2:00 pm | 09 December 2002 | plus sighs

My friend and I (I like how that makes it sound as if I have only one friend) are currently obsessed with looking at online personal ads, and it�s kind of shocking that on this one site you are allowed to put the heights and weights of people you would date. Like, some Eurotrash fucker actually put that he wanted to find a woman over 5�9� who weighs 110 or under! Good luck. Maybe restrict your search to CONCENTRATION CAMP ADS, because that�s just fucking insulting. Go on, keep perpetuating the mayhem.

And another thing! Several clothing establishments offer �tall� sizes�for which I am charged an additional amount�which I don�t find to be an acceptable answer. For tall sizes, they add 1.5� in length to the back seam of an overcoat. IF I�M ALREADY SIX INCHES TALLER THAN MOST OF MY FRIENDS, AN INCH-AND-A-HALF IS NOT GOING TO CUT IT! My wrists freeze and freeze.

I weigh 130 pounds. Hey, look: I WEIGH 130 POUNDS.* I�m almost six feet tall! I wear a size six. I�m mentioning this so that our mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging, fucking post-zombie-attack (read: brainless) readers don�t do that automatic-reactionary-assumption thing:

�She must be one fat, ugly chick, dude.�

�Dude, I know. No hot chicks bitch about this shit.�

�Word. Pass the bong.�

I am hot, actually. In fact, when I�m not having legions of boy-servants surround me (with a dedication that includes the expenditure of their worthless lives for my every convenience, they bat away the armies of moths that cling desperately to the luminous surface of my skin, trailing my every move with a flourish of wing-scales), I�m frying Gardenburgers on my sumptuous hinder for Chicago's homeless, who gather around my elbows to defrost as i do so. Would you like fries with that? When I am forced out into the city sans my protective entourage, i opt for a robot-like casing of wood reinforced with tinfoil, which allows me to keep my heat inside, so as not to tip off passersby that I Am Hot (a bonus side effect of this system is that it turns me into a human kiln, allowing me to fire the masterful glazed pots I throw while I go about my day). Those who reach out a trembling fingertip to touch so much as a single ass cheek will jerk their hands back, scarred with the red raw heat.** Menopausal women suffering hot flashes? No. Just me walking through their current longitudinal coordinate. Can you fry an egg on the sidewalk? No, but you can do it on my forehead, which by the way is broad enough for a three-egg Denver omelet, since behind it lies my huge and mighty brain.

Even though I alone am tormented daily by the sort of splendour usually reserved for natural wonders such as Niagara Falls, I can accept that there isn�t one physical mold all people adhere to. I�m not saying I sympathize with the people suing McDonald�s for making them fat*** �but come on, chauviNazis, get bent. clm.

* And anyway, weight is so subjective�if I were the lounge-about-and-nibble-bonbons sort, I might be a lardass, but in my current incarnation, that's 130 pounds of PURE MUSCLEBOUND STEEL. I may appear a lanky lily, but believe you me, when you see me HAULING A REFRIGERATOR ON MY BACK, you'll know the truth. (I actually have hauled a refrigerator on my back. A full-sized one. Shhh.)
** Wanted: boy with hands of Teflon. Preferably into dogs and being a jerkface.
*** If that�s ethical, then I should be allowed to sue my own ass for the amount of interfering its hotness does in my life. I mean, for god�s sake. Pretty soon I�ll be suing Nick Cave because when it snows all I want to do is stay in bed and listen to The Boatman�s Call over and over again, and it�s his fault my kneecaps have atrophied, and can I have $45 mil please?