This is (kind of) a PSA

I put on too much bronzer this morning and now it looks like a fairy came all over my face. Which is funny because that's how I thought my dermatologist was going to remove my moles. Not by coming on my face, but with fairy dust. You know, magically. I thought perhaps she would dissolve them or pull them out by the roots or pop them like gigantic zits. Like this, minus the scalpel. Who needs cream cheese?!

As it turns out, my dermatologist DID use a scalpel and she didn't even give me a beer first. I know, what a bitch, right? Then she used a soldering iron and MELTED THE WOUNDS. That's right...melted. The whole room smelled like that time I accidentally shot that kid at my school and had an unexpected bonfire. So I've learned that humans are not edible. They don't smell delicious like basically every other mammal on earth. And even though my mole removal was voluntary, the doctor still stuck the corpses in these little plastic jars like the ones in Saw III, and then she shipped them off to the lab for testing.

First of all, can I just say I am so relieved I don't examine bloody, mutilated (sometimes hairy) growths for a living. HOLY FUCK. That has got to be worse than a horse inseminater. Secondly, despite never having concerns that my moles might be "abnormal" and despite the fact my dermatologist has checked them out and given them her blessing in the past, now I'm totally positive I'm going to die of melanoma. Because that's what happens when they remove moles.

If that's true and my days are numbered, I should be whooping it up while I still can, which for me means switching from speed to crack, porn to hookers, and burritos with no sour cream to burritos with sour cream. Instead, I've put Gray on a strict 2,000 calorie, pre-wedding diet and I joined him because I am physically incapable of cooking for just one person. Even when I cook for both of us I'm still really cooking for six because there are always so many leftovers that by day four of Leftover Chicken we're ready to puke.

It wasn't even my idea. Gray looks like he's eight months pregnant. I'm pretty sure his hips have spread. He wants to get in the "best shape of his life" in time for our wedding. IN EIGHTY DAYS. I'm to fucking busy right now to do the whole make-special-meals-every-damn-day-and-be-sure-he-has-a-healthy-lunch bullshit. It's seriously way too much work, and I'm already relatively bogged down.

Did I mention we're buying a house? And don't forget about my semester finals. Oh yeah, and there's the small detail of THE WEDDING. You know, the three day extravaganza which involves organizing a twenty-three person bridal party and two hundred of our closest friends and family and making sure they are all comfortable and entertained and eat fucking well, and then I have to be sure I'm more gorgeous than on any other single day of my twenty-seven years on this planet and I have to beware that I don't have a surprise break-out and I need to ensure that the backne scars on my neck, back and chest magically disappear. DID I MENTION THE HOUSE?

So yeah, no fucking way am I cooking for a big man on a diet.

We're ordering meals from a healthy-eating place in the area - breakfast, lunch and dinner - and it's awesome because I don't have to cook a damn thing and I don't have to put the leftovers into lunch-sized Tupperware and I don't have to wash dishes and I don't have to grocery shop and I don't have to think. I'm on the 1,200 calorie plan and I've already lost a pound.

Everyone freaks out when I tell them I'm on this diet. They're all like, "WHAA? You're already little!" and I'm like, "Dude. This is my WEDDING. I am a BRIDE. SUCK MY WILLIE." The truth is that I'm fucking starving to death at the moment. Apparently I was used to eating about 5,000 calories per day because I look at these portions and think, "Oh my god. I must have robbed a gnome." This diet is a short-term solution. Don't worry about me. I don't have an eating disorder.

TRUST ME. I've tried before.

In junior high I'd go as long as I possibly could without eating, which was usually lunch to dinner, but eventually I'd break down and shove a bunch of olives and crackers down my gullet, which inevitably made me feel ishy and fail-y, so I'd hustle into the bathroom and attempt to puke. It turns out that I'm physically incapable of vomiting on command because I don't have a gag reflex, a blessing for Gray. I simply cannot make myself throw up. I could shove a fireplace poker down my throat and all it would make me do is swallow a fireplace poker. Even when I'm hammered and it would be in my best interest to throw up, I can't. That's how much my body hates puking. It would rather DIE.

I don't really remember where I was going with this whole alcohol poisoning story, but what I DO know is that I'm hungry (and also in the mood for BBQ), so I'm going to round up the three raisins and fork-full of eggs that they gave me for breakfast, and afterwards, I will fill up on butterscotch candies when nobody's looking.

The moral of this story is that moles can kill you. You're very welcome.