Men in tights.

I love the UFC. Love it. Boxing on the other hand, I dislike rather strongly. I'm not exactly sure why this is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that has something to do with hotness that that most of the young men who participate in the sport simply exude. I love everything about UFC. I love the pre-fight hype, the TV specials the night before detailing the histories of the various gents on the card the following evening. I love how everyone asks everyone what they're doing for the fight. I love my trip to the LCBO on saturday afternoon to get my fight-night beverages and I love when those lovely, angry, and often tattooed specimens of testosterone manifest leap out of their respective corners and try to dismember one another before the bald guy rings the bell. 

Vomit inducing isn't it?

I can even look past the ear deformation that a lifetime of being dummied eventually causes.... ah yes, the cauliflower. I can turn a blind eye to the nasty ear... while my good eyes darts back and forth between the biceps, the pectorals, the glutes, the abs and the extensive network of muscles that make up the jaw-dropping, drool-summoning back of the well trained UFC fighter. 

But see what I mean about the various muscles groups? AWESOME...totally makes up for the gross ears, in most cases.

yum.



p.s. FUCK YOU KOSCHEK

Disagreements and flying vegetables.

I am sort of unstable

You know that it’s true

Cuz I threw some frozen veggies at you (well, beside you, but ya….still bad)

I’m a tad insecure

You know it’s a fact

Yes I’m preoccupied with the size of my rack

I am a bit selfish

But aren’t we all?

It seems one day we soar and the next day we fall

We're a bit overwhelmed

At home and at work

It's fair to say both of us can be real jerks

I am really sorry

I swear this is true

But I’m only sorry if you’re sorry too

Boob jobs hurt.

I realize it’s been more than a full week since I wrote something here and I said I’d do it as soon as I could. I thought it would be fun to chronicle my experience with plastic surgery and that somehow it would be easy. Well, I was wrong about that.

Last Friday I went into a North York clinic, lay down on a table and was put to sleep by a guy with a Movember moustache. Over the next 1.5 hours a well qualified, albeit young, doctor fitted me with 220 cc of silicone and stitched me up beautifully. I woke up crying not from the pain but from the sheer confusion that accompanies being put under. The pain came about 30 seconds later and left me writhing on a gurney begging deliriously for meds, which were given to me immediately and kicked in pretty fast too.

I can’t say how much time passed between ingesting the two white pills and getting wheeled out to the car but it couldn’t have been much more than an hour.

 My breasts look good already. The first few days they looked weird and stuck-on. Incredibly, they have already begun to settle into a more aesthetic position from the abnormally high and somewhat unnatural placement that implants initially receive.

To say the last week has been an emotional rollercoaster might be an understatement. I have learned about everything from the ability of painkillers to make you hurl if you don’t eat with them, to the frustration that accompanies not being able to lift anything over five pounds or wash one’s own hair. I have been lonely and sick of everyone in the same day. I have woken up unable to move my arms or sit up and I have had to sleep on my back since last Friday. 

On the opposite side of that coin, I have learned that I have amazing friends who bring me flowers, trashy celebrity gossip and support, plus a patient boyfriend who deserves some sort of medal right about now for putting up with my unpredictable moods and constant requests for him to find my lip balm, pills, slippers etc.

An example of the fine literature that has been keeping me occupied of late

I have left the house a few times but not for long. The new weight on my front end has led to back pain typically conjured in the minds of the money hungry clients of William Mattar (Hurt in car? Call William Mattar!)

My kitten has kept me good company and has stepped right on my INSANELY sensitive nipples more than once, promptly reminding me that I’ve had surgery – just in case I happen to have put it out of my mind.

All in all, I can say the whole thing went well. I have only one more day off after today then it’s back to work, back to the real world with my new attachements… which I still wish were bigger!