YOU’RE FREE TO TAKE YOUR CONVERSATION OUTSIDE!!!

One would think that writing a recap of my time in Chicago would be Real Simple, but that has not been the case.
Because my life is complicated (and by “complicated” I mean the complete opposite of “Real Simple”.)
Hopefully I’ll have something up by tomorrow (as if anyone will still care by then. Please? Still care.) and then we can all move on to more important stories, like, The Crazy Old Lady Who is Stalking Me and Who Banged on My Window Today.
.

My son just asked me what we were having for dinner and I said “Chicken Vaginas”. I blame Blogher.

There are about a million things I want to write about my time in Chicago at BlogHer–and with the exception of ONE thing, they are all good. And I will write those things, as soon as my children stop making me pay for leaving them for 4 days and my neck stops punishing me for not taking my meds so that I could have “a drink.”
Until that happens, I’ll leave you with a picture that pretty much sums up how much damn fun that I had while I was there.
How to throw a hotel party, by Me
I’m telling you, if you ever need (hotel room) party planner, I’m your girl.
(P.S. Anyone who has pictures from the 2603 party, I’d really appreciate if you can send them to me.)
(P.S.S. If you were there and I didn’t get a chance to say hi, because there were 203590 people there, please say hi now. And no thanks are necessary for The Burger. HA HA.)

Oh Universe, Why Do You Hate Me?

Last night I was frantically searching the racks of Old Navy for something, ANYTHING to wear to Chicago, when my phone rang at 8:45pm.
It was my doctor.
Results for the MRI came in and well, not what I wanted to hear.
I have two (TWO!) bulging disks in my neck and some other stuff that I didn’t understand because I was too busy listening to words like “pain for a long time” and “appointment with a neurosurgeon.”
Normally, bulging disks are not a problem, they only become a problem when they “something about entering the spinal canal and pressing on the spinal cord or something like that because OH MY GOD MY DISKS ARE BULGING.”
My doctor said that 90% of these cases work themselves out, if I’m willing to deal with the pain. The horrifying, unbearable pain. But, he wants to send me to see a neurosurgeon for an “opinion.”
I’m a little confused, as in my research I have seen that a bulging disk should NEVER require surgery. So, are they bulging or herniated? I’m sending him a message to have him clarify.
I’ve already made the mistake of researching BULGING DISK (which, I have two! TWO!) Dudes—there are support groups for this and OH MY GOD, people are in pain all of the time and have been in pain for 18 months! And their faces are numb!
I was truly hoping that the MRI would come back normal, because the thought of living with this kind of pain makes me want to fall on the floor and beg God for answers.
“Why me, God? Whhhhhyyyyyyyyy?”
The good news is that the pain, while still intense, IS getting better. There are actually moments where I feel almost normal, but if I sit too long, or if I jump up to scream at a ref at my son’s basketball game, it goes to HELL and I’m all “When can I take my next vicodin again?”
I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m pretty sure I know exactly how this happened.
A few weeks back, I decided to take up an offer for a “free trial workout” with a trainer on a new piece of equipment that they recently added to The All Wimmin’s Gym. I was all “This is the answer to my problems! This will help me get jump start my body and lose weight!”
I had no idea these were GROUP classes and because I am probably the most competitive person you will ever meet, I went BALLS OUT during the workout. No way in hell was I going to let the other wimmins (who were are older than me, but way more in shape) make me look bad. I was going to pull my entire body up and down with my out of shape arms if it killed me (or made my disks bulge!) A couple days later is when the pain started, but I thought I was just “sore” from the Free Workout, so I kept going to the gym and doing things like “lifting weights.”
(OMG! I was lifting weight with a BULGING DISK! I could have paralyzed ma’self!)
Anyway. I would suggest if you ever get a chance to use one of those machines, don’t be a jackass like me. Go at your own pace and if something does feel right… STOP. Seriously.
I’m waiting for the appointment with the neurosurgeon, but I can already tell you that surgery will only happen if they say I will die without it. Because um, I was afraid to get epidurals, do you really think I will voluntarily put a knife anywhere NEAR my spinal cord? And, besides, I just read a precious piece of information that said risks include “paralysis and death.”
PASS.
In other news, I started my period today.
And I broke out in zits on my shoulders, in my CLEAVAGE, on my neck and also on my face.
Just in time for my trip to Chicago.
But hey, at least I’m not pregnant and my Bulging Disks are really happy about that.

Life Changing Words

This morning I read something that has shaken me to the core of my being.
I was reading a post at Blogher by Denise on a book titled “Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters.”
This subject is near and dear to my heart, because I am a mother to a daughter and I am a woman who has spent the majority of her life hating (not feeling comfortable with) her body.
The last line of her post knocked the wind out of me and I’ve been crying every since I read it.

More than 1/2 of American women 18-25 would prefer to be run over by a truck or die young than be fat. More than 2/3 would rather be mean or stupid than be fat.
Would you rather be mean or stupid than fat? And what, exactly, is “fat”? 5lbs overweight? 50lbs? At what point would you rather be dead… if you’re a mom – at what point would your daughter want to be dead? Have you asked her?

It is quite possible that those words–that ONE question– has forever changed me.
I want desperately to put into words WHY it has affected me so deeply, but I’m having a hard time doing that.

Perhaps the answer is really as simple as this: “I don’t ever want my daughter to feel the way that I have felt for most of my adult life about my body.”

I may not have ever wished to be dead rather than fat, but in so many ways, I have been dead. I’ve locked myself in my house, I’ve avoided people that I love, I’ve stayed home from celebrations like weddings and birthday parties and turned down invitations to nights out with friends because I was too ashamed to be seen in public as a fat person/

I wasn’t always overweight but I felt shame about the way that I look. But now I AM fat and I struggle to come to terms with this body.

I hate it.

I will always hate being fat. I am uncomfortable. I hate that my thighs rub together when I walk. I hate that I can feel my belly hanging when I sit down. I hate that I can see lumps in my arms when I look in the mirror.

But does that have to mean that I hate who I am? And that I have to walk around feeling like I need to apologize to the people in my presence for being fat?

Sometimes, I feel like my Body Hate is a drug and I am addicted. I wasn’t happy when I was thin. I’m not happy when I’m fat. I am ashamed that I feel this way about my body. I hate hurting people that I love and yet, everyday, I wake up and make a choice to hate myself for being fat.

As I’m writing this out, it doesn’t even make sense to me.

I’ve made some positive changes in regards to this issue. I’ll give you one example. I used to use horrifying language when talking about my body and I have made the choice not to do that anymore. But even though I don’t talk about myself in that manner anymore, I still feel that way about myself.

My daughter is watching me, she is learning from me and even though I may not walk around saying terrible things about myself like I used to, I most certainly am not living life to it’s fullest because of my weight.

At what point would your daughter want to be dead? Have you asked her?

I keep hearing those words running through my head and I want to change. RIGHT NOW.
For good.

I have tried so many times to change, to learn to love my body. But I’ve never really and truly found the answer. Is there an answer? There has to be answer.

Perhaps the answer is that I have to learn to be content. Content with who I am as a human being, not with what size jeans I wear.

I have to stop focusing on the negative and the feelings I have in regards to my body   and start thinking about the people in my life who love me, the people who I have hurt deeply because of my body issues.

I have to start thinking about my children– especially my daughter because I don’t ever want her to say she’d rather DIE than be fat.

Dem Jeans.

I’m baaaaack.
Sort of.
Kind of.
Did you enjoy the guest posters as much as I did? I hope so. I throughly enjoy the writers that I asked to keep you entertained while I was “healing.” (I had also asked Rich who may or may not make my mouth water with love and he said yes, but then he got sick and couldn’t do it.)
Thanks for treating them so well.
Now, let me give you a few updates so that I feel like I can start writing again without having to talk about These Things EVER AGAIN.
I still do not know what is wrong with My Neck/Back/Arm as no one has called to tell me the results of the MRI.
Everyone says “It’s a good thing that they haven’t called! It means it’s nothing serious! If it was something serious, someone would have called you by now!”
And I guess that’s supposed to make me feel better, and in a way it does, but—it doesn’t make my neck hurt any less or make it possible for me to do things like “laugh” or “fart” or “cough” or “sneeze” without feeling excruciating pain.
Man, how I wish for the days when farting was a great way to annoy my children and embarrass them in public. Now, when I feel that gas welling up within, I cringe and brace myself for the pain I know I’ll feel when I have to push that mother out.
Farting is NOT funny anymore and that is sad.
Do you know what else is sad?
That my dog could have DIED last week, but because he has a good mommy and daddy who acted quickly on his behalf, he is not dead.
You see, he ate a box of rat poison.
He had been in the garage for about 15 minutes and when Ethan took him out, I noticed a box of rat poison on the ground. It had been torn open and there were just a few pellets left inside. I ran inside and called my dad to ask if he had left a box of rat poison lying on the garage floor, or if it was an empty box that he had thrown away.
It was a full box. (That he completely forgot was lying on the ground when he asked Ethan to put Bandit in the garage while the gardeners mowed the backyard.) And now, it was an empty box, because my pig of a dog ate it.
I called Tony who was 15 minutes from home.
“Bandit ate dog poison! Hurry! We have to take him to the vet RIGHT AWAY!”
He got home, put Bandit in the back of his car and drove to the nearest animal hospital.
They took him in right away, induced vomiting and WHOOMP! There it was. Rat poison.
They told Tony we saved his life because if we had waited, it would have got into his system and he would have bled to death internally.
Lucky dog.
Thanks for saving my life, pa.
Thanks for saving my life, Pa.
Let’s play a game. I’m going to tell you a number. Then, I want you to guess what that number represents.
Ready?
Seven thousand.
Did you guess “How much it’s going to cost to fix the TV that your son accidentally broke?”
Because that would be correct!
But, let’s not talk about that, because I don’t want to throw up again. (And no, they have not asked us to pay up, but we found out that’s how much it’s going to cost and OH THE GUILT.)
In other less traumatic (but only slightly less traumatic) news
This weekend I did something that I haven’t done in years.
I bought a pair of jeans.
And I feel compelled to tell you that they are indeed a size 18.
And, because that’s not bad enough, I also feel compelled to tell you that I bought them at Kohls–And they are of The Daisy Fuentes variety
When I held them up in the store and my eyes beheld just how W-I-D-E the ass spread of denim was, I couldn’t help but scream on the inside.
“My ass is not that wide! IT IS NOT THAT WIDE!”
But, I put those jeans on, and my ass is that wide.

Lucky Jeans.
You know that game that people play at baby showers, where they guess how many squares of toilet paper=the size of the pregnant woman’s belly?
I think we should play that with My Ass at BlogHer.
The winner gets an autographed can of Bean Dip!
But seriously, folks.
I’m actually proud of myself for buying the jeans.
You can’t hide your ass in jeans and my MAIN GOAL in dressing myself is hiding my ass. Buying these jeans was a huge step for me. In wearing these jeans, I’m making a statement.
“Hi! I’m fat and yet, I’m putting it all out there for you to stare at, to be in awe of, because I’m really fucking tired of trying to hide it and cover it up.”
Large and in charge, bitches.
I’m heading out to Old Navy as soon as Tony gets home from work and I’m not sure what I’m going to do with my new found Plus Sized Confidence. Maybe I’ll do something really CERAAAAZY, like, buy me a sleeveless top.
The last thing that I think you really need to know is that My Period is still hiding.
However, an additional THREE pregnancy tests (for a grand total of 6!) say that I am not pregnant. Everyone’s all “it’s stress! It’s the medication!” But I’m all “Oh my GOD, I have two months worth of bleeding all up in my Women Parts! AAAAHHHHH!”
Luckily, they can get me in to see a GYNO at the end of August! So, I have an entire month to google “POSSIBLE REASONS FOR A MISSED PERIOD.”
Lucky everyone in my life.

Guest Post: Brought To You By The Letter Y

Being asked to write a guest post for someone whose blog you love is probably the most nerve-wracking thing you can be asked to do. Well, short of “go over there and sunbathe next to Jessica Biel,” of course. But when you’re asked to write a guest post, all of a sudden you forget how to be funny. You forget how to be witty and cool. Hell, you forget how to write.
(Oh, you thought I was writing this? Ha! Think again! I’ve actually employed my largest cat Charlie to tap away at the keyboard for me while I dictate to him from this comfortable fainting couch here. More tea, Charlie! More sandwiches! And slice the cucumber thinner this time! No opposable thumbs? Don’t give me that!)
Anyway, hi. I’m Holly. I write over at Nothing But Bonfires, where I talk frequently about living amongst the crack whores in San Francisco with my impossibly cute graphic designer boyfriend, Sean. Just to clarify, we don’t live with the crack whores, just near them—two blocks away from where it starts to get slightly sleazy and where men with wild eyes and matted beards will come up to you and say things like THE SPINACH OF YESTERYEAR IS FAR SUPERIOR TO THE SPINACH OF TODAY. (Oh, they’re not hardcore vegans. They’re just crazy. I think most of them never came down from The Great Acid Trip Of 1967. And likely haven’t showered since then either.)
We’re learning to quite like it, actually, and have really sort of settled in. The other day, in fact, as we walked out of our apartment building (in broad daylight, I might add), Sean pointed at a woman standing on the corner and said “that woman is a whore.” And I said “Sean! You don’t even know her! What has she ever done to you? Don’t insult her for no reason!” And he said “no, she really is a whore. She’s a prostitute. I see her on that corner all the time.” So apparently we now have, as well as a neighborhood dry cleaner and a neighborhood grocery store, a neighborhood prostitute. Should I bake her some cookies as a welcome, do you think? Ask her how business is going? Suggest a slightly more modest skirt on account of the fact that I really don’t need to see anyone’s knickers before noon on a Saturday, and especially not before I’ve had any coffee?
(Oh yes, I did. I just said “knickers.” I may have forgotten to mention it, but I’m British.)
But anyway! This post isn’t about me, it’s about Y—lovely, glorious, hilarious Y, whose blog I can’t even remember how I found, although I feel sure it had something to do with Amalah. I think perhaps Y left a funny comment on Amalah’s site, and I thought “damn, this woman should be my best friend immediately. She could make me laugh to the point of vomiting! What other criteria is there when looking for a friend?” And so I clicked on over to Y’s blog—following the premise of there’s more where that came from!—and damn, if she didn’t have me at “aerobic dancing.”
My god, I love aerobic dancing. Not that I’ve actually done it since, ooh, 1997, of course, but I just love the idea of it, all that choreography and synchronicity, the fact that you’re really just dancing the way you dance in your bedroom when the Violent Femmes come on the radio and no-one else is around. I frequently challenge Y to a dance-off, in fact—I’m all “bring it, yo! I will get you with these jazz hands!” And she’s all “oh, please, bitch—have you seen me do The Worm?” And I’m all “pah! The Worm? Ever heard of a little thing I like to call…the Grapevine?” And this, of course, is all over e-mail, which makes it doubly nerdy. In fact, when Y created a Typepad account for me so I could log in and write this post, she made the password “danceoff.” This is why, even though we have never met, I frequently feel the urge to hug her. Tightly.
But anyway! My post wasn’t going to be about crack whores and hugging, it was going to be about Y, and all the things that are not as cool as Y. And so I hereby present you with a special list, a list of things that may begin with the letter Y, and yet pale in comparison to the real Y, the one who, by the way, I could totally take in a dance-off.
For example: yaks. Is there anything special about yaks? I think not. Apart from the fact that they are found in Tibet, of course—which always gives ordinary things a certain sort of cachet, does it not? I mean, I bet even the telemarketers in Tibet are kind of awesome—yaks are sort of pedestrian, don’t you think? You know, as long-haired humped domestic bovines go. (I totally had to look that up on Wikipedia. Don’t worry.)
Also, there is yogurt. Yogurt is not as cool as Y because there is always a sense of ambiguity surrounding the way it should be pronounced. I, for example, say “yogg-urt.” But recently—inexplicably!—I have found myself saying “yoge-urt,” mostly to be understood by Americans. And also to fit in, because, you know, one’s self-esteem does take a terrible knock when one is asked “what? what? what? I don’t understand what you’re saying!” four hundred times by the employees in the dairy aisle at Safeway. This is how I started pronouncing “basil” the American way. It just became easier in the end.
Then there are yams, which, eh, whatever, they’re pretty much just sweet potatoes. And yellow fever, which also obviously sucks. And yodeling, which is nowhere near as cool as aerobic dancing as far as dorky hobbies go, and yo-yos, which always get tangled within the first two hours of being received in a Christmas stocking. Yachting I don’t particularly care for, nor am I a great fan of Yonkers, yuppies, yawning, or the YMCA song.
Which I guess just makes it official: Y—our very own Y!—is, quite simply, the new Y. Any questions?

Walking is Important

Remember last year when I wrote about the interview that I did for Alpha Mom?
Well, I thought (hoped? prayed?) that they had forgot all about that video and that I’d never see it online because oh, I DID THE MONKEY. But, guess what?
They didn’t forget.
The video is up.
I DID THE MONKEY.
I don’t have much to say about it except that what I said about The Liquor? Was a joke. I probably should have said something like “ha! ha! KIDDING!” But, I didn’t
OOPS. [Doug Heffernan Voice]AWKWARD[/Doug Heffernan Voice]
Also? I “walk”. That is what I do for “me” time.
I walk.
Because I am a Winner.

We Interrupt My Healing for an Important Rant

I just had to take a break from my “Healing Hiatus” to talk for one minute about shopping for Fat Clothes.
I’ve written about this before, but I feel like I just have to write about it again, because WTF?
Why must every site describe their PLUS SIZE clothes with words like “funky!” “hip!” “Stylish!” “bold and SEX-AY!”
WHY?
I guess they just want to make sure that everyone knows THE LARGER LADIES CAN BE STYLISH TOO!
Except, I’m pretty freaking sure that Mumu’s are neither bold NOR sexy.
But! I’ve been told that they are comfortable and they do hide the various rolls and lumps, so perhaps that is what I shall order to wear for The Panel!
Who needs bold and sexy when you’ve got “Hides gut rolls!”
Seriously.
Also, can we talk about the prices of size 18 clothing? YES, I’M WEARING A SIZE 18 (and last year, I was wearing a 14, so imagine just how much bigger my face will be in all of the pictures. IF you get a picture, that is, because I plan on carrying a water bottle and squirting anyone who dares to get near me with their camera. SERIOUSLY. I WILL SQUIRT YOUR ASS.)
(And if that doesn’t work, I’m seriously considering using my enormous tittays as Weapons. I’ll be like “put down the camera and on one gets Titty Whipped!”)
Anyway.
There really are some stylish, sexy beautiful articles of clothing out there for women like me, but I can’t afford them!
You see, I don’t normally pay more than $25 per article of clothing, (I’ll push it to $29.99 if Old Navy has a cute dress that is not on sale.) so for me to even THINK about spending $50 on A SINGLE ITEM OF CLOTHING actually makes me want to throw up. I can’t bring myself to do it! I just can’t.
What am I going to do? I need new clothes. And when I say “need” I really and truly mean “NEEDS“. I only have TWO outfits that fit me. I rotate them throughout the week. (Don’t believe me? Ask Lena Jo. Every time she suggests we meet for lunch or coffee, I’ll be like “Just let me know when, so I can wash my black skirt!” And oh, how she laughs, because it’s true! TWO OUTFITS!)
I’m either going to have to stop being so cheap and frugal for one week of my life and spend a few $$ on some nice clothes, OR, I’m just going to have to go ahead and order me 3 of these. (In different colors, of course.)
I hope you enjoy the guest posters that I have lined up for you while “Operation Let My Neck Heal” is in progress. Confession: I have been known to hate it when people have guest posters on their site, because I don’t go to peoples blogs to read OTHER PEOPLE. HOWEVER, there are some really great writers out there who I love and I thought it would be fun if they would bless me with some of their Genius. SO, really, it’s all about me and my needs.
(But seriously, check back, it will be worth it, I (HINT!) promise.)

This post brought to you by: Lots of Drugs!

On Tuesday, I saw two doctors about my “condition.”
I cried at LEAST 10 times during those 2 hours.
I don’t even know where to begin.
Hmm. How to write this and make sense while doped up and bitter…
I know! Let’s start with my weight! Because I just love talking about my weight!
About two months ago, I rejoined weight watchers to try to lose the 30 pounds that I had put back on. I wasn’t perfect, but I was working out consistently 3-4 days a week. I lost 3 pounds the first week and then, nothing.
I was upset and frustrated, but I kept doing what I needed to do. I was eating healthy, working out and trying really hard not to stress about the “numbers on the scale.”
THEN, The Neck Pain started. At first, I thought it was something that I needed to work through, so I continued working out, lifting weights and eating right.
BlogHer was coming and I wanted to lose 20 pounds before I got on that plane.
Then, the neck pain got worse and I found myself in urgent care where he said things like “MRI” and “strength deficit” and “Neurologist” and “STAY AWAY FROM THE GYM.”
I was scared, but also frustrated that I couldn’t work out because MY GOD I need to work out. But I also need to get better, so I promised I’d stay out of the gym until I knew what the problem was.
(But I did go to try a little cardio one night and whoops! Bad choice. VERY BAD CHOICE. Haven’t done it since.)
I decided that in order to lose a little weight before BlogHer (so that I could buy pretty clothes! And not be ashamed of my Triple Chin!) I would go on the Atkins diet. I always lose a lot of weight/inches on the Atkins diet.
Well, I had done it for a week, without cheating at all (I gave up Starbucks, for chrissakes!) so I was expecting to be pleasantly surprised when I stood on the scale at the doctors office.
Well, I was surprised, but not in a good way.
When I stepped on the scale, the numbers 2-0-6 flashed before my eyes.
I started to cry.
The nurse looked at me and said “How tall are you again?”
I snapped back “NOT TALL ENOUGH TO WEIGH TWO HUNDRED AND SIX POUNDS!!”
I’m embarrassed. I think more so because I was so public about my weight loss. I was all “I lost 70 pounds! And you can too! Just believe in yourself!” And now I’m all “I gained 30+ pounds back! I am a winner!”
After talking to two doctors, I’ve decided the fact that I am obese again! (OBESE!) is the least of my worries (but not really, because obesity kills!) Right now, I have to focus on healing my body and guess what? That could take MONTHS! And possibly surgery! But we won’t know for sure until the MRI is in.
For now, they’re saying “probably a herniated disk” and also “Cervical Radiculopathy.”
I sat there sobbing as my doctor told my husband just how painful this condition is. He told my husband that this is probably the worst pain I will ever experience in my life and then he used words like “excruciating” and “relentless” and “intense.”
He told me that there’s a possibility I can have this for months, but that the studies show it will heal on it’s own in time (possibly NINE MONTHS!) or, surgery is an another option, but that the surgery is pretty rough, so he suggests letting it try to heal on it’s own.
I actually thought I’d go in there and they’d say “we can have you good as new by next week and go right ahead and start working out again tomorrow!”
Instead, I walked out with the realization I’m going to be in pain for a long fucking time and orders to take steroids (because I need to be MORE PUFFY THAN I ALREADY AM!) muscle relaxers (Soma!) and vicodin.
How did this happen? I’ve heard of people who get injuries like this and I’ve heard them talk about how debilitating it is and how sometimes, they want to kill themselves because it hurts so bad. And I would feel sorry for them and think “I hope to GOD that never happens to me.”
So much for “hoping.”
My favorite part of that entire day is when the pharmacist told me that I needed to stay away from people with infectious diseases because the steroids will lower my ability to fight infection.
I looked at her, all white in the face with fear, and said “Oh noes! For how long will I be at risk? Because I am flying on a plane at the end of the month!”
She looked at me all puzzled and said “Um, are you flying to a hospital?”
“Um, no! To Chicago!”
She started laughing AT ME and said “Oh, you’re fine! Just stay away from hospitals and sick people.”
Yeah, obviously she doesn’t remember That Asshole who got on a plane with TB!
Sorry, Lena, but I’m SO wearing a surgical mask on the plane. Because, dude, I don’t want to die.
In closing, I want to say that I’ve re-evaluated what is really important and while I am not comfortable weighing 206 pounds, I realize that what’s important right now is that I take care of my mother fucking neck. I am not going to be going to the gym until the doctor says that I can go back to the gym and I am NOT GOING TO DO ANOTHER DAY OF THE ATKINS DIET. I’m going to eat all of the fruit and hummus and yogurt with granola that I fucking want to eat.
I am embarrassed to have put the weight on and I promise those of you who will come to see me speak at BlogHer that I WILL CRY when I’m up there, because I can’t stop crying every time I think about how frustrated I am with this entire situation. But, I also realize that my weight does not define me as a person and that no one else really cares how much I weigh and that I really need to get over it and just enjoy my life the best that I can while clusters of nerves are being pinched and I am doped up on drugs.
Now, who wants to party with me at BlogHer? (MORE LIKE BLOGHURT!) Come on, you know you want to watch me pop pills and hold my neck while you drink the booze I can’t drink because booze and drugs don’t mix!
No, seriously. Party in my, Lena and Kathy’s room—we even got a room by the elevator, more foot traffic.
Now, I’m probably going to take some time off of blogging, because AREN’T YOU SICK OF HEARING ABOUT MY NECK? I’ve asked a few people who I love because they make me laugh and are amazing writers to guest post for me in the meantime. Be nice to them, shower them with love and comments and don’t forget to pray for My Neck.