Check out this post by DC Cised. It sort of reminds me of my own writing from back in the day.

Not that I ever really cared for pumpkin, but after watching tonight’s episode of “Hoarders” – which featured an elderly woman named Jill who couldn’t stand to part with the seeds of an entirely unsalvageable rotting pumpkin carcass that had made a home for itself on her living room floor – I’m not sure enough time will pass before Thanksgiving for me to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie ever again.

Interestingly, Jill and I have completely opposite problems. Whereas she holds on to eggs for over a year and insists that it wouldn’t kill her to eat them (or serve them to her son), I throw them out the second the clock strikes “sell by date.” I also dump any remaining milk five days after I’ve opened the carton – although I know for a fact that this is what you’re supposed to do.

Sigh. What would it take for me to become a full-blow hoarder? Of course, who am I kidding – my boyfriend would never even let me hoard episodes of “Hoarders” on the DVR, let alone bags of coagulated cabbage in the hallway. (Hint from Heloise: Cabbage is very “forgiving” as it rots from the outside, according to Jill!)

Matt and I go “shopping” today and of course I manage to find the one deep V-neck T-shirt located in the entire men’s department of Bloomingdale’s. Heather grey with a screen-printed rainbow on it. And it was on sale for only $15 – imagine that! I buy it with only the faintest intention of ever actually wearing it.

Walking past Abercrombie, the topic of the prosthetic arm lawsuit comes up and I say to Matt, “Would Abercrombie hire me?”

“Probably,” he says.

PROBABLY?

“I mean, yeah, I’m sure they would.”

Um.

“They probably wouldn’t hire you because you’re just so BIG.”

Ding ding. Now we’re talking.

On an unrelated note, I have isolated spots of cystic acne all over my face. This is what happens when you stress out about stupid shit that won’t even matter in six months.

I have a hard enough time seeing my friends in eye-rollingly meager whisps of Lycra at the pool, so you can imagine my discomfort when stumbling upon photos of my friends doing sexy times on the Internet.

This very thing happened to me the other day when about 300 people e-mailed me links to a porn blog that featured still frames of a mutual “friend” (To be honest, I barely know this person, he showed up to my boyfriend’s birthday party one year and was perfectly nice, I’ve probably interacted with him three times since then.) pounding out the veal with his considerably less attractive “co-star.”

As with any disaster – be it one involving cars, acts of nature, or, in this case, an individual – it was impossible to look away, so I scanned through the images, experiencing a tingling sensation that was entirely unfamiliar, given the situation. No, it wasn’t arousal; it was faint admiration.

Indeed, how empowering it must be to allow photos of the most private aspects of your life and genitalia be posted on the Internet for the world to see. To live without a thing to hide – I’m not sure if I have or will ever experience that. I’m always covering up something: my emotions, my tenders. ESPECIALLY my tenders. No Lycra swim trunks for me.

You know, blogging really is sort of like doing porn. You’re putting yourself out there, exposing yourself (albeit figuratively) to the judgement of family, friends and strangers alike. Of course, blogging is far less lucrative and usually doesn’t involve getting your taint waxed.

I recently discovered Girls Aloud through their latest single “Untouchable,” which is played on Energy 98 all day long. It is the official SONG OF THE SUMMER, at least in my head and also in my boyfriend’s car, where I whine and complain until he caves into letting me plug in my iPhone and play the damn song. (I always choose the seven-minute extended version because I’m an asshole.) Anyway, I love this song, and I love Girls Aloud as much as one who has never actually handed over money for a Girls Aloud song can.

Knowing my interest in shitty music, B___ sends me a link this afternoon to a music video by some group called The Saturdays. I had heard a little about them and assumed they were some indie hipster group. But when I pull up their Wikipedia page, I discover the familiar formula of five attractive women, each with varying degrees of skin pigmentation and stylized hair. They look just like every other girl group – SO OF COURSE I BECOME OBSESSED WITH THEM.

Their video for “Work” is pretty much perfect and adheres closely to the standards and practices outlined in Girl Group Music Videos 101:

• Leather outfits
• Posing disguised as dancing
• Hair extensions
• Balls of fire
• Wind machine
• Sparks falling from the ceiling
• Overexposed closeups
• Fake dance floor with a runway
• Spotlights
• Stomping around on a wet floor
• No plot
• Sexy face

God, I’d give anything to be in a girl group. I’d even volunteer to be the ugly one who isn’t trusted to sing verses.

On Saturday, I choose my outfit very carefully. It is S___’s 30th birthday and he’s hosting a party to celebrate and I need to wear something that’s tight enough to make myself feel sexy (and others uncomfortable) but loose enough to remove in a moment’s notice should I be asked to throw on a pair of heels and sequined “gown” for the inevitable booger drag show. The winning selection: a black T-shirt and jeans. Imagine that!

One hour and a quart of iced tea vodka into the party, I’m standing around, minding everyone else’s business, when the male apotheosis of GLAMOUR enters the room in a garment that, at the time, could only be described in breathless sighs and seething stares of jealousy. Since then, I’ve identified the proper term for this woven wonder: JORTS.

Yes, jorts. As in, jean shorts. I haven’t seen anyone wear jean shorts since, well, yesterday, when I saw a pack of Midwestern tourists on the Metro. But I haven’t seen a GAY person wear jean shorts since, well, Latino night at Apex last week BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

I am not an elitist but jorts, no. Just, no. There’s another name for jorts and it’s “boner killer.”

(Interestingly, the ever-reliable Wikipedia reveals that July 25 is National Jorts Day. Also, jorts are “extremely prevalent in the state of New Jersey, which actually leads the nation in jort sales. [citation needed]“)

My self-esteem instantly cripples
At sight of your abs and their ripples
But still you’re a douche
Who’s hooked on the juice
With bacne and two puffy nipples

Like three 19th century convicts deported by the British government to the penal colony of New South Wales, S___, K___ and I were ravaged by a work week’s worth of physical punishment and medical neglect.

But with most spates of excessive labor comes an eventual reprieve, and for us, Friday evening offered such an opportunity to forgive Australia for its cruel sun and backbreaking coal mines and, instead, indulge in the healing balm of its yeast-based cuisine.

A journey to the south and to the west – a journey traveled so many times by so many – over the bridge and through what was once surely woods, to Outback Steakhouse in Arlington, Virginia, we go!

There was a 30 minute wait at Outback, so we went to Olive Garden instead.

Presented with a menu of perverted Italian fare, I chose the Apricot Something Chicken, which the ristorante’s website later revealed as having just 380 calories.

S___ and K___, on the other hand, each opted for the gastronomic Tour of Italy, a 1,400-calorie junket that typically includes an abrupt stopover in the bathroom.

I was pleased with my choice, although you’d never guess based on how fat I’m feeling at the pool today.