Can You Ever Be Too Rich or Too Thin...

Hell yeah as to the second.  As to being too rich, I've never been and never will be, so I can't answer that from practical experience and won't answer that personal reasons.  But as to being too thin, my eyes tell me when I look at photographs of actresses and I read stories of what it was like for some women who got "too thin" -- WELL, suffice to say I don't wanna go there, darlings!

Not that I will - but you know, obsession is a very funny thing.  Just when you think you're on top of the world and have it all some big "O" will grab you by the hairs on your butt and haul you right back down to the mass of humanity that is the rest of us.  Oh, you may not act like you've been hauled by your "short hairs" (har!) but you do know what I'm talking about...

If you don't, more's the pity for you, you're going to end up in HEll playing hockey with the "Devil" for awhile until you've learned a little humility.  Then again, maybe you'll take St. Paul's place in HEAVE-n.  We just don't know until we die what, if anything, happens.  That's the enduring mystery of life.  How ironic!  Death is the enduring mystery of life...

Anyway, about this being too thin thing.  Now darlings, as you all know because I've been very verbal and wordy about publicizing it, I'm "working on my figure."  I'm using those words because 'Sis told me that if I say the forbidden words "LOSE WEIGHT" I won't really lose it, it will just find me again and tack itself back on.  Well, maybe.  But maybe not.  I'm not afraid of words.  I know how they work.  I know their power, you see, having learned to be a wordsmith when I was just a wee 13 year old and I literally (and figuratively, too), wrote and thereby "mentally talked myself out of" an inferiority complex -- to the point where not only could I walk on the same side of the street as a gang of boys without crossing over the other way so I wouldn't have to face them (something I'd done many many times), I could walk right up to them and through them and past them, staring them in the face all the way, and I didn't DIE!

That was such a revelation - and it took me a lot of words to myself to work myself up to the point of doing that!  The point is, I did it.  Quaking all the way, knees so watery I thought I'd fall right down in front of those boys and then the taunts I'd have to endure - I would die!  But I didn't fall, or even trip, and I didn't die (obviously).  Oh yeah, some of them stared, and a few of them hooted, and some of them may have even said words under their breath, and some of them goggled at me, and to some they didn't even see me.  I ignored them all, as if they weren't even there, except for that glancing "you're not important' eye contact that seemed to miraculously arise from within my CORE. 

I waited until I'd passed them and a good half block away got around the corner, at West Bow Street and South Muskego Avenue (a block from that rickety old upper flat where we lived).  There was an old tavern, whose name I've forgotten.  The building is gone now, there's a used car lot in its place, in Spanish.  Everything in that neighborhood is Spanish now.  But back then, the tavern's entrance door was angled to the intersection; however, it had "side walls" built out on either side to block the wind. It was those "side-walls" I took advantage of...

Not that they were looking back, but those boys couldn't see me from down the block, as it appeared I'd rounded the corner -- but had actually ditched into the tavern's door (that tavern was open back then 24-7), and my legs gave out on the tavern floor as the door swung shut behind me.  No one inside noticed until I was already picking myself back up, after what seemed like an eternity.  LOL!  I was probably down for the count about 10 seconds; probably not even that long. Then, POP, right back up on those still shaky legs.

I faced down that "gang" of boys every single school day, five days a week, for the next six weeks straight. I never did "pop into" that old corner tavern again.  I didn't need to.  And at the end of that time, I was, for all intents and purposes, basically cured of that inferiority complex I'd had.

Demi Moore and Stanley Tucci, at a party
celebrating the premier of their new movie.

All of which leads me up to this photograph of Demi Moore that I saw tonight at the Vogue website.  She looks ill, darlings!  She's way too thin.  Her arms look like skeleton arms.  Her face is too hollow. She has no waist, or hips.  Next, her hair will start to fall out - mark my words (although you won't be reading about it at Vogue Online, darlings!) I'm not happy about this, and it's clear that she's not happy either, else she wouldn't be looking like a concentration camp survivor.  Ms. Moore, if I was your age, and I knew what I know now - yeah, da yada da yada, but it's true.  DAMN!    I sure as hell wouldn't be putting up with that shallow know-nothing of a husband you currently have!

Demi Moore, you need to shed that asshole to whom you're currently married.  He's a schmuck!  He's not worthy of you.  Kick him where he deserves it, let him swim with his little spermies stewing in a hot tub with naked stranger 20 something bimbos and who the hell knows where they've been spreading their - er - well, whatevers?  Oh, ICK.  Disgusting!  You're so much better that Asston Kushner and will be soooo much better off without him dragging on your skirttails.  Personally, I never did understand why you left Bruce Willis, but hey, shit happens.