I just got done working out for the first time in a couple weeks. Felt good. I'll admit, the Valpolicella wine I'm drinking is not much of a post-workout drink; but fuck it, I'm Italian.

Speaking of Italy, I got about 50 pictures of Sara Rue emailed to me from a SR fan in Italy with grandiose wishes for her 27th birthday. I think it's been about a year since the Sara Rue camp threatened to sue me for the domain name I purchased (sararue.com). Indeed, they'll Rue the day they threatened me with legal action. You heard me... start ruing!

I guess there will probably be a lot of thirty-something fat guys like myself trimming down after Chris Penn was determined to have died of natural causes. Natural causes? I call bullshit. Every time some fat fuck drops dead before the age of forty-five and they call it "natural" I say they're full of shit. Die at 80 of natural causes. Die at 40 weighing three hundred pounds with a coke straw by your head and your wallet being pulled out of your pocket by some fifty dollar whore.

I'm not saying this is how Chris Penn died, but it sounds pretty goddamned probable. According to MSNBC: "Penn had suffered from an illness and used multiple drugs in the past," said David Smith, a Los Angeles County coroner’s spokesman. Smith declined to elaborate on the illness, but I'm guessing it was fatfuckitis. I've been a sufferer for years. Oh well, rest in peace Chris. Maybe in Heaven you won't have to be known only as the younger brother of Oscar winner and arrogant prick Sean Penn. I mean, no one that fucking cocky gets to go to Heaven, right?

Where am I going and what am I doing in this handbasket?

goochout.

Someone recently posted a comment about a post in the archives asking "who's the skank?" That skank happens to be a good friend of mine named Nikki, with whom I've been a friend since 1992 or 93.

I have a fear of needles and blood - specifically my own blood. So, when I get my blood drawn every month to check the levels of drug in my system to combat my bipolar disorder, I get a little nervous.

One of my nervous ticks is that I start to crack jokes to break the tension. The routine goes as follows: A nurse sits me down in a chair and has me outstretch my arm. Every time we do this she has another nurse come in because it's hard to find a vein in my arm. The second string nurse wasn't in today so I was going to have to go to another office.

Fuck.

The anticipation and waiting for that fucking needle to plow into my arm was killing me. I start spouting off: "You guys should hire a reformed heroine addict to be your full time phlebotomist. I mean... you're a nurse in an office and you can't draw blood from my arms yet a heroin junkie can find a vein in the dark under a bridge in the rain. I then shoot off onto another topic: Do you think that the telekinesis people on those shows where people bent spoons with the power of their mind were just really good heroin addicts just showing off? I mean... why was it always spoons?"

The nurse just shrugged me off as she left me alone in a neighboring office. I probably pissed her off, but I hates me a syringe... I tell you what!

I watched The Notebook a couple of nights back. My friend Nikki and I downed pints of ice cream while we watched. If we'd done each other's hair and talked about boys it would have been a great girls' slumber party.

Anyways, some people think that the Notebook is a great love story complete with a happy story resolution and a sad/heartwarming ending. I saw it pretty much as the Nazi from The Believer throwing a magnificient cock block at Cyclops from X-Men. There, it's been said. I mean... I would have called the film "The Greatest Cock Block of the '40s." But, that's just me.

I'm bitter.

I'm taking next week off from DJing hopefully. Going to try to detox myself a bit. Lots of water, exercise, etc.