I don't look like a woman, do I?

Things with Sally Shutesanladders were really heating up. We were back on her couch last night and going at it pretty good. She was starting to talk dirty, which was cool until she said something that totally took me off-guard. I'm not sure of the exact wording, but it went something kind of like this:
"I want to kiss your vagina."
I pulled back. "What did you just say?"
She looked unsure of herself and a little panicky. "I want to kiss your vagina?" she said, almost posing it as a question.
"Do you think I'm a woman?" I asked her.
"You're not?"
"No, I'm not a fucking woman. What gave you the impression I was?"
"Well," she said, giving this some thought, "I guess it was your general lack of musculature, your high voice, big boobs, complete lack of masculine qualities; you're kind of short; you don't seem to have any body hair; you appear to be wearing make-up ..."
"Okay, okay," I interrupted her, "that's enough ..."
"... You have a perm," she continued; "you smell like you're on the rag; you carry a purse ..."
"That's not a purse!" I shot back. "It's a big wallet!"
"... You wear tight jeans and clogs," she went on without breaking stride; "you appear to have a Bobby pin holding your bangs back; you drive a Mini Cooper ..."
Holy crap, I thought to myself as I put my pants back on, this might go on all night.

I do not belong in a freak show, thank you very much

I was riding up an elevator the other day to see my therapist. It was one of those unexpectedly hot fall days, and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I was joined on the second floor by a FedEx man making deliveries. He pointed down to my shin.
"That's quite a bump you have down there," he said. "How did you do that?"
"That's not a bump," I responded. "That's one of my testicles."
"Daaamn!" he replied. "What the hell's one of your balls doing down there, man?"
"A slow orbit around my shin bone, I believe."
"Ever had a doctor check that shit out?" he asked. "Because, frankly, that ain't where your balls supposed to be at."
"I have von Flabflauchflisen's disease," I told him.
"Oh, von Flabflauchflisen's disease, huh? That shit ain't too good."
"No," I said, "it isn't too good at all."
"I think you got another one floating up here," he noted, pointing to my throat.
"No, that's just my double Adam's apple."
"Damn, that shit's crazy," he marvelled. "Someone should sell tickets."
"Are you implying that I belong in a freak show!" I screamed at him. "Because I don't!"
"Take it easy, man," he said. "Take it easy. I'm not trying to say nothing."
We traveled in silence for a few moments.
"I'm just saying, you know, if you were interested in some carnie work, you know, I might know a guy," he said.
"You have a card?" I asked after a moment of thought.
"You know I do, freakie-freakie!" he said, handing me his business card. "I'm gonna make you rich, you old Shin Nuts!"
"Don't call me that, okay?"
"Whatever you say, Necky Neck Neck."

This von Flabflauchflisen's disease is killing me, literally

Before I was diagnosed with von Flabflauchflisen's disease last year, I was convinced I'd live forever. Now, I'm not so sure. As most of you know, von Flabflauchflisen's is a disease that attacks one's central adrenocortical circulatory membrane auto nodules, or CACMANs. Before the diagnosis, I was a happy 35-year-old unemployed man living with his mommy without a care in the world. Today, I'm a 36-year-old unemployed man living with his mommy with diseased CACMANs and a bleak future. What are the symptoms of von Flabflauchflisen's disease? Well, for starters, it causes me to profusely perspire a sweat that reaks of mold. I now excrete solid waste out of my penis and liquid waste out of my ass. I now speak in numbers instead of words. My hair grows inside my head instead of out of it, causing a cramping of the subcranial membrane. My testicles float freely throughout my body. One day I can feel them roaming around my windpipe, the next they're orbiting my shins. My teeth have become alarmingly white and straight. Like a hot stock, my Adam's apple doubled in size and then split into two. My bellybutton is now located on my back, between my shoulder blades. I can now sing like a pre-pubescent English choir boy.

If you haven't guessed it already, I'm writing to ask for your help in the upcoming Walk for von Flabflauchflisen's Disease this weekend. Please make checks payable to me. I'll make sure they find their way to the right people. God bless you all.

Other than the loss of vision and trip to the ER, our first date was a smashing success

Sally Shutesanladders, the woman I met at the bar the other night, and I had our first date last night. We ended up on the couch in her apartment. My memory of what happened next is a bit hazy, but this is how I documented it in my diary several hours after I returned home from the hospital last night. It reads in real time:

I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling her up; I'm feeling her up; she's slapping me; she's slapping me again; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling her up; I'm feeling her up again; she's slapping me; she's slapping me; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling and rubbing her; she's spraying my open eyeballs with mace; she's spraying my open eyeballs with mace; I'm screaming; I'm crying; I'm sreaming for Jesus to save me; she's throwing water in my face; I'm kissing her; I'm kissing her; I'm feeling her; she's hitting me over the head with a collapsable baton; I'm bleeding everywhere; I'm crying; I'm screaming; she's dialing 9-1-1; I'm vomiting from the pain; I'm trying to kiss her again; she's kneeing me in the esophagus; I'm passing out.

That's all I remember. I woke up in a hospital bed with my wrist handcuffed to the railing. What a night! I can't wait to see her again.

I met a girl

I'm on Cloud 9, I tell you, dancing on air. I met a girl -- a terrific, sexy, not-too-too-obese girl. She was sitting at the bar the other night eating a ton of potato chips. I sat next to her. "Do you like potato chips?" I asked her. "Yef," she mumbled through a mouthful of deep-fried goodness. What a coincidence, I told her, I love potato chips, too. And that was just the beginning of the list of things we had in common. Like I, she enjoys running really fast and erratically at unexpected and impractical times -- not for exercise, mind you, but for fun. We both look at airplanes in the sky and try to will them to crash. We both are allergic to green vegetables, goose dander, and hard work. We both have been diagnosed with von Flabflauchflisen's disease; we both were rejected from eHarmony; we both pretend to like the outdoors, but secretly hate it; we both loathe Scandanavians; we both were polevaulters on our high school track teams; and we both really love cutting our own hair. This meeting was set up by the Gods. I'll have more on this later.