It's Tragic, But I'll Miss You All

What started out as a terrific weekend is sure to end tragically for me.  I should've known. 
Things were Too. Damn. Perfect.

First, I read The Bloggess's post on her 5' Metal Chicken, Beyonce. 

Honestly, one of these days she is going to

force me to stalk her. More than I currently am.

And it was funny.  And then it went viral and she has over 2000 comments on it, with about 50 of them from crazy men who are telling her to obey her husband, and that she is a dumb wasteful bitch, and is she donating the same amount of money to charity that she spent on her chicken?  (This, toward the woman who single-handedly raised over $42,000 in gift cards for those in need at Christmas last year.)  They were funny to read until I had a couple of drinks and then I was just pissed off.  So I started posting counter-comments to those comments.  It's really nothing to be proud of, but it was fun while it lasted.  I love the Bloggess, and even on my puny little blog I got one comment once that was so nasty and awful, and even though it was months ago I can still recite it word for word.  (Someone out there is NOT a fan of Whoreticulture Friday, and CH has been invited to bend her over so he can enjoy sex again.  I've left a number of messages to take her up this offer, but oddly no callbacks.)

Then I spent the rest of the weekend reading the entire Hunger Games trilogy, which was, indeed, AWESOME.  I highly recommend if you haven't read it, because your teens probably have.  When did YA get so kickass?

Then I met an old friend in Iowa City at the coffee shop that made me fall in love with espresso circa 1995, Java House.

And at a charming metal bistro table in the outdoor cafe, this was breakfast:

The cinnamon rolls?  Made out of croissant dough.  Bliss.

I'm sitting there trying to do some writing before my friend arrives, and this pesky bug starts  buzzing around me.  It's sort of moth-size, so I don't pay a lot of attention to it, until my leg hurts and I look down and this mo-fo is biting me. THROUGH MY JEANS.  I try to kill it, and soon I am flailing around the outdoor cafe, looking like another multiple personality disorder patron of Downtown Iowa City.  It is life and death.  I finally kill it, and then decide I have to take a picture of it in case my friend has to take me to the emergency room and then they will know how to treat me.

Die, motherfucker. And tell your friends.

It was HUGE.  Size meant something.  It was about as big as a dime, looked like a mosquito, and had tiger stripes on it.  It was also wearing a Limp Bizkit t-shirt and had a patch over one eye. 

So this is the part where you think I'm exaggerating.  But here is proof that The Wife may have sipped her last chardonnay:

 Yes people, that is the bite,

the size of a dime, administered through my jeans.

But it's even worse than I thought.  I couldn't really SEE the bite before, but now this photo shows some alarming evidence that the bite is causing blue veins to pop out of my leg, and stretch marks to appear.  Even more indicative of some horrible insect-vermin-borne disease is the apparent shelf of cellulite that has developed, and is now melting off of my thigh like some iceberg that has fallen prey to global warming.  If you look closely, you can see a small polar bear on there, looking for food and mating grounds.  The bottom of this shelf seems to have turned green and is cracking.  That's it.  I have gangrene.  Shit.

Well people, it's over.  This was a fun ride.  I'm getting dizzy right now, and all of the Quarter Pounders I've ever eaten are flashing before my eyes.  Wow.  Long list.  My Quarter Pounder habit might actually be prolonging my life.  Not done yet.  There is hope after all.