Here we go…

So after much prodding from friends, I’ve decided to start my own blog. Here are some things you can expect that I will discuss:

1) My mad scientist boyfriend. He’s a skateboarding ex-neural scientist who thinks soap is gross, doesn’t wash his pants, and lauds R. Kelly as the “Pied Piper of R&B.” He’s radical. Who do you know that can do a backside tailslide and also perform surgery on a monkey’s brain? No one, that’s who.

No one rocks a pink shirt like this man. It says “honey pie, you’re not safe here.” And it’s true. You’re not.

Beer hat and a black eye. Does it get better?

2) My brain tumor. Actually it’s a pituitary tumor, which the Boyfriend continually tries to downgrade from brain tumor to pituitary tumor. I think he got tired of hearing me milk my brain tumor for favors.

“Baby, can you get me some ice cream?”

“No.”

“But I have a braiiiiin tuummmmah!”

“Ok, then. I’ll get you some.”

Now it’s:

“Baby, can you get me some ice cream?”

“No.”

“But I have a braiiiiin tuummmmah!”

“No you don’t. It’s a pituitary tumor. It’s not in your brain, it’s in your hypothalamus. Now get me a beer.”

“Aw, man!”

People hear I have a brain tumor and they’re all “Aw, shit. That sucks. You dyin’?” People hear I have a pituitary tumor and they’re all “What the frack is that?” I will continue to proclaim that it is a brain tumor until my very last friend refuses to do me any favors.

Here’s my MRI.

I don’t even know exactly where the tumor is. It’s in my head! Who cares where!

It was hella weird getting shoved into a metal tube and listening to all the clicking and clacking (it was kind of musical, actually… I wanted to get jiggy with it. I don’t think people get jiggy with it anymore. I wonder why not.) Luckily I had the Boyfriend by my side and Xanax in my system. After 15 minutes I damn near fell asleep in there. Later, they asked me if I wanted a CD of the images. I was all “Um, not really.” But of course the Boyfriend, being Dr. Ph.D. from NYU in neural science, was all “I want one!” So we got one. And he looked at it and started naming stuff “This is your whosy-whatsit. This is your that-thing. Over here is your thingamajig. Babe! Your brain is so cool!” Ok, sure. My brain is cool. Too bad there’s a tumah in there that just doesn’t need to be in there as far as I’m concerned.

3) Being a Black Jew. Yes I am one. Not really, since I was adopted and didn’t actually spring forth from a Jewish vagina, but my Jewwy mom adopted me when I was three months old, and from what I hear there are two ways to be a Jew: Have a Jewwy mom, or convert. My mom’s a reformed Jew so that makes me about as Jewish as Whoopi Goldberg. More Jewish than Lenny Kravitz because his mom was a negro and his dad was Jewwy which makes him rather non-Jewish if you ignore his Jewwy last name.

My parents looking very regal, dontcha think?

A star of David. DUH. Have some gefilte fish and get Jewwy with it.

Taken soon after they picked my black ass out at the orphanage. Behold my dad’s ‘fro.

4) My dog. Yes I have one. His name is Nate Dogg and he rolls deep, son.

Nate Dogg is in the mutha-effin’ house.

5) Proper Grammar. Proper spelling. Yes, I love it. I hate that people have lost respect for it. The Boyfriend accuses me of kissing up to Great Britain and speaking “Queen’s English”. Well, if sucking the Queen’s taint is wrong, I don’t wanna be write. Heh.

I do. It may annoy you, but it’s a fact of life.

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