These are not the 'roids you're looking for

So I haven't bulked up really. Well, no more than usual with the ol' PMS and heat and all. Belly went up. Belly went down. My thighs are kind of huge, but that's because I'm back on the La Tour again -- although, dude! Some cotton-top in a Cadillac nearly crashed me down yesterday as she tried to run me into the car that was making a right turn behind me. She was turning left against us both and even honked her horn like what right did we have to cross the street in front of her car! Like the green light was just for her or something. It was surreal. All I could think was, if she hits me I'll die. If she hits me I'll die. I'll bleed to death and die. Which is yet another reason to hate doctors. I get that hypochondria, just like my dad, and I start imagining that my hair color is causing me cancer and junk.

If she hit me I wouldn't die, but I'd be mighty feckin' pissed.

Anyway, tomorrow I go in and they poke another needle in my arm so they can tell me if I need to keep poppin' pills. Honestly though, I don't have heartburn and the euphoria only lasted about a day, so I'm not sure these things are real anyway. Where's the Hulk body and the need to clean and bake? I just don't have it.

Next week is Vegas. If I don't get this John Woo paper finished by Saturday, I'll have to save blogging until I'm back. I'm sure you'll manage.