Coulda woulda shoulda had glaucoma.

I went to the optometrist yesterday. He tested me for glaucoma. I failed.

FUCK.

So what if glaucoma is a neuro-optical disease that causes blindness. I may have to be blind, but I could also have much beautifuller, longer eyelashes.

The New York Times article says that there is a treatment for glaucoma that has a side effect of making your eyelashes grow longer. "How much longer?," you ask. Long enough for Allergan, the same company that carries Botox, to snatch this drug up and farm it out to future sweet 16ers and beauty whores of America.

Forgive the eye pun, but David E. I. Pyott says, "And he suggested that many women would not blink at spending $120 for a one-month, three-milliliter supply of the drug. He compared the cost of longer lashes to a daily cup of coffee."

As the perscription for Latisse is not covered by insurance for people who do not have glaucoma, beware of a sudden vanity-induced hypochondria toward eye disease by women who want to be ultra-lashtastic.

And, of course, it has other possible side effects, such as darkening skin around the eyes, redness and itchiness of the eyes, and oh yeah - CHANGING EYE COLOR. Green or hazel eyes permanently turn darker. Oh well!

I was so close to obtaining eyelashes that are typically 25 percent longer, 106 percent thicker, and 18 percent darker, black and red itchy eyes, and an obsession with out-lashing the lashiest of eyelashes.

Here's the whole lame/juicy article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/14/health/research/14lash.html?_r=1&hp

The best banner in the world.

It's even an interactive game where the little penis moves with your mouse.

Too bad as soon as you click you just go to the sexsearch.com site. You don't actually get to try and play the game. But still, the best banner in the world.

Wild & Crazy & WTF

I've never seen the Wild & Crazy section of Red Tube before. That's a lot to take in all at once. Everything from a girl taking a Diet Coke up the ass to pregnant woman gets horny, to how to put on a condom in record speed. It's fucking weird.

Le Petit Poodle of my Dreams

While Looking for 90210

I learned all about the birds and the bees, horny secretaries, and hair gel from channel 72. You kids have no idea how lucky you are to have your nookie online to teach you about amateurs and anal probes properly. Yes, M&D, I would totally wait for you to leave the house and try and watch scrambled porn. I remember at that time you were worried I'd see things like guys and girls kissing on TV like 90210, MTV, and The Young and the Restless. Really I was more interested in figuring out which wavy lines were boobs and which wavy lines were just wavy lines. All the while, sweating it out that I would be caught, so I would just sit right up next to the tv as if I was merely changing channels, and got lost somewhere up past the 30's my innocent face two inches away from the wiggly boobs and zig zag butts.

I was also faced with the paranoia-inducing dilemma of volume. Sound helps a lot when you are trying to decipher boobs from wavies from a flower pot. But with any hint of sound came the overwhelming static of a thousand seas, drowning out the sexy noises and driving me mad. Mad because it sounds horrible, and mad because it is blocking all the hot educational dialogue.

Just when I'd think I was following the bodies through the chaos, and Misty had accepted Arturo's offer to be his private's secretary, a storm of static would attack and suddenly the woman just started screaming. The man is kinda yelling, and grunting, and talking about her daddy?

The the whole situation was confusing at best.

That's why the moral of my story is that moms should let their kids watch 90210, and MTV, and all the regular porn they want.

Ohmygodit'smyfirstpostinginthreemonthsfuck.

I've been trying to stiffle my inner retard, my true self. I was trying to become more professionaler. But F that S. Here it comes again. A shitload of shame.

Over easy

This subject keeps coming up. My eggs. My eggs are getting older by the word on this page. My eggs are the best they are ever going to be right at this moment, and every moment I wait from this moment only increases my chances of having fucked up eggs. Fuck.

This is a diminishing topic already, but the fact that it is not one of my desolate musings, but a near verbatum quote from a near stranger makes it all the more upsetting.

Other people can tell that my eggs are old. My eggs just turned 29. Who cares if people say I look 22. My eggs are really 29 and have greater chance than 22 for being fucked up.

Time is ticking. Egg timers are short timers too. Fuck.

Just so happens I have a picture of the guy who ridiculed my eggs. I choose to not remember his name, so he will go unnamed. I will just refer to him as The Jerk. And put his head on a pickle with Photoshop.