How'd you like that "hey guys, I'm back!" declaration followed immediately by pretty much no posting whatsoever? It's a classic.

As mentioned (since the only thing I write about it why I'm not writing), the problem isn't a lack of things to write about; in fact, the opposite: Paris, Rome, the Election, the World Series, the friends, a ridiculously pretty/"special" man (I mean that he's dumb, or not as smart as me; not that we're banging), tattoos, that dog who safeguarded little baby kitties in a house fire and because there is a God they all made it out alive and cute, and other totally important things.

So maybe it's a good thing I'm jumping on that whole posting for 30 consecutive days thing? Maybe it won't be totally horrendous? Maybe I'll actually churn out some awesome posts, despite all evidence to the contrary?

Uh, no. It will be bad. I'm sure of it; if the last time I attempted and totally fucking succeeded at this (if you define success as meeting the bare minimum standards) is any indication. You know, when posts had titles like "Phoning it in" (which turned out to be a recurring series, shockingly enough), "Running out of things to talk about, so instead I'll just bitch", and my favorite, "I only promised to post more, not better".

Yeah...it's gonna be pretty fucking awful.

Sorry.

Last night I went over to my girlfriend's apartment for a laid-back night of beers, 90210 seasons 1 and 2, and girl talk. The first clue that the wheels were destined to come off?

Let's do the math: 2 of us. 2 bottles of wine. 12 beers. (Well, 11. Number 12 was in my hand.) I don't even know what to say about that, other than I LOVE MY FRIENDS.

And then the singular thing that could have made the night better happened: my other lady showed up. And offered her services as designated driver.

Well.

What followed was a whirlwind tour of Long Beach bars, drinks from a stranger (always a good idea, kids), baseball shit talking galore, an unsuccessful attempt to tell someone to go the fuck away (and I'm usually so good at that) and some other things that are a bit fuzzy but I assure you were totally hilarious probably maybe.

And now, for the weekend. The weekend which will, in all likelihood, kill me.

Friday: Going to see a play. Because I'm a fancy. What play? The Night of the Living Dead!

Saturday: Scream Awards in LA. Thanks to my lovely ladyfriend Holly, I have a VIP pass. Comic book people in attendance? And junior high crush Billy Corgan, who will be playing? Be afraid.

Sunday: Drinks with the ladies and a trip to the pumpkin patch. Likely followed by a trip to the emergency room. After that, I somehow have to make it to LA for Rachel's (saint-like designated driver from last night) birthday for sushi, sake and the planetarium.

I'm also supposed to find time this weekend to catch up (read: talk shit) with an Angels fan, visit a newly reopened bar on 4th street (cause we so needed another one!), grab drinks with a man who in one night was both high and hogtied and later ran to a police station, and let a good friend photograph me in the bathtub, drinking and reading (or, what I do every night).

This is seriously going to fuck up all the napping I had planned.

Today is a day that is near and dear to my heart. Very near. Completely surrounding it, even. Protecting it, feeding it, and allowing it keep beating: today is Love Your Body Day.

So, body? I fucking love you. Like, walk hand-in-hand into a sunset, Gift of the Magi, motherfuckin' Al Green kinda love.

I don't know what combination of my parent's personal views, my upbringing, and my environment combined to shape my views on appearance and acceptance, but I am endlessly grateful that they've coalesced to shape someone who has pretty much never had a problem loving their body. No, I don't know how this is possible either, but PRAISE THE LORD it is.

Healthy ego? Yes. Possibly too healthy? Perhaps! But when some of my other options include subscribing to ridiculous and unrealistic societal expectations, flirting with deadly eating disorders, contemplating potentially unsafe plastic surgery, etc.,...I'm willing to let my vanity run free and unchecked here.

Sure, we all have those days. In our culture especially, the go-to path for attacking a woman is to insult her appearance. The fact that woman are so very often behind these attacks is sad, and more than just a bit pathetic. Women's magazines. Calling someone fat. Calling someone anorexic looking, or boyish. Laughing at someone for things they can't change. Laughing at someone for things they can. Really? Wait, no, REALLY? That's all you've got? Grow the fuck up, please. (And, side note, if you wanna get to me? Insult my intelligence. And I will bury you under a verbal blitzkrieg and make you cry, motherfucker.)

My body is not perfect, but neither am I, so it is a good match.

(We are, however, both close.)

(That was a joke, people.)

Cheers!

The game. Oh baby, THE GAME. It was, of course, amazing. The Dodgers won, 7-2. 5 of those runs were in the first inning, which I just barely arrived in time for. THANK YOU, JESUS. Kuroda showed the Phillies that the Dodgers are not a team to be fucked with, and Manny had to be held back from showing the Phillies that the Dodgers are really, really, really not a team to be fucked with. And I saw it all, from oh, VIP seats in the 8th motherfucking row. As in, the 8th row FROM THE FIELD.

I can’t claim cool points, as I had nothing to do with getting the tickets. Nothing to do with it other than batting my eyelashes, that is.

The mentally handicapped Phillies fan I went with was a great sport, from the mad traffic on the way there, to witnessing his team’s HUMILIATING DEFEAT (accompanied by my lovely commentary, holy crap, it's a miracle I'm still alive) to walking the perimeter of the stadium twice because neither of us had the foresight to uh, keep track of where the car was parked.

And he waited in line for my beer, too.

It was an awesome game; an awesome night. While I wish, hope, and pray (by crossing my fingers – that’s how it’s done, right?) that the Dodgers make a comeback, I’m honestly just proud that they’ve made it this far (taking into consideration the redic number of injuries on their team). Even if they lose every last game in the series, the fact remains: I got to see them win. From the 8th row. (Did I mention that part?)

I've been going to Dodgers games for over a decade now, and I've never had good enough seats to have been able to even see these seats, let alone the my guys! kicking ass from just yards away. The whole experience was breathtaking, unbearably exciting, and completely overwhelming.

Thank you, Stupes.

**This is an update to today's earlier post. If you haven't read that yet, you may want to. Or not, because you're too lazy to click on a link. Whatever.

About a half hour after I put up that last post, my mother swung by my work (because she was in the area and because I'm 5) to drop off coffee and a brownie. Even if I didn't have to love this woman, I so, SO would.

I showed her the post because I'm a horrible narcissist who wants everyone to witness my stunning creative genius regardless of whether they actually should or want to. She got a kick out of the post (there's not much I can do to rattle her; this is purely due to wearing her down) and she commented that my date 'is only allowed in the ballpark'.

Ok, I'm not clear on what exactly she meant by that, but I'm pretty sure my mom just told me to give it up for a Dodgers ticket. I mean, the ballpark contains all the bases. You can run them multiple times.

So...you heard it here first, people. My mother wants me TO BE A WHORE.

Mom? I LOVE YOU.

A Saturday post, you ask? Must be important! Especially since I've been all 'posting...ewwwww' lately. Or it could just mean that I'm really, really bored at work. Shocker: it's actually important. (To me, anyways. And that's all that matters. My site. Take that, suckers.)

So who (out of the 5 of you who are still reading, have I told you how pretty you look today?) would like to see a picture that, when it appeared in my inbox, made me jump up and down and dance around and there wasn't even any music on so yeah, I looked a little crazy? And it's not even a picture of a panda. Or a kitty. Or a puppy. Or whiskey. Or shoes.

"WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE LEFT?!", you ask?

A very sweet, very handsome, and very stupid (Phillies fan!) man asked me to go with him to the game...on a FIRST DATE.

You know what this means: dude is SO getting laid.

(Kidding, Mom! Just third base. Which is where our seats are. Coincidence? I think not.)

And since I like to let guys know fast and early that I'm a bit of a jerk, you can bet I'll be sending him to spend four innings waiting in the beer line so that I have plenty of time to twitter the Dodgers' comeback from my phone. Providing a valuable public service? I agree.

Cheers!

Well...I'm back.

And -as some of the more industrious emailers out there have noted THANKS SO MUCH- I've been back for some time.

But since there's just SO MUCH to write about (Paris! Rome! The Election! The NATIONAL LEAGUE WEST CHAMPION LOS ANGELES DODGERS! New tattoos! New -utterly enjoyable- vices! More travel!) I didn't know where to begin. So I...just, uh, didn't.

Also? I've been a bit busy since getting back:

(Me = green. A shocker, I know, what with a mouth like that.)

But since they ('they' being those smart people, those smart people who say smart things) say that writing is something which gets easier with routine dedication and practice (just like drinking!), I'm back.

Maybe.

We'll see.

Cheers!