And We Didn’t Even Go On A First Date

I just feel like it all moved a bit fast.

There I was, shirtless. And we hadn’t even bantered about our favorite foods. I didn’t even know his middle name. He had no clue of my sorted past with inappropriate men or that I have a constant desire to buy unnecessary office supplies. I didn’t even have the chance to make up some terribly impressive story about how I quit my job to work with Tsunami victims or feed children in Ethiopia.

In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but be filled with doubts that this just wouldn’t turn out right.

But I was wrong.

For the second time I can vividly remember, I was terribly mistaken.

The breast biopsy results were negative.

All the juicy details to follow on the video blog. Why? Because I’m suspecting my only other competition is Wheel of Fortune, Jersey Shore, or one of about 800 shows that chronicle the life of a young law enforcement agent working on the streets of LA who quits his job every other week because he never anticipated how rough it would really be.

If you so much as even consider choosing Jersey Shore over me, we’re through.

On a serious note, I would like to give a big Blunt thank you to all of the people who emailed me and talked me off the ledge during the past month. Specifically, my new girlfriend Vodka and Ground Beef, and my Colorado other half, Twenty Somethings. It’s amazing how much you can relate to people you’ve never actually met. I’d say it’s the main, if only reason, I keep this old blog going.

So between the biopsy, the financial issues, a family crisis, relationship stuff, a bff having a baby – I apologize for my absence. I’ll be getting over to your blogs this week and thanks for sticking around… MUAH!

I’ll be back in a couple days with some introspective Thanksgiving-ish post!

Dear Matthew McConaughey,

Dear Matthew McConaughey,

Can you make a different movie already?  Wait.  What was that?  OH, you can’t.  It’s physically impossible?  Okay.  So I can just expect the same movie with the same plot and same actress, where you discover you were some sort of “bet,” and then you get fake mad, and then storm out, only to read an article that the girl wrote in her column about you saying that she really was in love, so you chase her down via boat or scooter at the end of the movie, in a outdoorsy scene set to a cheesy made-only-for-a-girly-movie song?

Well that just hurts my heart,

Blunt.

As you can see so aptly demonstrated in this picture, I have set lofty expectations for myself in 2009.  Obama isn’t the only one ushering in “CHANGE,”  kids.

One thing I’ve left off the list is working out.  I always thought there was no need to work out unless I was borderline obese.  Well, after sitting at home and being subjected daytime talkshows for the past 4 months, I’ve realized there might be reasons other than just the threat of morbid obesity why I shouldn’t sit in my chair for 12 hours straight everyday, eating assorted leftover holiday candy.  But is that gonna stop me?  The fact that you even ask that question makes me realize that we aren’t as tight as I thought.

So check it.  One of the few only downfalls of working for yourself, is that you have to shovel out money for health insurance.  And you better believe, I’m not doing that.  Nonetheless, my father feels otherwise. 

Dad: You’ve got to get insurance.  What if you have a big accident?

Me: I sit in my office 24/7 and I never leave the house.  What’s gonna happen?

Dad:  Diabetes from your sedentary lifestyle?

Me:  Okay. Fine… I’ll look into it.

Well, my dad knew there about as much of a chance that Angelina Jolie would stop adopting exotic children than there would be of me actually following through with that statement.  So about a week later, I get a text from my friend/insurance agent saying that my dad picked out a policy for me and I need to come sign it.  Oh. Seriously?

A couple weeks later, I begrudgingly go to sign the papers.  As I’m sitting there shooting the breeze and answering questions about my gastrointestinal family history, I notice a fax cover sheet on top of my file.  From my father.  And it reads:

To: Justin   From:  Denny

Subject:  Please call me if my daughter “forgets” to come in and sign the paperwork.

For a split second, I had to recover from the whiplash I experienced from my dad throwing me under the bus, until I realized that my dad was absolutely correct in assuming that I’d probably blow this off and then tell him I forgot.  Then, just when I thought I was in the clear – I got a call from the insurance company:

Insurance:  Hello, this is the insurance company, we’re trying to process your request for a policy.  Can you clarify some things?

Me:  Sure.

Insurance:  So, your records show you were admitted to the ER in 2006.  Can you explain that?

Me:  [honestly, not even remembering that happened….]  Um, I really don’t remember.

Insurance:  It says something about shortness of breath and hyperventilation?

Me:  Oh… oh.  Yea.  Anxiety attack.  Forgot about that, sorry.  Crazy boyfriend, don’t ask. 

Insurance:  Ok. Well has the problem been resolved?

Me:  Well, he’s across the ocean now, if that’s what you mean. 

Insurance:  Okaaaaay.  What about the x-rays you had on your leg in 2007?

Me:  Oh… yea.  Forgot about that, sorry.  My hip pops out of joint at random times and I can’t walk.  Hurts like a beotch.

Insurance:  Pops out of joint?

Me:  Yes.  They told me I need to exercise to strengthen the ligaments.

Insurance:  So has your exercising resolved the problem?

Me:  [I don’t recall saying that I actually took the advice?]  Uh, suure.  Why yes, it has.

Insurance:  Good.  And lastly, why did you go to an ear specialist?

Me:  Good question.  He didn’t fix crap.