Hi whores. I won’t even begin to apologize for the lack of content here. Life is for the living; I have better things to do than mentally whack off at this blog site. (Points remote to any REAL HOUSEWIVES franchise…)

Here we are: Labor Day weekend. Historically this would be a weekend of get-away revelry with friends and dancing into the early hours of the morning. But that’s all gone. Everyone that used to converge for nude sunbathing in PSP has scattered to the four corners of the earth. Not really, but sometimes it feels that way; we’re all just too busy with life’s shit to reach out and connect with one another. I hope they pause and feel a wee bit of guilt when learning of my untimely death. And by ‘untimely death’ I mean the fact that we live in a mean and angry world nowadays and a nonchalant trip to the mini-mart for milk can result in one racing between canned goods to dodge some whacked out white fool’s misguided anger and hate via a sawed off shotgun. Cue Nazi salute; ‘very fine people’ as our president calls that tribe. Ahem.

I digress. I have no plans for the pending Labor Day weekend. I will drink white wine, fold up my white denim for the season, watch internet bi-pussy porn, and sort my sock drawer for thin socks older than the Reagan presidency. Let’s keep it real: life is a long series of so-so moments after a certain age. And I’ve surpassed that ‘certain age’ by a long shot. I regularly receive mail from motherfucking AARP and that clinic place asking if I want to join a study for folks who have trouble standing and walking. “Trouble walking?” Suck my rock hard dick, betch.

Here’s my reality: I am up a full 25lbs since, say, April 2016. I am busting out of all my designer duds and it is extremely maddening. While shoving cake in my cake hole is one guilty pleasure, I must own the reality that I have self-medicated through a mean-spirited corporate takeover of my company–and survived, and have placated all the idiocy of number 45’s presidency with extra deep dish pizza. Food is my lover and my devil. Because at this age–somewhere between receiving “for XX you look so good” and “..pee in the pot; there you go! You’ll get an extra pudding for dinner; good job…” at assisted living residency, it becomes much harder, and so much more challenging– to burn off even an ounce of a warm chocolate chip cookie. My metabolism isn’t slow: it died and took my once youthful figure with it. I curse you, metabolism.

So imagine my abject horror on recently being notified that I am to receive a ‘man of taste & style’ award this mid-September. I initially begged off the fashion event with the classic “unfortunately I’m traveling on business for that date.” But a bitch ass acquaintance–and that, my friend, in this context–is a term of endearment, phoned me with a “YOU SIMPLY MUST SHOW UP” direct HQ command.

I need to arrive in style as those goddamn pics from the event will live on the internet well-beyond my tasteful memorial service that will be invitation only and oh-so-sorry frenemies,…you do not get to attend and weep over my Dolce & Gabbana clad dead ass. I searched last weekend for a suitable suit; something very English-tailored and with a bit of texture/pattern to the fabric but the search was much like looking for a fucking shower curtain for Shamu, the killer whale. I had my eye on one option, but ripped it off my body in the fitting room as the shop girl noted “…we sure like to eat here in the Midwest…” while I lamented my bit of belly pooch. Hey, girlie: call me when you’re sixty with tits sagging to your crinkle cut vajay. Do that.

Meh. Fuck. I’ll be back, bitches.

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