I wish I had the courage of a
Velvet to just lay it right out there and tell you what this picture means. I did confess it to a few people, but trust me, it was not me on my best behavior, and to waylay the obvious, "No, it was not me caving and eating junk food."
At the start of the New Year, I developed problems in both eyes. Minor problems that could have been dealt with, but when one eye started bleeding; "had" to be dealt with. I got through two weeks of that. Everything's fine. Just had my eyes reexamined this week, and the whole incident did not alter my vision. Clean bill. Then a few weeks back, at 3 a.m. and perfectly sober, but extremely tired, I fell on my stairs in my house when I went down to get a bottle of water. In twisting to break my fall, my ribs took the full impact of stair treads. I didn't think I had broke them, but when the pain increased, a doctor's visit and an x-ray revealed, "Hello. Broken rib." So I've been painfully recovering from that, and then this past weekend, the cold from hell that everyone's Uncle Tom, Dick and Harriet (we don't talk about him much) has finally landed on my doorstep. I shut down my blogging mode and went into retreat. Coughing and hacking hooey and rib equals weariness and ouch. A lot of ouch.
Yesterday I went out to do my advance work on a cocktail of the week (probably up by tomorrow,) and stopped by a market to buy exactly two things: Water. Tissue. I got into the express lane and waited and waited and waited. Twenty minutes. Three people in front of me. Sidecars and sickness make you do strange things.
I glanced over and saw this Enquirer in the stand by the register, and I thought about Britney Spears and how she is out there daily doing things that scream "Look at me." The crotch shots, the torn fishnet pole dances, the wreckless driving. The reported drug abuse. Ignoring her lobster burger while out to dinner with Pa, but making repeated trips to the bathroom. The reported child neglect and abuse. KFed wants her to see them. You take them. No, YOU take them. Studying the cover story and the raking over of "Kirstie's packaging on MORE pounds," I thought, "If Britney truly wanted to get the media squawking and on full blown out hysteria? She should get really, really, really fat." They may forgive her the weaknesses cited earlier, but getting fat? The last cultural taboo.
....and "no," the pastry shot has nothing to do with Kirstie's eating issues or Britney's road kill of a life. As I said, Sociopathy 101.
Labels: achoo., britney spears, cocktails, culture, fat, kirstie alley, scientologists are insane aren't they?, sociopathic behavior, tabloids
I went outside and saw another failed business. CheeZe Home. The owner/manager came outside, staring at me. I waved. He dialed on his cell phone. I walked to my car and got in. He acted like he was writing down my license plate number. I mean. Who am I? A retail spy for Stix N Stuff?
