You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?: The "Let it Go" Edition

The story I'm about to tell you would be included in my list of all-time grudges, except it's not really a grudge against one specific person. It's a grudge against an entire situation. It's a situational grudge, if you will. But that doesn't mean I'm going going to tell it. Ha ha, no sir. Because much like my all-time grudges or my little Rosh Hashanah rant, I jump at the opportunity to tell this to anyone or anything that will listen to me. I should really make a seperate list of "Things I Can Not Let Go Despite a Good Amount of Time Passing and It Not Really Being That Big of a Deal in The First Place" (or my TICNLGDAGAOFPAINRBTBOADITFP list, if you will.) This would be its star. Either way, go get some coffee. Sit down. Get comfortable. Like always, it's going to be a long and semi-pointless one.

Our story begins freshman year of high school in first period Spanish class. Sitting diagonally from me was Talia, sitting behind me was Eileen (who, for the record, was even bitchier first thing in the morning than I was, but that's neither here nor there) and sitting next to me was Steve Nardone. Oh, man. Steve Nardone, you guys. It is now widely accepted that Steve Nardone was one of the hottest guys in our class, but back then he was just some quiet schmo who flew under the radar. And the thing is, nothing physically changed about him from freshman to senior year. It's not like he lost a considerable amount of weight or stopped wearing Insane Clown Posse makeup to school or anything; he looked exactly the same on graduation day as he did that first day of Spanish class, freshman year. So what changed? Well, I don't want to say it was my crush on Steve Nardone that made all the difference, and yet, that's actually exactly what I'm going to say. Because that's exactly what this post is about. I openly had a crush on Steve Nardone first semester of freshman year and suddenly so did the rest of the world and I got zero credit for it. BOOM. There it is. And it still ruffles my feathers.

[TIME OUT: I wrote most of this post last week when I got home from dinner with Talia and Jill and I was all fired up because we randomly discussed Steve Nardone and I had "had a few chardonnays", if you will. So, I wrote this, it's based on an experience that I really had, and yet when I re-read it tonight to edit, I was like, "YEAH!!! THAT WAS IRRITATING. GOD, GOOD POINT, MEG," and completely re-fired myself up until I was ranting and raving at Dan while he ignored me and dicked around on Facebook and flossed his teeth. So what I'm trying to say is, if this sucks because it's oddly specific to my high school experience and I wrote it kind of drunk, at least I know one person will appreciate it: Me. God bless and proceed.]

I have the most absurdly vivid memory of being all zipped up in my little sleeping bag on the floor at a field hockey sleepover and being like, "TEE- HEE! Man, that Steve Nardone kid is so nice and stupid cute. Do you think he'd go to Homecoming with me?" And do you know what happpened? I got laughed at. LAUGHED AT. Everyone was like, "Steve Nardone? What's a Steve Nardone? Who's that? He's quiet. I don't know who that is, blah blah blah, let's run sprints," and I was like, "Oh. OK. I'll just go back to making this lanyard out of gimp and wishing I ran an 8-minute mile instead of 15 so I could fit in with you people [weave, weave, weave]." And then not four months later, the entire world had a crush on Steve Nardone. And continued to do so until we graduated! He was like, The Unnatainable Steve Nardone. And who was I? Meg. Just Meg, who sat in the corner and occasionally said snarky things and drove a Mazda Protege named Pedro. That was me.

And you know the worst part? I went to Homecoming sophomore year with Steve Nardone's stepbrother, except I had no idea that they were related. Thus, when I called their house (because it was 1999 and only Zack Morris and drug dealers had cell phones,) I thought Steve was my date's dad and the results were just horrible.

[Ring, ring]

Steve Nardone: Hello?

M: Hi, may I please speak to Danny?

S: He's not here right now, can I take a message?

M: Sure, can you just have him call Meg whenever he gets a chance?

S: Oh, hey Meg, it's Steve! [TIME OUT: OK, so again, I had no idea they were stepbrothers. Apparently this was, and is, common knowledge, but may I remind you that I only just found out that narwhals are real, so let's all lower the bar a little. And when he said his name was Steve, a.k.a. the International Dad and/or Stepdad Name, I just assumed my date mentioned we were going to Homecoming and his dad was being really friendly and engaging.]

M: Oh. Uh. Hi, sir.

..."OH. UH. HI, SIR." GAAAAAHHHHHHHHHJJJJJjjjjjesus Christ. I called him sir. Of course once I put everything together and realized that I was talking to fucking Steve Nardone, I wanted to set myself on fire for having said that. Like sometimes I'll just be driving down the road, randomly remember it, and want to crash my car into the median. And the thing is, I'm sure he has no recollection of this conversation ever happening, yet I'm going to have it engraved on my tombstone with an artistic etching of me holding my head in my hand and looking really disappointed, under the line, "Here lies Meghan Catherine McBlogger. She........well, she tried real hard." College Roommate Danielle went through this really irritating phase of purposely remembering the most embarrassing moments of her life when she was bored and detailing them to me, which obviously drove me crazy because then I'd have to browse the extensive library that is all of my most embarrassing moments. It was evil. She'd text me when I was in class and be like, "I'm remembering something so mortifying!" and I'd be like GOD DAMNIT I CALLED STEVE NARDONE SIR!!1 and die all over again, except this time in the middle of an art history class or something equally worthless in the long run.

S: How are you doing? Excited for Homecoming?

M: Yeah! Totally! [wanting to get off the phone as soon as humanly possible because your "son" and I are going to Homecoming together, not adopting a Korean baby] OK, well if you could just tell Danny to call me when he gets back in, that would be great. Thank you! Bye! [click.]

GAHHHHHHHHHHH. I had Steve Nardone on the phone, he was engaged, he knew who I was, this was before the entire world had a crush on him so his standards were probably pretty low, and I rushed to get off the phone with him because I'm a little bit Aspie's and didn't want to talk to someone's dad. FAILURE.

And guess what Steve Nardone does now? He's a SURFER/MODEL/PHOTOGRAPHER. I've ascertained from various Facebook pictures and not his resume, which I've never seen before and is probably more accurate than Facebook, for the record, that he's done some amateur SURFING/MODELING/PHOTOGRAPHING at some point in his life. I am 100% not kidding. About that ascertation. And in 1999, when I had the balls to be like, "hey, that kid's got a shape to him," everyone acted like I was crazy. And I'm more than I aware that I graduated seven years ago and there are more important things for me to be upset about, but I can not physically let this go. And it's not an issue of like, "ohhh, I missed out on my shot with Steve Nardone," because, whatever. I wouldn't have known what to do with that shot if it walked up with a top hat, monocle, and youtube video instructions and let's not pretend like I would. It's an issue of I was right and I want credit for it. I had the first crush on him and every other girl who had a crush after me (and there were many) didn't have to deal with the same shit that I did. I paved the way. I'm the Rosa Parks of Steve Nardone crushes. Where's my PBS special? Where's my middle school?

So now, much like with Rosh Hashanah, everytime someone mentions Steve Nardone, I'm like, "WELL LET ME TELL YOU A STORY" and go into the whole shpeal whether that person wants to hear it or not. (And most times, the answer is not.) Because I demand recognition. The following conversation actually happened at dinner the other night when Steve Nardone was brought up:

Talia: Remember how you were the first person to have a crush on him freshman year and then everyone else did and he could have the pick of any girl in the school?

M: Yes, thank you. I remember.

T: You really did pave the way.

M: [puts fajita down and looks at Talia directly in the soul] Say it again.

T: What?

M: Say that I was the first and paved the way.

T: But I just did.

M: Well say it again. I need to hear it again.

T: Uh, you were the first person to have a crush on Steve Nardone.

M: And I...........?

T: ...Paved the way.

M: Now say he owes his entire high school happiness to me.

T: ...I'm not entirely sur—

M: SAY IT.

T: He, 'owes his entire high school happiness to you.'

M: Now say that he owes at least 99.9% of his current life success to me.

T: Yes Meg. Steve Nardone owes 99.9% of his current life success to you.

And then I proceeded to get drunker on strawberry margaritas like a jaded, middle-aged divorcée because the only slashes that separate my job title are between blogger, unemployed, and gastrointestinal problems. Christ.

State of the Meg—July, 2010

- 'Eh...I've been going through some stuff that I don't really care to talk about, suffice to say I learned (yet again) that it's not a good idea to suddenly try to wean yourself off anti-depressants. In my defense though, I did take AP Psychology in 2002. I got a 3 on the exam, a B- in the class and remember three things from the entire experience:

1.) The story of Phineas Gage, the guy who was working on a railroad in the 1800's, when a tamping rod shot through his brain and turned him into a real asshole. (And truthfully I only remember that story because I think "Phineas Gage and the Tamping Rods" would be an excellent band name.)

2.) That thing when you're just about to fall asleep but you jerk awake because you feel like you're falling is called "Myoclonus."

3.) "Rooting" is when you poke a baby on its cheek and automatically turns and searches for the nipple.

So clearly, I think we both see why I thought I was qualified to make executive decisions about my own mental health.

- And speaking of good band names! I refer you to the following email I got this morning from my sister:

Do you remember that one time when we looked up what time the sun was going down because I was walking back to VA and we found the term “civil twilight” and I said it was a great name for a band? Well someone stole my idea! http://www.expressnightout.com/content/2010/07/civil-twilight-civil-twilight-cd-930-club.php

Bastards.

Bastards indeed. However, that's exactly what I always imagined the band "Civil Twilight" looking like. Exactly.

- And speaking of my sister and depression! Last week's quote of the week went to her when she met me at work after I emailed her and asked if she would come over and give me a hug. She showed up within five minutes (aww...), and I took her to a discreet corner of the greeting card section and proceeded to hug the crap out of her. It was nice and reassuring and I'll ask you to reserve your judgment, thank you. I'm not a robot. Sometimes I need a good skip and a good hug. Plus, I like my co-workers, but I don't think we're on please-hold-me-in-the-card-section terms. Yet.

After we hugged it out, this conversation transpired:

Becca: What's going on you, dude? You haven't been blogging.

Me: I don't really know, but something's up. I've been significantly more depressed than usual. Like sleeping 17 hours at a time, depressed.

Becca, unfazed: ...Isn't that kind of normal for you?

And you know what? Touché, madam.

- I bought a Gillette Mach-3 razor the other day because it was on sale at CVS with my extra savings card and my legs have never been this smooth in my entire life. Ever. It seriously blows my mind. If I ever had physical contact with a member of the opposite sex, I'm sure he would appreciate it. In the mean time, I keep catching myself zoning out and absentmindedly stroking my legs at inappropriate times, which only makes me feel slightly like a child molester.

- And speaking of sad single woman stereotypes, guess who's getting a cat for the next six weeks? THIS GUY. No, no, not Evie. (I wish.) It's my sister's best friend Laura's brother's cat. Laura and her husband Chris were supposed to cat-sit her for the summer, but unfortunately she got in a vicious fight with their two other cats and perhaps lost an eye? So who do you turn to when you have a one-eyed cat that needs to be unloaded for a summer? Meg McBlogger, that's who. Truthfully I'm more than happy to help Laura and Chris out and I met the cat last weekend and she seems nice enough. She's a calico. Her little pirate eye broke my heart. However, I take offense with her name—Cashmere. I just have an issue with sharing an apartment with anything that sounds like it should be a featured weekend dancer at Larry Flynt's Hustler Club. Here are my top-3 choices for what I'll call her:

- One-Eyed Willie

- Chester Copperpot

- Sean Astin

So far I'm leaning towards the latter.

- In the continuing battle of Meg vs. Common Everyday Metals, I'm allergic to the back of my name tag at work. Normally I wear a cardigan or a cami under my shirt at work so the metal doesn't touch my skin, but it being July in Washington, DC and all, it hasn't really been layer-appropriate weather recently. So now I have a rectangular shaped welt on my chest that's flaking and constantly itches. It's really, really cute. Sometimes I catch people staring at it and I want to be like, "IT'S NOT SCABIES—I JUST HAVE A SEVERE ALLERGY TO NICKEL AND AM TOO EMBARRASSED TO ASK FOR A SPECIAL HYPO-ALLERGENIC NAME TAG AND PAINTING CLEAR NAIL POLISH ON THE BACK OF IT DOESN'T HELP!" But that wouldn't really make anything "better," so I let 'em just assume I have scabies instead. That's the state of my life right now—I willing let people believe I have scabies.

- Speaking of work, we sell a birthday card that has an illustration of two beavers holding a log that says "Happy Birthday!" and the description when you ring it up is "Happy Birthday 2 Beavers". Everytime someone buys it, I pee myself juuuuuust a little bit.

- In the continuing battle of poverty, I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that I picked up 10 extra hours a week at work because I sent the most Desperate Debbie email to my managers begging them to throw any leftover hour scraps under the table for me. Thankfully, they were very generous. The bad news is that I'm still not making enough money to make ends meet, so I turned to the only place where a young, working woman can make a few extra dollars without compromising her integrity—Craigslist.

The Haunted Ghost Tour thing didn't pan-out, so I answered an ad for a health study on smoking that promised to pay $100. Now I'm not a "smoker" per se, but at this point I'd get on all fours and eat a pack of Marlboro Reds if you gave me 100-bucks. But alas, I hauled ass to NIH on my day off only to find out that my lung capacity is too good and I was turned down. Thus I call shenanigans on my mom for telling me that pot damages your lungs just as much as cigarettes and expect $100 retribution in the mail any day now. Kthnx.

- Feeling extra desperate recently, I decided to parooze the Craigslist adult gigs because sometimes you luck out and find some schmo who gets off on really random and non-sexual things and it's like, shit—I'll let you watch me do sudoku for a half an hour as long as I'm fully clothed and we do it in a Barnes & Noble, you know? Who am I to judge? Unfortunately all of the adult ads have been too sexual to consider recently, which is unfortunate, but does remind me of one of the biggest disagreements Ex Co-Blogger Chris and I have ever had in the history of our friendship.

When we were roommates in Brooklyn, I found an ad for a guy who would pay $500 to come and clean your house (fully clothed) and all you had to do in return is berate him while he did it (also fully clothed). I thought I had solved three problems with this ad: 1.) lack of money; 2.) anger management 3.) the hard to reach grease caked around the burners of our stovetop.

I drafted an email to this guy and out of courtesy told Chris what I was doing and he was having none of it. He refused to let me do it because he thought the guy would kill me. Meeting him halfway, I told him he could be there when it happened, but that only made it worse because apparently the guy would "kill him too." Here was my argument for why it was a good idea and Chris was wrong:

1.) Our apartment's messy; you wanna clean it up?

2.) $500. (I mean, yes, this was a pre-Recession world we were living in, but even back then that was a shit-ton of money.)

3.) Spending a Saturday berating some repressed Wall Street weirdo while he scrubs our toilet and we watch and eat Craisins sounds like the most fun thing I humanly can think of. If it doesn't to you, perhaps you're not the man I thought you were.

4.) $500.

5.) I grew up watching HBO's Real Sex; the people with the weirdest fetishes tend to be the most corn-fed, middle America, harmless, normal people.

5.) $500.

6.) I will give you that anyone willing to answer a Craigslist fetish ad has to be slightly eccentric and open-minded, but serial killers don't get off killing those kinds of people. They go for the normal, girl-next-door type who answers an ad from the guy who has an extra ticket to the Jason Mraz concert tonight and is looking for a LTR. That girl isn't expecting to get killed; she's expecting a night of grade-A crooning. The fetishist at least somewhat expects to end up a lampshade. And where's the fun in that? Where's the element of surprise? Jesus, watch an episode of Profiler or something.

7.) $500.

In the end, the fight escalated to "if you answer that ad, I'm moving out," so I decided to concede and forget about it because I'm such a good person. But I still kind of resent Chris for it and bring up this fight whenever possible. Obviously.

- I was at work the other day and a family of very obvious tourists walked in a started looking around the "Fun & Funky" table. On said table, we sell a book called Farts: A Spotter's Guide. It's basically a little noise machine that makes various farting noises attached to a book that explains what each kind of fart is. (I got it for Talia's birthday and it was the hit of the party. Mind you this was the party with the gin bucket, so the bar was already raised pretty high.)

The patriarch of the family picked up the book and started shaking his head disapprovingly. (Mind you he looked like the kind of guy who asks his son if he's a "queer" for not wanting to play football, but then creeps into his room at night to make him touch a completely different kind of pigskin, if you know what I mean. An Intervention Father, as I call them.) So he has the book in his hand and is shaking his head at it when he sternly says, "Farts. Farts, in our Nation's Capitol," puts the book down in disgust and walks away.

Thus, my new moneymaking scheme is to write a hit children's book called, Even The District Farts! and make a million dollars.

Good day to you, poverty.

State of the Meg: SCABIES!!!!!!1

Enlarged holes and thicker poles. (Happy Monday.)

I fall in love incredibly easily. Not like, for realsies love though. Because that would involve a certain level of putting myself out there emotionally to another human being that I'm not down with because it sounds really stressful and time-consuming and I'm already behind on two episodes of Real Housewives of New York and I don't have any food in my apartment and blah blah blah there are only so many hours in the day so whooooo—thanks, but no thanks. But falling in love with strangers? I'm a pro at that. Ben from Ace of Cakes? Anthony Bourdain's special effects guy? Michael Showalter? The waiter at Big Hunt with the colorful tattoos and the Kermit the Frog wristband? The bartender at Big Hunt with the ridiculously long beard? Yeah. I'm in a committed, monogamous and deliriously happy relationship with each and every one of them. And they don't even know it. Bless their hearts.

Those men aside, there exists a group of people who I can not physically interact with without falling head over heels, knock-me-over-the-head-with-a-two-by-four, stupid in love with: tattoo artists and body piercers. There. I said it. I was honest. Am I aware that it's childish and stupid? Yes. Do I feel better having admitted it? Slightly.

I don't really know what my hang up here is, but I've fallen in love with every single person to tattoo or pierce me in the history of modifying my body. (Except for the woman who pierced my ears at the Afterthoughts in Lake Forest Mall, circa 1990.) (Although let's not lie, she had a shape to her too...) I'm sure you could make some terribly pseudo-psychoanalytical point here about how you give your body to a tattoo artist and/or body piercer and they penetrate you and it's kind of like sex when you think about it so how could you not be left with some attachment to them? But I'd rather chalk it up to: you're hot and heavily tattooed + I'm into that + now you're touching me = I have a lady boner.

And the physical attractiveness of said tattoo artist/body piercer is a complete non-issue. You could look like a cross between Sloth from The Goonies and Phil Spector and I'd still bang you out six ways from Sunday and buy us monogrammed towels if you've got a needle in your hand.

The very first piercer I ever fell in love with was a young gentleman known as American Dan who had a little piercing stand in an oxygen bar on the boardwalk of Ocean City, Maryland. (Hi. I caught crabs just from typing that sentence.) As is the tradition of Beach Week, I spent the week between the last day of high school and our actual graduation ceremony at Talia's grandparent's beach house in Bethany and we'd frequently go into Ocean City to explore the night life of America's preeminent White Trash Playground.

One night, we decided we'd all head to the boardwalk and get something pierced, as is another grand post-high school, pre-college rebellious tradition. (Except I don't think what I did could technically be defined as "rebellious" as I pussed out and only got my mid-cartilage pierced and called my mom first to make sure it was OK. But, you know, the road to rebellion is paved with small, cubic-zirconia-studded steps.)

Once seated in American Dan's sketchy back office, I immediately fell in love with him. Which is odd because if I remember correctly, American Dan had a Jew-fro and a dick tattoo, but still, there I was—a young girl smitten. He was all I could think about for the remaining week. I was convinced I'd let my one shot at true love with American Dan (god...) slip between my fingers, so when my friend Ali decided to go back a few days later and get her nose pierced, I immediately shotgunned being the supportive friend who got to go with her and hold her hand. It was our last night at the beach and I walked into that oxygen bar (Jesus Christ...) dolled up and ready to make my intentions known.

I had a very concrete plan on how to do this.

Step 1: hold Ali's hand and act incredibly cool. And apparently acting incredibly cool meant lying to American Dan and telling him that I was a 20-year old Sophomore at AU. Which, to be fair, was sort of true. Kind of. If you ignore...most of the truth. American Dan asked me where I hung out in DC and I swear to god I replied, "Well, we hang out in Adams a lot, but that scene is getting kind of played out." "Yeah, I totally know what you mean," American Dan responded. I was mentally peeing my pants. I had no idea where that line came from and I was shocked it actually worked. Because I didn't know shit about DC nightlife when I was 18. On any given weekend night in high school, I was doing one of the following three activities:

1.) Sitting in a booth at the T.G.I. Friday's on Rockville Pike eating a brownie sundae with my girlfriends, shamelessly hitting on male waiters to the point of border-line sexual harassment.

2.) Awkwardly holding a can of Busch Lite and desperately wishing I knew how to talk to the opposite sex at a field party in the middle of bumble fuck nowhere Howard County, Maryland.

3.) Driving around in my friend Billy's SUV getting high, ordering a gross number of apple pies from the McDonald's late night drive-through menu and acting extremely paranoid.

Those three activities were my high school experience in a nutshell. Never did we do anything remotely interesting in the city. So kudos to me for remembering some random shit I must have heard my sister say and being able to get it out with a straight face.

Step 2: Slip a note into American Dan's tip jar when he isn't looking and wait for him to fall in love and call me. What did the note say?

HERE'S A TIP: CALL ME! 301-221-####. - MEG

I wish I were kidding. But I'm just not. And the thing is, I thought I had such fucking game with that line. I sat down with pen and paper for like a solid 30-minutes trying to phrase that perfectly and when I was done I gave myself a high-five and walked around the house thinking I was a sex goddess.

So later that night, sexy note a-burnin' a hole in my pocket, I sat there holding Ali's hand in American Dan's piercing shack waiting for the perfect moment to slip it in his jar. (That's what she said.) (She being me.) (AND HOW!) Now, American Dan's tip jar was located on the counter directly above the drawer where he kept his packets of sterile needles. I waited until American Dan had all of his instruments set up on a tray and had his back turned to clean Ali's nose. Then I seized the moment, folded my note in half and silently slipped it into his tip jar. "SLAM AND DUNK!" I thought to myself.

And then the worst thing that could have possibly happened, happened: right before he pierced Ali's nose, he dropped the needle. I saw that son-of-a-bitch fall to the floor in slow motion and my heart stopped. He couldn't use a dirty needle—he'd have to go back over to the tip jar area to get a new one. Remember the tip jar? That giant glass tip jar I had just put my pathetic little note in? The one you can see into? And the only thing in it was a folded note that wasn't there 30 seconds ago...?

My eyes were as wide as saucers. My breath caught in my throat. "OH SHIT. OH SHIT. MAYBE HE WON'T SEE IT," I thought to myself, "SHOULD I RUN? DO I RUN? I CAN'T LEAVE ALI. OH SHIT. OH GOD. OH SHIT. MAYBE HE WON'T SEE IT?!?!?!?"

American Dan stopped looking through the needle drawer and glanced up at his tip jar with a raised eyebrow. "What's that?" he asked.

"UHHHHHH. UHHHHHHHH....IT'S. NOTHING. I. THAT'S FOR. YOU? NO IT'S NOT. YES IT IS. HI." I not-so-suavely responded.

He reached into the jar, took out my note and started reading it. I thought I was going to explode from embarrassment.

He started to laugh. "Did you leave this for me?" he asked me.

"I MEAN. I GUESS. YEAH. TECHNICALLY, YES, THAT IS YOURS NOW. UNLESS YOU DON'T WANT IT. WHICH WOULD ALSO BE FINE. OR WHATEVER."

"Does this say, 'Here's a tip: call me'?"

"...................It's a clever play on words. OK. BETTER PEIRCE ALI NOW, HUH??!!"

Oh yes, and Ali. My dear, dear friend. What was she doing at this point? Laughing. Just shamelessly laughing at me and my misfortune and watching me squirm. I can't really blame her though because I would have done the exact same thing. But you better believe the second American Dan was done piercing her, I dropped that girl's hand like third period French and flew out of the room and back into the oxygen bar (Jesus...) like a bat out of hell.

To answer the obvious question, no, American Dan never called me. Not like I'd know what to do even if he had. I had just turned 18 and still felt the need to get my mom's permission before rebelling—I think a sexual rendezvous on the beach with someone with flames tattooed on their dick was kind of ambitious. But it did spark a burning love for tattoo artists/body piercers that is still very much alive today.

A few weeks ago, I decided to go to Jinx Proof with Alex to get my nose re-pierced. I originally got it pierced there when I was a Junior in college and I liked having it. It was small and understated. Jazzy and elegant. But then I moved to New York where I had so many emotions and felt the need to express those emotions by driving a huge gold barbell through my right eyebrow as a statement. When I moved back to DC, I took both piercings out as an act of "IT'S A BRAND NEW CHAPTER OF MY LIFE! NEW DAY! NEW YOU! STARING AT THE BLANK PAGE BEFORE YOU, LOOKING OUT THE DIRTY WINDOW..." etc etc, but I always kind of missed my little nose piercing. And now with not having a job or an office dress code anymore, I figured fuck it! Why not get that puppy back, right?

The second I saw the body piercer at Jinx Proof, I fell in love. He was dreamy and covered in classic American tattoos and-a-tee-hee-hee-hee we talked about the weather and he touched my face and I came in my pants and blah blah blah. I tried to be as sexy as I could, which was incredibly difficult with his finger up my nose and my left eye tearing up uncontrollably in pain. I over-tipped him, ran home to Internet stalk him and I found out via Myspace that he's married to an obviously smokin' hot woman. I then cried, ate an entire cheesecake, danced to Whitney's I'm Every Woman and moved on with my life. It was pretty par for the course for the experience that is me going to get something pierced or tattooed.

But then I starting having some problems. You see, because I got my nose re-pierced in the same exact same location as before, the hole has stretched out a bit and my little gold stud keeps slipping through and I almost lose it every time I wash my face or blow my nose or use a shower with adequate water pressure or apply positive pressure to my cheek in the very least. It's starting to get annoying.

I realize the answer is to simply go back to the shop and ask for a different nose ring, but given how dreamy I find this man and how in love I am, I just can't physically bring myself to walk up to him and say, "Excuse me sir, my hole is stretched out and I think I need a thicker stud to fill it."

I just...can't. It's mortifying to think about. I keep trying to think of a different way to phrase it, but when I think about him and then the word "hole" or the phrase "slipping through" at all, I start giggling uncontrollably like a school girl. Unfortunately both are kind of key in explaining the situation. Sigh.

God damnit. God damn my complete and utter inability to NOT fall in love with tattoo artists/body piercers and god damn how absurdly hard I fall, AND MOST OF ALL—god damn my giant, stretched out, been around the block a few too many times, gaping hole. In my nose.

Thank you.