don't bother reading this

Did anyone else know that Farrah had anal cancer?
Gah!
I think if I had butt cancer, I would never speak about it here. Or anywhere. Maybe that's why I just heard about "Farrah's cancer", and not the actual type she had. Maybe I just wasn't listening.

Now, I have this problem with the idea of poop entering my bloodstream. I'm quite sure that the incidence of anal cancer brings about some goopy lesions. On or about your anus. Whence from where you poop.

See, I have this pimple on my forehead that I picked at and made it into an open sore and I don't even feel comfortable pooping lately in case one of the germs floats out of the toilet and lands on my head. Someone told me once that if you can smell something, you are actually breathing in particles of the source. Then again, the person who told me that was named Britain Beaver. Hand to Christ her mother named her that. Britain, if you find this post by Googling yourself, hello and thank you for ruining my life with that information.
Plus, you know how they say that toilet water spreads something like 6 feet if you don't close the lid when you flush? I'm only 5'7". Specks of poop might land on my zit. Then what?

I wonder if one of the complications of anal cancer is poopy blood. I'm sure that bloody poop is a sign.

This is too much.

And Michael Jackson is dead. I'm sitting here wondering about the condition the Coroner found his anus to be in. Isn't that sad? Do they routinely check that orafice in an autopsy? Shouldn't they? You know, just in case?
Pop Icon Dead, Local Girl Questions his Anus.
As if there was an interrogation or something.

As if.

There has got to be more going on in my life right now that doesn't involve dead stars and absurd anxiety issues.

I'm planning a vacation. Yeah! The boy is coming. Groan. Traveling with children is _______. You tell me.
I think it's funny when bloggers don't talk about their vacations because they don't want their house to get robbed. I don't want my house to get robbed, but I think you guys would be hard pressed to find it. I live in South Philly, me and a quarter million other people. There are probably over 100 houses on my 1/10th of a mile long block. Sometimes I can't even find my own house. When I have a party I have to tie a balloon to the rail so my friends know which bell to ring. When I come home from a party I wish I tied a balloon to my rail so I knew which knob accepts my key.
I think rowhomes are really neat because every door leads to a literal hole in the wall. Hundreds of people share my wall, but no one can get into my hole unless I let them in. Or they force their way in. While I'm on vacation. We're like mice.
Little city mice.

I love cheese.

The older I get, the more cheese doesn't love me back.
Now I'm thinking about butts again, and that "getting in my hole" thing is not meant to be dirty so I don't want to hear about it in my comments.

We had a fire safety training as part of a unit meeting this morning and one of the powerpoint screens was about cigarette disposal. It told us to "soak butt in water". That's not so funny here, but it was hilarious 80 minutes into the meeting. The only redeeming quality of two-hour Friday morning meetings is it totally turns me into an 8 year old boy, just in time for the weekend.
I also had to stifle a laugh when someone said "sometimes I see men". Of course he meant clinically, but it was still funny.

Philadelphia hosts the big Army/Navy football game and this town gets covered in seamen.

I should buy stock in Bandaids, because I am terrible with a razor. This morning I shaved my legs and wrecked 'em.

I'm getting paid for all of this nonsense, remember.
Somehow none of this has worked it's way into my job description, but I manage to get it in there.