Thursday, December 18, 2008

This could be one of the worst days in a while, from top to bottom. Wake up after a restless night without having gotten my requisite 8 hours. Foul mood to start with, likely due to PMS. I look down to count the new hairs on my tatas, and oh, what's that? A whitehead on my right nipple, where the penis is still erect. Ahh yes, not only pubes on the nipples, but ingrown pubes that produce whiteheads. Couldn't wait for Dr. Rosenbaum to see this twist.

Mom and dad, neither of whom are speaking to me anymore, are apparently in New York for dad's annual prostate cancer check up at Sinai. (You guys knew dad got prostate cancer under 55? Yes, he's to blame for my faulty gene. But he didn't have to have his dick cut off as I did my tits. Nor did he have to go through chemo. Or nearly ten surgeries. Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

My primary reason for seeing Dr. R today was a Botox touch up, because after last time, I needed him to do a little correction. They were out of Botox, natch. Again. Apparently, people stock up before the holidays. Pretty fucking sad, huh? (I'm not in any rush for the holidays—I'm a Jew, our only real holiday is New Year's Eve—I was just due.)

The good doctor went so far as to call some other doctors in the building. Everyone was out. Fuck me. Leaving the doctor's office, I got a text from Sprinkles—if you're going to insult me Michael, then Sprinkles it is—calling me an idiot. So my parents and brother are sitting at Trattoria Del Arte, next to Jennifer Aniston no less, presumably discussing what a terrible daughter/person I am. Apparently, it's possible for your parents to shut you out and kick you while your down, with cancer. That's comforting, isn't it?

When I get like this, it's all I can do not to tear up in public. So I tend to let myself tear up in the car and do some deep breathing before I go into Epicure to pick up my pathetic dinner of marinated vegetables.

I arrived home, having already decided to forgo the Mondrian—opened on my street—tonight in light of my mood, and checked the mail. I've been served before. I know what the envelope looks like. Seems that my landlord—who, ironically sent out a mass email today that he was now working in Phuket, Thailand, the fucking wacko—is finally being foreclosed upon. My apartment is slated to be sold on the courthouse steps January 5th. Happy fucking New Year!

On the plus side, I have a new best friend who will aid in my mental recovery.

My life totally and completely sucks right now. Seriously, seriously sucks ass.