The time it takes to heal

As I was at work today, relaxing on the toilet, I was thinking about why it was that my feet always fall asleep as I squeeze out a monster log. I came to the conclusion that I might need to ease up on the old fried cheese and bacon. But because I am completely infatuated with both, I decided to not stop eating those things and to get over the painful two minutes it takes for the blood to by-pass my clogging arteries and slosh into my toes. I got pretty used to the smell and I'm actually encouraging others to buy the bottled product. Puff by Pierre is coming this Fall. I'm thinking I'll add the blue can, low carb Rock Star smell to the follow up cologne. Wal-mart is biting at my heels.

Anyway. Hunching over the sink, grasping onto the counter, I looked up into the mirror and wondered, not about the passing customer who was probably asking himself why this crazy man has his pants down and is doing a sachet to Lady Gaga's Bad Romance in his head but, why my face looked so squishy and strained. Are there some crows that can't land anymore? On one drunkin night out did I steal a bunch of feet that I'm not so secretly hiding on my face? My attention quickly turned to the gray hair that was poking through the Just for Men Brown I had just destroyed it with on my head, and not so discretely coming out of my nose. I don't mind a smidge of gray. Everyone always says I'm distinguished. Fuck a hoe-nut. Distinguished or not, that $7.98 was money not well spent. I don't think I'm that old but I guess 27 is pretty much the start of the decline. Mid-life is fun. And who am I kidding, that customer's bitch ass would have loved these nipps if he knew what was good for him...and they weren't hiding under the sweaty flab sac.

The moral of this story is, I need a boyfriend.