now weakened, my spine is beginning to curl into itself due to my inability to stand straight, and energy is something I no longer possess. My head sits at an awkward angle, as I am too weak to hold it up. I can't remember the last time I uttered words aloud, or walked in a straight line. Sleep deprivation has caused hallucinations, bloodshot eyes, and blinding headaches. The previously unproductive coughs have now begun to produce a mucus the color of Ecto-cooler, but not nearly as sweet. I worry that I will no longer be able to control bodily function when my body gets taken over by a bone-rattling cough, and I will be found face first on the bathroom floor in my own filth. I cannot keep living like this. I fear that exorcism might be the only way to rid my body of this demon, as modern medicine is clearly no match for the ancient evil that invades my chest and threatens to destroy me. If my time has indeed come, then I hope that my journal entries will save some other poor soul from suffering a similar fate. As I write this line, I can feel the demon gathering strength for another attempt at freedom. He's laughing...I'm not sure I can hold him down this time...I'm too weak. He has made his way to my throat...the gurgling has started to creep from my lips...he is unleashing a cough from the bowels of my soul that might have the power to destroy a small village...good bye, my friends...I will miss you...think of me as I was in my youth, and not as this battered, beaten, bronchial mess I've become...

Journal Entry #9:
I write to you from beyond the grave. Well, not really, I'm writing from Milwaukee, and feeling much better. Turns out, it was nothing a little Jim Beam and NyQuil couldn't fix...cures what ails ya!

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet...

I often wonder why disgusting things were given disgusting names. It makes having those disgusting things all the more disgusting, and when you're battling a bout of diarrhea, you really don't need to feel any more disgusting, but you do because when someone asks you "what's wrong, why aren't you coming to the bar?" you have to utter the word "diarrhea" which makes you feel...disgusting. I mean, if diarrhea were called "flower water", would we feel as gross telling people we had it? I think not..."Sorry, old chum, I won't be able to join you at the pub for a pint this fine evening. I'm battling some flower water. Cheerio!"(for some reason, I feel like that sentence would be uttered w/ a British accent. Not sure why) And I know that people have tried to come up with funny/less disgusting words for diarrhea, Green Apple Two Step, the Trots(always enters my mind when I'm riding a horse and it begins to trot, which is not that often but still), Hershey Squirts, Bud Mud...but none of them are pretty phrases. The best of the bunch is Green Apple Two Step, but I'm not sure I know what that even means. I bet it has something to do with what happens if you eat too many green apples. But then, at least in my case, you could also call it "Green Salad Two Step"...or "Leafy Green Lambada"...okay, I've said too much.

Anypickle, there are so many things that, if called by a different name, wouldn't make us feel so oogy. Like if "warts" and "boils" were called "mulberries" and "drum rolls", " toe fungus" was called "lace undergarments", "scabies" was called "caramel", "cellulite" was called "leiderhosen", "bacterial vaginosis" was called "lavender mist"...okay, I've said too much again...I apologize.

I, my friends, am going to start to calling these things by their prettier names. And if you've read this boog, you'll know what I'm talking about. Oh, and a bit of advice, if you hear me utter the phrase "flower water", get out of my way...

What are some disgusting words you wish had a different name? Feel free to weigh in...

Going "post"al...

Listen up, people, I have something I need to get off my chest...and no it's not my bra, scumbags...I effing hate Post-It Notes. That's right, I hate Post-It Notes and I'm not ashamed to admit it! Sure, they come off all innocent and cute with their pinks and blues and yellows. Hell, they even make you think they're helpful, they have a compact shape and a gummy residue that's good for stickin, but that's a bunch of malarkey, if you ask me. Let me break it down for you...

Okay, so the Post-It seems like a good idea at first...you answer the telly in your office, it's for a co-worker who happens to be tied up(not literally unless you work for an S and M mag), you offer voicemail, the person on the phone is suspicious of voicemail(this happens to me every day and will probably soon be the subject of a boog), you offer to take the message manually, you dig up a Post-It pad, scribble down the info, pull the note off the pad and stick it somewhere so that you'll be sure to see it, therefore remembering to tell your tied-up co-worker. And no, smart asses, you don't bring it over to the other person's desk, you are in the middle of something...and yes, checking Facebook is something! Plus, it's their message, they can haul their cookies the 27 steps over to your desk and retrieve it themselves. You might be a message service, but you sure as shit ain't no delivery service...oh snap! Anycheeto, 15 minutes go by(it takes that long to untie someone usually) and your co-worker is no longer tied up...and you no longer remember that you took a message. Your memory is jogged 20 minutes later, when you decide to "post" a boog...you say to your co-worker "Oh crap, I have a message for you...it's from...shit...crap...it's from...shit...no, not really, stop making me laugh I'm trying to find your message! Dammit, it was, oh jeez that lady, with the talking, you know, she says words...and talks...come on, you know who I'm talking about!" and while your bumbling your way through your self-induced office charades, you're frantically searching for the Post-It that you put in a place where you'd be sure to see it. Only by this time, the first layer of gummy has faded enough for it to fall, and in all your desk rustling, the Post-It has affixed itself to bottom of your keyboard somehow, only you don't know it because how the eff would a Post-It get under your keyboard, right? So there you sit, scurrying around your desk like Choco the hamster(R.I.P. buddy!), clawing at papers, inadvertently shredding them into a desk-nest while in search of the rogue Post-It. Your co-worker, no longer amused since this has been going on for a half hour, is now standing over you and she starts naming people it could have been. This only causes more panic, you start opening drawers, flinging files about, you rip through your garbage can as if you accidentally chucked your grillz in there(what, grillz aren't appropriate work-wear? well no one told me!), you stand up, hoping the birds-eye view will help you spot the Post-It, but no...it's nowhere to be found. Your co-worker has now resigned herself to the fact that you may never find it and is hoping the person will call back. Defeated, you sit down, wipe the sweat from your brow, put your shirt back on, take a drink of water, grab a couple Advil with shaky hands, but you drop the Advil...one rolls under your keyboard and...eureka...the Post-It has been spotted! You yelp with glee to your co-worker, waving the Post-It about and in your exuberance, you knock the other Advil to the floor. You push back your chair to get it, it's too far underneath the desk, you have to Army crawl, you come up triumphant with the Advil...but where the f*ck is the Post-It now? Somehow, it's on your back, only you don't know it because who can see their own back? No one, that's who! And you don't know that it's on your back until you leave to go to the bathroom 2 hours later and someone goes "What's on your back? Hey, that looks like a Post-It Note!", but you're not happy about it because by this time your co-worker has already missed the chance to go see a free showing of "The Women" because that's what the call was about and no matter how many times you tell her that you heard that movie sucks she doesn't care, because free is free.

Okay, so that last part about "The Women" didn't really happen, and I might be exaggerating a smidge, but you get the idea. Those friggin Post-Its get stuck in the damndest places, onto papers, the front of my desk, onto my Binaca, in Whitey's butt, and wouldn't you know I almost faceplanted into the printer when one latched onto the bottom of my flip flop. And, no lie, I have had Post-It Notes stuck on almost every part of my body, my hair, my back, my elbows, my leg...hell, if I were ever inclined to sit at work nakey, I would have really had Post-Its stuck on every part of my body...hey oh!

Maybe it's just me who has these troubles with Post-Its...maybe I'm the only one with a stack of Post-Its thick enough to hold a window up...or prop a door open...or be used a booster seat for a wee child in place of a phone book...okay, that's probably stretching it. But if it is just me, then maybe it's time to go back to my old high-school note taking standard...on my hands...in ink or permanent marker...how very professional of me!

Hold me, Heidi...

I don't know about the rest of you, but I woke up pissed this morning after witnessing the terrible decision made by certain judging members of a certain television program of which I am highly in love with, even though I question judging decisions on said television program quite frequently. I normally justify my differing opinion with one simple phrase said out loud to myself, and it comforts me when I feel a designer has been wrongly booted..."Meta, you know shit about fashion, so shut your face hole". This time, that justification ain't chicken-noodle-souping me at all.

The "auf weidersehen-ing" of Terri from last night's Project Runway has got me fit to be tied. There is no way in hell that Suede's "Genie-in-a-bottle-butterfly-in-desperate-need-of-an-iron" pajama suit was better than Terri's "costume-y" design. And how dare Michael "Hi guys" Kors say that Terri has questionable taste? Has Micheal seen Suede? His designs? Heard him speak in the 3rd person? Talk about questionable taste, Sue-dud has none. And don't even get me started on Kenley's hein-as-hell-who-knows-what. Based on that piece alone, she should have been the one giving Heidi a kiss on each cheek as she tried to thank them for the opportunity without losing her shit in a sobfest.

And the worst part about all of this? The fact that my obsessive over-thinking about PR spilled into my dream, causing me to be hanging out with Michael Kors and a bunch of models(not cute ones though) in a bar at a museum behind a Liberace display...don't ask. You know what that ass said to me in my dream(Michael Kors, not Liberace)? He said that of all the plus-size models, I had the nicest hair because it wasn't crunchy like the other big girls. In the dream I was flattered that Michael Kors wanted to be fondling my non-crunchy hair(not to mention happy that I was a plus-size model who clearly was in some sort of model competition, perhaps a carry over from my other obsession, America's Next Top Model), but when I woke up, I remembered that I was mad at him, and any nice feelings from my dream went the way of the dodo bird.

So wait, what was I talking about? Sorry, I got off on that tangent and now I'll have to find my way back. Okay, let me reverse...beep...beep...beep...plus-size Meta model, Liberace, mad at Michael Kors, hate Suede...here we go, so yeah, I'm pissed about Terri getting Das Boot from Pwoject Wunway. If it wasn't for hottie Heidi Klum, I would stage a protest...which would consist of me sitting, arms crossed, brow furrowed, television tuned to some other channel between 8pm and 9pm on Wednesday night...take that PR!!!!

I'd take that out of there if I was you...

So I have this plastic polar bear on my desk that sh*ts jelly beans when you press his butt...or he sh*ts M&M's if that's what you choose to reload him with once you've eaten all the jelly beans...which I have. He came to me courtesy of my friend Gail, who knows that I'm an immature fool who gets a kick out of poop and things that poop and farts and things that fart etc. No one can tell me I don't play to the highest level of intelligence when it comes to laughter! Anynipple, I was playing with my polar bear(we'll call him Whitey) the other day while on hold with a computer, oddly enough, trying to fix my computer. Initially, I was seeing how fast I could make him poop M&M's, and of course I would giggle every time a blue one came out, cuz who poops blue? Ooh, maybe polar bears do and that's why their swimming water at the zoo is so blue...eh, whatever. So the rapid-fire poop kept me entertained for a wee while. Then I was seeing what other objects Whitey would deuce...paper clips, a penny, a wrapped Ricola...slightly boring because Whitey is kind of stubborn and wouldn't poop them as easily. Maybe they were rough on his bowels, but I doubt it, he's plastic. After that I was just kind of fiddling around, not paying attention to what I was doing, I looked down and there was my index finger...right up Whitey's butt. This caused hilarious laughter by me, because really, what's funnier than having your finger in a polar bear's butt, right? I can tell you what's not funnier...your finger in an actual living breathing polar bear's butt. You would not get away without a few scratches. In fact, if you walked up to Joe Polar Bear and shoved your digit up there, you can bet your finger-in-his-a** that he would eat you and your butt-probing self for dinner. A little advice: if your going to stick your finger in a bear's butt, make sure he's plastic...or Whitey...cuz Whitey likes it.

Come on in! I'm naked, but I don't care if you don't...

This morning, as I stood in my bathroom wearing only a birthday suit(unfort it was my birthday suit and not Heidi Klum's), I was faced with one of my worst fears. I had just hung my towel up behind the door when I heard a key rattling around my front door. There I was, in all of my naked glory, bathroom door wide open, and someone was coming into my house...**GASP**... the cleaning lady! I had been living with a fear of her busting in while I was traipsing around nakey for like 2 months, because for some reason, she was no longer telling us when she was coming or what time. Luckily, I have cat-like reflexes and I scooted quickly into my bedroom before she could see me. I was moving so fast that if she caught a glimpse, she would have just thought it was a speedy albino manatee...okay so those don't exist, but I'm sure that's what I looked like as I sprinted the 4 feet from my bathroom to my bedroom. As I wiggled and jiggled my way into safety, I screamed "Hi Mariya, I'm just getting dressed" to which she replied "Hello, I come early"...yeah, no sh*t, Mariya...you come WAY early...you should count your blessings that you didn't make the mistake of coming even earlier, although that's a mistake you wouldn't make twice.

For those of you who have seen my condo, you're probably wondering why we have a cleaning lady, and after my naked encounter today, I'm wondering myself. But I know I'll get home tonight, smell the Mr. Clean, run my hands along my sparkling counters, eat a gummy bear off my shiny floor, lick the bottom of my uber-spotless tub, and realize that being naked in front of a Russian woman is a small price to pay for a clean condo...