I look 7 days older than I did last night.

A long time ago, I either read or someone told me that for every night you sleep with your makeup on, you age one week. It didn’t make much sense, but it obviously stuck with me and every time I inadvertently go to bed with makeup on, I think my face has aged seven days.

I’ve had a headache since Sunday evening, and last night what was left of my brains exploded in a gooey mess that dripped out my nether regions. I fell asleep around 7pm (in my makeup) and awoke this morning long enough to swallow two extra-strength brain-solidifying pills and hammer out a quick email to work before passing out again. I forced myself out of bed at 2, but I am wobbly and dizzy and rather slow on the uptake – AND I look a week older than I did yesterday. Today sucks.

I forgot to link these earlier, but I smuggled my super awesome lovely new camera into the Rise Against show last Friday and got some crazy good pics. Check out the gallery – the first bunch are Anti-Flag, the second is Rise Against, and the third is Billy Talent, with some pictures of us and some girl’s ass mixed in between. Enjoy!

Oh, my head.

I burned the palms of both my hands yesterday.

I was feeling sort of domestic, so I decided to make some ham and cheese muffins. I preheated the oven, shredded some cheese, sliced some ham, and mixed up some batter. Once I had the muffin tins full, it was time to get a-bakin’! This is where I ran into my first problem – my oven is made for tiny. We actually have cute little half-size appliances, which means I can’t store or bake any large items. Two tins of muffin goo were not going to fit in the oven under any circumstances, so I decided to rearrange the racks and monitor the baking process. I put on my silicone half-gloves, grabbed the rack, and .. *sizzle*.

It should be pointed out that I am so awesome that I put the loaded muffin tins ON the rack before I tried to move them. I would have been fine with an empty rack, but the added weight of the muffin tray meant my finger-grip on the rack was dubious – this led to some crazy teetering, which I opted to correct with my unprotected lower hand area.

It HURTS. Burning the palms of your hand is entirely not endorsed by Delicious Juice Dot Com – all those nerve endings made for some wicked pain. I iced and soaked and whimpered for the better part of an hour, at which point I woke Ed up from his snoring and made him tend to my wounds. Extra strength drugs, ointments and gauze made it feel a little better, but overall it was not the best time I had ever had. More scars for my collection! Hooray!

I think I am coming down with something. Booooo at all my diseases and injuries.

It’s December! In the spirit of giving, I will send you a fabulous present!

There is a catch, of course:

You have between now and the end of the weekend – 11:59pm Sunday night – to guess how I gave myself a chemical burn on my left nipple. The answer closest to being right will get a Delicious Juice Dot Prize!

Contest rules: all guesses must be posted in the comments below. Contest open to everybody, since my nipple deserves to be thought about globally. Winner (and backstory) will be posted on Monday, December 4th. Have fun, and don’t keep it clean at all because seriously, what fun would that be?

Yes, this is the same nipple that I burned on the oven. No, that’s not what happened this time.

Also, OW.

I’ve officially joined the unwashed masses – I’m unclean!

The City of Vancouver has advised that the water supply is at Terror Level Alert BROWN, for really gross and undrinkable. Even though it looks disgusting, it’s supposed to be okay for everything except a) drinking, b) cooking, c) tooth brushing. There was a mass exodus to the grocery stores last night for water; when we realized that perhaps this was a band wagon we should be a part of it was already too late. The shelves were bare, and we had to settle for beer instead.

They tell us it’s safe to shower in the cloudy yellow water, but why take that chance? I skipped my morning shower – unheard of, unless I’m catching a ridiculously early flight to somewhere – and I’m marinating in my own juices as we speak. It’s less disgusting for me because I did shower yesterday before getting the water warning; more so for the boys who haven’t showered in a week or so and are getting pretty ripe. I hope the water goes back to normal soon, because if this keeps up I’ll be traumatized by my hat head.

In other news, I would totally think about buying this because Samuel L. Jackson is the man – now literally!

i am sick and tired of these motherfucking sodomites on this motherfucking dead sea

I have excellent kidneys.

My vagina and all the wonders contained therein are fine – I don’t even need to go for an ultrasound, dashing my hopes at being covered in oils while a technician scans my fat for any sign of mystery. According to Dr. Safari (she’s always dressed as though she just flew in from Africa, ascots and all), I’m in no danger of having a heart attack in the next year or even in the next ten years. Hooray!

Of course, the results weren’t all glowing. My cholesterol levels are just outside the normal range, being high by .19 whatevers. Same with my triglycerides – just outside the norm, they’re high and gotta come down a bit. Nothing too alarming really, just some things I can work on by perhaps skipping the Mixed Grill at the Tomahawk and enjoying a lovely salad instead.

Also, I have high blood pressure.

I don’t know if it’s because Dr. Safari and her Latino sherpa make me nervous or I’m starting to believe my own tall tales of tragic diseases, but the two times my blood has been pressured it’s been high. I’m under orders to check my blood pressure at the pharmacy at least twice this week, so today I’ll be trundling off to the drug store for a) a new toothbrush, b) hair dye, and c) blood pressuring. As with all my ailments both real and imagined, I’ve done some research on the effects of high blood pressure. Here’s what I can look forward to if I don’t simmer down now:

• Strokes!

• Heart failure!

• Chronic renal failure! (except she told me my kidneys were utterly fantastic, so I’m less worried about this one than I am this next one:)

• Erectile dysfunction!

• Eye problems!

My use of exclamation points belies the seriousness of my blood pressure; apparently it’s quite high. How did it get so high? Well, here are the risk factors for HBP (not to be mistaken for HPB):

• Obesity – fatty fat fat pants

• Smoking – you’ll pry my four-pack a day habit from my cold dead hands!

• No exercise – walking to the fridge and back 17 times a day is just not cutting it

• Too much salt – perhaps installing that salt lick in the bedroom wasn’t such a good idea

• Too much alcohol – WOOOOOOOOOO I’M SO DRUNK WHO WANTS TO SEE MY BOOBS

• Stress – well, obviously

• An ethnic background – are you calling me half Malaysian?

• History of HBP in the family – I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea; we’re not so big on communication

I probably shouldn’t be nearly as amused by all this as I am, but hey. It’s much more fun to laugh at my impending erectile dysfunction than it is to cry about it!

As zero hour approaches, I find myself filled with buckets of trepidation. I’m really dreading this doctor appointment tomorrow afternoon. Very few good things can come from being called in to discuss your test results – it’s not like she’s planning on sitting me down and saying “you know, you really do have a beautiful cervix. Have you ever thought about modeling?” I’m trying not to let my overactive and slightly melodramatic imagination take over, but I’m rapidly losing ground. Now I’m just trying to decide what kind of horrible disease I’m going to be diagnosed with. Cancer? SIX cancers? Nasal herpes? Discombobulated fallopia? Congenital ankylosing spondylitis? Luminescent vulvodynia? I’m so screwed.

All this excellent hypochondria isn’t even taking into account the blood work I had done last week; the results of which are undoubtedly in her hands now. They ran the full gambit* on me, checking for the presence of cholesterol and blood mites and parasitic cell formations all named Stan – all of which I am sure to have in abundance. I’m doomed. DOOMED, I tell you. I wonder if you get to choose an outfit to be cremated in.

Feed my paranoia: what do you think I’m infected with? What vaginal verdict will be handed down? Which disease will reign supreme?

Too many people want to ominously discuss things with me. At work I was asked to “go for coffee” to “talk about something”. A short while, my phone rang – it was my doctor’s office asking me to “make an appointment” to “talk about” my “test results”.

I am so utterly a) fired and b) dying from 6 different strains of infectious nasal chlamydia.