I’m trying to like it. Really, I am. Clearly it needs work, like the reparation of the lines across the orange fish’s head. After it heals (month-ish) I’ll try to find someone who can at least touch it up and make it look respectable. I’m not sure what, if anything, can be done with that obscene shading. I’ve seen tattoos done in prison with homemade guns that looked better. It’s just bizarre to me how the black fish went so right and everything else went so wrong. Here’s a better photo of it taken outside with my camera. And I guess it looks kind of neat from this angle. Slash sarcasm. Also, plz do not make fun of my weird legs, kthx.
And if I was any more upset I would be vomiting profusely. So much for “rewarding” myself. I guess I’ll post pictures when I feel like I don’t want to kill someone over it. I am going to go cry myself to sleep.
Update: I’m too upset to sleep. My digital camera’s batteries are dead so you’re going to have to settle for my phone’s camera. The first picture is the stencil we started with. I loved it. Originally I just wanted the two fish, but he had this idea to add the ripples at the top and he told me they would only be a little light shading. As you can see in the stencil, I thought it fit quite nicely. Photo two is the black fish and some ripples… the black fish is outstanding… I was impressed. I was a little concerned about the “ripples” but I was so happy with the fish that I trusted him, and besides, it looked like that was the extent of it. I laid my head back for a while because the pain got to be a little intense; it’s like getting blood drawn for me in that the pain is okay but I can’t really watch. And before I knew it, the orange fish looked like shit and for some reason has a black line over its face, and the rest of the area is black. The “light shading” is so fucking dark and thick that you can’t even make the black fish out. It’s sloppy.
People keep trying to console me saying maybe it will look better when it heals, but I’m not really sure how it can. It looks like two dead fish lying on a dead rose. I just don’t understand… clearly the final result is obscenely different from the first two photos.
This guy isn’t an amateur, I’ve seen some of his stuff and it is great. His co-workers kept congratulating him on the “oustanding job,” and how the ripples make it “more interesting.” I just don’t know what I’m going to do. I guess, after it heals, I will go to someone else and ask what he or she can do to fix this mess. I feel embarrassed and humiliated and sick, but mostly angry. I had to fight myself from going back and asking if I was the butt of some kind of joke.
The day after tomorrow. Or in current terms, tomorrow. Friday. Maybe Friday is the big day? I called to see what time to show up to pick up the big item, and the dude was all “oh, uh, come tomorrow, it’ll be ready tomorrow.” Then I’ll pay you “later.” And by “later” I mean right after I punch you in the larynx. STFU.
It was probably good anyway since I felt like crap and wanted nothing more than to come home and get in bed and watch the finale of LOST Matthew Fox NOM NOM. I skipped the gym and I feel guilt. I also “skipped” Tuesday, and I mean I didn’t do cardio cuz the place was so busy there were lines for stuff. So I don’t deserve my reward. I should be flagellated.
Do you ever just wish all kinds of ungodly pain on people who endanger your life on the road? Or steal your staples and pens? I was almost murdered today by no less than 12 people, and the only way to calm myself is to imagine the perpetrators starring in Saw V. I used to picture their heads exploding but that does nothing for me now. I guess I’m so high maintenance now that I need a storyline. Not much of one, obvs, but more substance than mere gore provides.
Today’s fortune cookie: “Watch for a stranger near you to soon become a friend.” OH GODS, PLEASE let it be the new hottie at work! He’s tall, pasty and looks like a potential sociopath. He’s dreamy.
My ass is noticeably larger. Meatier. I feel the meatjiggle when I go up the stairs now, as opposed to the fatjiggle I had grown accustomed to over the last year or so. I’ve had the nonjiggle before (in 2005 for about 8 months), but the meatjiggle is wholly different. In a low, subtle and sexy voice, the meatjiggle says to you, “lay your hands on me, for I am meaty.” And it was good. The nonjiggle is like a historian. It says to you, “here is where we fought the Battle of KY, and over here is where the Hills of Thunderdome used to be.” And the fatjiggle, it kind of sounds like Barney from The Simpsons. You don’t listen to it but you know you can’t block it out completely.
Also: the gym is a very gay place. Very. I have contributed. That is all.
Today I realized that I do, without a doubt, have something that I’ve always wanted: a stalker. At the gym, of course. Times before, I kind of figured he was…interested… but today, all the cards were on the table and he is, without question, stalking me. I mean, it’s weird because he has several gold teeth and I think he might have once been a gangster, but he is otherwise hot and clearly (believe me) wants a piece of this (points at self). And he could very well get it, heh. If he wasn’t hot, though, I would be totally repulsed. I am not completely without soul, conscience or standards. Heh.
Most of the time I wait for someone to show interest in me and that never gets me anywhere, but when I know for sure that someone wants a piece, I can be forward and aggressive. Reckless abandon and all that… why not, if I know for sure? It happens so rarely.
Whatever, as long as he doesn’t turn into Alicia Silverstone in The Crush.
He works out M, W, F and Sunday, which is good because Thursday I am getting the reward/incentive for myself that I described in the last post. And by described, I mean went on endlessly about. I put a deposit down on it tonight. Grr, it’s so exciting… taking a chance like this… not knowing exactly what could happen. I’m so Celine Dion right now. What do you saaaaay?! You’ll think I’m stoopid with two o’s after you find out what it is, but for the moment it is exhilarating to do/get something that I’m almost SURE I’m going to regret. Suspense and all that.
I haven’t had much to say since I started going to the gym. I go almost daily, even though the intensity of what I do there will vary, and I feel really guilty if I skip a day even though I know I should take a break sometimes. Anyway, that’s going very well. The scale at the gym says I’ve lost 7 pounds. I’m going to blame it all on the sauna, though - you know it’s all water weight. My love handles and moobs are slightly diminished, however. And my tummy slightly flatter.
I’m deathly afraid I’m going to get herpes there. Maybe not “deathly” afraid, but at least the kind of afraid one is when one is afraid of getting herpes. I’m that kind of afraid. And it’s not the bad bad herpes, at least I hope not. My sister got herpes on her back from a tanning salon and I know the gym is far less sanitary because is essentially a giant two-story urinal. And depending on the time of the day, also a nursing home.
I’ve been thinking I should reward myself for my efforts in such a way that would motivate me to keep said efforts up (I have something specific in mind), but then I think it’s ridiculously premature to do something like that. And then I think that I don’t want to be the type of person who wants frivolous things at all much less make up excuses to get them, and then I think that I hate myself for being the type of person who has to think about things like this for weeks, months or years before making a decision and then I decide that my real problem is that I think too much and that I envy people who can just know what they want and go after it, whatever it is, without regret.
Not me. For me, a frivolous purchase is a moral decision, if not an existential dilemma, if its price tag exceeds roughly $60. Sometimes less, depending on what a waste it could potentially be based on various other factors. This is a side-effect of having grown up dirt poor: Every option should be weighed carefully and decisions based on a complex 3D quality/affordability matrix. “Do I want these jeans? I don’t know, let me grab my charts and graphs.”
Buyer’s remorse, to poor folks, is practically smallpox.
On the other hand, I’m far from being a tightwad, especially when it comes to doing for or spending on others. I’m way too neurotic to have low self-esteem, but I think I’m way more dependent on the neuroses than the low self-esteem, so that is my saving grace. It works out… most of the time.
I’m thinking I’m leaning towards purchasing the reward/incentive, though, especially after the few minutes of therapy that typing all that afforded me.
Also, I need a massage. But the massage therapist at the gym just looks way too happy for me. I need someone with issues to service me so that I can feel like the normal one, or at least in good company. Also, I sometimes view happy people as the ones with problems. For instance, he could be some kind of middle-aged perv who videotapes the session and then takes it home where he can watch it on repeat as he strokes his cat and talks to his dead great-uncle. Or something. Who knows what those smiley freaks do behind closed doors. I don’t want to be a part of that.
I saw this picture of Hillz this morning before work and thought it looked familiar.
Sunday at the gym, one of the employees told me that the weekends are very slow and that during the week only a handful of machines are ever not in use. She was right. On the bright side, the room was full of hotties. And Iwas checkin’ out the bodies. Yeah.
I used muscles today that have been dormant since conception. I was using machines that target back muscles but all the burn was in my arms. Ryan says it’s because I am a mutant and somehow have back muscles developed where my arms should be. But I think it’s dyslexia.
I don’t think anybody laughed at me today. That’s encouraging.
Believe it or not, I managed to actually go to the gym tonight. You know, the one I joined 6 weeks ago. I’m not sure why I was so anxious about it; the anxiety was only partly the reason I procrastinated. I’ve never been to an actual gym so this was all new for me. I made mental notes.
I was excited to see that probably 90% of the people there looked much worse than I! The other 10% in varying degrees of betterness, but mostly falling into the Not Much category. Since I never met with the trainer, I wasn’t really sure where anything there was. But I didn’t want to tell the lady at the front desk that I was new because I didn’t really care for a tour and I didn’t want a crapload of balloons to fall from the upper level or anything like that.
The lower level is lockerrooms and showers, a sort of daycare center for the unruly offspring, a pool and some other things I didn’t see because I didn’t go all the way around. The upper level is the workout area. I figured I’d try to start off doing what my physical therapist had me do over a year ago, so that means beginning with some vigor on the treadmill.
Once my heart rate was sky-high and I couldn’t control my legs anymore, I ventured over to these machines I’ve never seen that emulate actual stairs; it’s like a five foot escalator to nowhere. I got on and got it working and it was moving too slowly, so I kept increasing the level. I didn’t know that it gradually speeds up during each level. Before I knew it, I was running as fast as I could up this thing and I couldn’t take my eyes off the stairs or else they would eat me, and I had to hold on to the machine because it was going so fast since I was on the highest level. And it didn’t have a “fucking STOP RIGHT NOW before this creton dies!” button. So I kept having to reach over and push “level down” continually, risking my life each time my hand moved from the rail.
But then no day of mine is complete without a near death experience.
I needed to slow down, so I wandered to the weight machines where I was distracted by the only bona fide hottie in the place. There was one machine I just couldn’t figure out, though, despite its instructions. Two men nearby were highly entertained.
I tried out a few more cardio machines ( I don’t know what any of them are called) before I finally found THE ONE. The one that I could stay on and keep going despite the burn I was feeling. The way it caused my legs to move made me feel like I was warming up for a dance. I swear to God I nearly busted a move right there. I had to stop after about 15 or 20 minutes.
I stuck a fork in myself at that point.
And then I did my best Katharine Hepburn down the stairs while this hunky black guy laughed. And then I thought maybe his grandmother would proposition me. Who’s laughing now? Oh yeah. Him.
The bathroom/lockerroom at this place is massive. For some reason I thought that might mean the smell would be a little more…diffused. I was wrong, of course: It smelled like hot wet Cheetos sprinkled with parmesan. I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t conducive to the gay sex I was expecting to see, and didn’t. I never should’ve watched Queer as Folk.
So my whole “cardio only” plan to drop a few pounds is clearly a bad one considering I can’t do it for very long before nearly dropping dead. I’ll adopt a more well-rounded approach and see where things lead. But as far as weight training goes, that might be problematic as I found out today just how bad the arthritis in my hands actually is. Ow.
I have to get hot before my numerical age catches up with my “real” one!
We have a new receptionist where I work. She’s a rather nice looking black woman who is just under 60, but obviously takes good care of herself and has a body she’s not ashamed to show off. And shouldn’t be.
She told me once that she used to date younger guys - guys younger than her 37 year old son. She told me she gave up on them because “they’re too fast.” At first I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant because I forcibly retain my childlike naivete, but further conversations revealed that, apparently, they come too quickly.
TMI.
A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to her about something work-related that I’ll never remember because she cut me off mid-sentence and said, “you know, you’re SEXY.” Oh Sweet Jesus, I think I was a deer in the headlights for about 5 seconds, but then I managed to force a smile and say “thanks!” She followed with “you should shave your head and grow a beard.” My hair is 3mm long on both my scalp and my face - I need to do neither of those things. I told her I didn’t want my head to look upside-down.
Time passed and finally I was comfortable again. Mostly. Until today.
I walked to her desk this afternoon (for something work-related, NATCH), and she looked kind of antsy so I jokingly suggested she was either on caffeine or crack. She showed me her bag of Skittles and we both laughed. She offered them to me, and I politely said “no thanks” and began to walk away.
I didn’t get 2 steps before she said, with a stone-cold, sober, unflinching, unblinking face, “well then what do you want? ’cause I can give you what you want.”
It was happeING!!!! I was being sexually-harassed by a post-menopausal strong black woman and there are no instruction books for dealing with this. I laughed nervously for what felt like three days in the Genesis sense, but was in reality more like 3 seconds. And I turned to walk away and laughingly said “you’re crazy!” and didn’t look back. She laughed.
What I really need right now is for a nice man to hold me tighly while I cry.
Andymatic told me “it’s all this Obamomentum making the black people more forward, we’re post-racial now.” Normally that would make me laugh hysterically but I think I’m too traumatized. I’m known for being a bit of a three-beer-hetero at times, but right now, I just feel… dirty… in the bad way.
