Jizzle Bells

"Pain; I like it rough, cuz I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all"

I am eating a fudge Popsicle, wittingly coined a "fudgsicle" by the ice cream industry experts. It is fat free -- I still have hopes of marrying rich. Prior to enjoying this delicious fat free, but still high sugar content treat, I squeezed two drops of liquid jizz into my eye. Yes, you read right – liquid jizz. Along with my "cum drops" (sounds like candy) – to be "dispersed" every four hours -- I also have a bottle of pills to pop 4x a day. This treatment plan means that I will be popping and shooting drugs all day long. According to the doctor (and a real one) this combination will most likely fail in treating my infection, but hell is was worth a shot.

And my $25 co-pay was for that?

We must not forget the $66 prescriptions and bottle of mascara -- both purchases on recommendation by my PA Darleen. My left eye will look like an accident of misaim by my boyfriend, but at least I will have "telescopic" eyelashes. For those men and Brits out there – that was my poor attempt at humor – the brand of mascara I purchased for $8.99 is L' Oreal Telescopic. It promises eyelashes that are:

Telescopic:
1. capable of magnifying distant objects
2. seen by a telescope
3. capable of viewing objects from a distance

I would like to thank L' Oreal; for their brilliant marketing scheme. Lucky for their CEO's three digit salary I looked up telescopic after purchasing the product. However, the bottle is shaped like a miniature gold telescope, and my boat is floated by all the little and meaningless things in life. Despite its physical downfalls, my infected left eye has given me a good reason to ditch lecture today. That reason is: I am a shallow bitch, and I do not want to ooze jizz on my fellow classmates.

Is this clever but disgusting description of my eye infection not funny? I apologize; but Southparkzone is back up and running again, and my humor is paying the consequences. I watched the episode "Make Love, Not Warcraft," and nearly wet my pants in laughter. More than good music South Park comforts the loneliness in my heart.

On a more literary note – I have been highlighting sentences in my "American Short Stories" collection in search of the proper way to use semi-colons, commas, and those lines I use, but don't know what are called. You all must unfortunately suffer while reading through my blogs until I discover the truth in my numerous grammatical errors. I might pull a Google and rummage through the World Wide Web in search of grammar help; that, or I will bother my new Myspace friend Ari. I stole him from my boyfriend; and this was done pre-telescopic eyes.

Lame FYI: Stephen King is the author of sixty books and 400 short stories. He may have 460 works on me, but my face is cuter, and breasts perkier.

Today while sat in the doctor's office, with straightened hair and bare face, I decided that I would like to become more observant in my old age. I made this decision while counting the scars on my body. I had tired of highlighting semi-colons, and decided to occupy my time with other means. I counted 11 scars on my body. The best sits on my lower back from a drunken night in the hot tub. The elderly women to my right stared at me in horror as I lifted clothing and ticked off fingers.

I am bored in my self-confinement – come and tell me the stories of your scars.

I continued with my plan of observation; and watched a Walgreen's employee playing a musical instrument in his car. I could not make out what instrument it was. All I know is that you blow into it. I sat and watched him instead of teasing my hair in the rearview mirror. My vanity is disappearing with age.

(A special thanks to the omnipotent man in the sky.)

Before I bury myself in my book, lurk a few Myspace pages, and let the inner nerd free; I have a confession to make. Shit, I better get undressed. I drove by the local strip club this morning. It was ..10:30.. and thoughts of naked women came to rub the sleep from my eyes. I have come to a disturbing conclusion -- that I need to get a job at a deviant and socially unacceptable workplace. There is a simple reason for this: I could write far more interesting stories with such inspiration at my fingertips. This is the same reason I advocated my use of drugs, but my boyfriend gave a better counterargument, and I still say no to drugs. I need inspiration that I cannot find in a 9-5, in a front desk position, or at the upscale restaurant. Tell me if I was more than a wannabe writer I could find inspiration anywhere – or else come by the local strip club to find me in the corner dressed like a prostitute scribbling notes in my journal.

My mom tells me that she did not pull herself up the boot straps for me to end up as a stripper in a night club. (Sigh) I will stay unemployed, and hunt this city for stories. I will look under the tables, in the bathrooms, and behind the buildings allocated for mischief.

I need a rich husband to fund my new lifestyle.

"Found a hollow hole in the Colorado snow. It's like I follow anywhere that El Diablo goes."