so the inflatable supermodels are playing next week and i want to go because being supportive is fun and i miss being a groupie. although i shudder to think what kind of ripping good time groupies the IS have already. but supportive you know. like a miracle bra. well, maybe not that supportive. those things make no sense, you know? ok maybe they do for small chested people, but drowning my face in my own cleavage hardly seems appealing to me. in fact it is possibly bad trailer trash taste. (why do we give trailer trash such a hard time?) besides, the myopic eye-opener of big-breasted-bouncing-babies in miracle bras there’s the cyst element to consider. because, ouchie. although at the same time that one cyst i had freshmen year in my elbow was the fucking coolest thing i’ve ever seen growing out of my own skin. it was the size of a golfball! and squishy! oh disgusting. plus it involved one of the most horrific doctor’s phrases of all (my) time, “well, about this, we can stick and suck it. that involves sticking it with a big needle and sucking out the pus.” although the procedure was tempting i decided that giving up the fascination of watching golfball-sized ligament issues was too great. it went away on its own anyway.
i’m kind of gross deep down you know. not even all that deep really (skin-deep. ho ho ho. ba-dum-ching.) i was actually kind of bitter in high school when scott harshman won the gutter-mind prize at that senior brunch thing. i could be so much dirtier than him.
P.S. sean- i know what you said about the rectum and everything. but then i was just kind of blurting things out this morning and…, yeah.