Lose a Fatty

I live on a narrow street with narrow houses built on narrow lots. And each year, one of my neighbors packs every available inch in front of her house with every inflatable Christmas decoration known to man. At first I thought it was a little much — I personally prefer simple white lights and red bows —   but after a decade of Christmases in my neighborhood I actually look forward to seeing what crazy character she adds to her Merry Menagerie each year. She's got two giant snowmen that tower above everything else. Maybe some reindeer? But the best, by far, is Sad Penis Santa. He didn't start out as Sad Penis Santa. When he first joined the Merry Menagerie, he was more like Stripper Santa. At first glance, you thought you were just looking at an inflatable Christmas tree. But then BAM! Santa would come rocketing out of that tree, wearing its top as a hat, like a stripper popping out of a birthday cake. Then he'd fall back into the tree and get ready to do it all over ag

A Bad Extended Metaphor To Mark My Birthday (Inspired by Springsteen and a giant margarita.) If life really is a highway, this was the year I was attacked by uncontrollable diarrhea between exits on the Pennsylvania Turnpike while simultaneously smearing a deer and getting sideswiped by an overpriced, gas-guzzling SUV. It was pretty bad. So I stood there for a while, at the side of Life Highway — covered in my own feces, deer guts plastered all over my car, tires blown out and steam bellowing from my radiator. And I won't lie. I cried. A lot. No one wants to stand along the side of Life Highway covered in their own shit and something else's shit, watching all the happy people singing with the radio and smiling and having a great time while you literally cannot imagine a time when you will not be standing by the side of the road — alone — covered in shit and crying. But then the cavalry arrived from the access road. A friend brought some Charmin wipes and fresh clot

Or The Battle for Getting What's Legally Mine From a Bunch of Angry People Who Hate Me It all began innocently enough. Staring down the barrel of a weeklong family beach vacation, I placed a hold on my US mail, like most normal Americans would. I assumed that, as had been the case in the past, I'd receive my mail in a tidy rubber-banded bundle when I returned from my trip. Oh, the naïveté! Getting home was when the adventure really began. Mailgate Day One: Saturday, September 26 I woke up the morning we departed from the beach to a confirmation email from the USPS that my mail hold had ended and I'd be receiving my mail if I'd elected to have it delivered. (I had.) I usually hate getting my mail, but I was so anxious to pick it up that I drove past my mailbox to collect it before I even went into my house. The box had one piece of mail in it. It was junk. Hrm. Maybe it'll show up Monday? <Mailgate rests on Sundays.> Mailgate Day

(This post isn't funny.) When you've been excised suddenly from someone's life — by four independent clauses strung together in a comma-spliced sentence sent stealthily through email — you will not know what to do. You will never be fine. You tell unwitting baristas and waitresses and clerks that you were viciously dumped. You watch a lot of baseball. You try to understand this new emptiness in your life that didn't exist the day before. You trade eating for crying. You call your mom all the time. You text your friends all the time. You feel bad for bothering the universe and everyone in it with your insignificance. You give yourself pep talks, remind yourself that one day you will look back on this shitstorm of awfulness and view it as the point where you started doing the things that mattered most to you. You think about what just mattered most to you yesterday. You cry. You hurt. You receive messages, calls. You make some social plans. You feel hands

I woke up on Monday morning to learn that after more than five years, my relationship had ended. I learned this via email. Four independent clauses strung together in one comma-spliced sentence. No "I'm sorry." No "Thanks it's been swell." No "I wish you all the best." Just some nonsense about needing more time to himself revealed — upon some shameful e-stalking on my part — to really mean that he wants to spend more time building shit with Legos and hanging out with other people who also build shit with Legos. It's tragic and awful and ohmygodwhodoesthattosomeone??? But that's not the point of this story. The point of this story is what's happening in my lady parts. Lest you be tempted to stop reading because you don't want to know about my sex life, let me assure you that this isn't about that at all. And anyway, right now I'm just not in the mood. No, what seems to be occurring is that my vajayjay has become,