I woke up yesterday morning with a rather painful feeling at the corner of my mouth. I knew I�d had a (gasp!) pimple forming in that area for a little while, and I was worried that perhaps it had finally bloomed. I wandered into the bathroom and flipped on the light, taking a look into the mirror. My screams probably awakened my neighbor. In Chicago.
Crouched at the corner of my mouth like Gollum was a whitehead the size of a Spaghetti-o. Seriously, it was the most horrible thing I�ve ever seen on my body, and that includes the time I once wore tapered jeans. And not only was it so large that it practically had a snow cap, it was painful to boot! Man alive, that thing hurt. With each beat of its foul heart, the thing throbbed, growing larger by the second. I woke up at about nine o�clock, and by noon it was so big it was practically growing branches. When I walked outside, children ran in fear. I looked like I had the plague.
Of course, if my plans for the day had been to just pull the covers up over my face, or perhaps undergo reconstructive surgery, this would not have been quite such a big deal. Sadly, my agenda did not include a section about avoiding all possible human contact. Rather, I intended to go and do a little apartment scouting, what with our needing to move out no later than the 28th of March and all. I�d done a little reconnaissance online and found about five apartment buildings that seemed�remember that word: �seemed��to be pretty promising, so I put my mutated growth into a wheelbarrow, loaded it and myself into the car, and pointed myself toward Hollywood.
I had barely made it to Beverly Hills when the car in front of me stopped short. I followed suit, and since I had a narrow view of the road ahead, I craned my neck to watch as some dude made a rather gutsy entrance from a side street, cutting into the path of a van. Then I heard tires squealing. Then I heard that sickening crack of hot car-on-car action. I winced, feeling for the unfortunates involved, and wondered who the poor guys were. Then I heard another sickening crack as the second guy caromed into a third, unsuspecting dude. That dude�s head jolted forward, but fortunately the enormous zit sprouting from the corner of his lip acted as an airbag, and he rebounded to safety. For those of you who haven�t yet put it together, that was my clever way of telling you that I got rear-ended in fucking Beverly Hills, again.
Luckily, perhaps miraculously, there was no damage done to my car, and although the dude who caused the whole thing (too cool for school in his Mustang convertible, talking on his Madonna headpiece) promised to pay for any damages incurred, it appeared pretty unnecessary. I think he was just intimidated by the evil, glowing orb on my face. But I got back in the car and headed over to the first unit on my list.
The woman was very nice, and the unit was very clean, but I was a little put off by the fact that the neighboring building was full of apartments sporting that awesome look where, instead of drapes, you take a sheet off your bed and just kind of pin it up over the curtain rod. Worse yet, every single one of them were patterned with, like, cars or balloons or something. I mean, at least try to find a plain sheet, and pretend it�s curtains, y�all. I went on to the second building, which was even scarier. The complex was run by a little man who smelled like fish, and the apartments all had those extra security doors out of iron mesh in front of them, which was both comforting and alarming in equal measure. The apartment itself was straight out of Old Hollywood. But not 1940's Glamorous Old Hollywood, more like 1960's Murdered-Hooker-In-The-Bathtub Old Hollywood. But I think it was one look at the scary, scary storage unit/oven that sent me running for the hills.
I actually didn�t even end up looking at two of the other three units, because the neighborhoods were so shady I was afraid to leave my car. That was just as well, because my zit had expanded to such mythic proportions that it looked like my conjoined evil twin, and people started thinking that it was the roommate I kept referring to when talking about our apartment needs. I had to keep warning them not to look directly into it. So I finally made my way back home, where I holed up inside and treated my deformity. You�ll be happy to know it was more or less gone this morning.
So I guess the moral of the story is...um...enjoy the story. It�s all I got.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: I�m a homewrecker I�m Watching: Alias. How much do you think Melissa George got paid to lie there in that box? And: Lost. How the hell pregnant is Claire, anyway?