MISSING: My Pussycat. If Found, Contact Alexis ASAP

I shape up my pubes.  Everyone should in my opinion.  With them shaved off completely, I feel like a naked jaybird, but if they are properly trimmed, I feel like a new person.  Since adolescence, I have learned that there's a fine line between feeling like a million bucks and wanting to jump into a nuclear waste-filled vat.  Luckily, I have perfected my crotch hairstyles.  Only when I'm feeling computer blue, do I let my pubes grow like a 1970's porn star's.  In effort to keep my crotch a modern gem, "computer blue" only gets me once every couple of months.  Some people say that you can tell how their mental state is by how their bedrooms look.  (Disheveled bedrooms equals a disheveled mind.)  Well, for me, you can tell how I'm feeling by how my crotch hair looks.  Does it look like my crotch just got a haircut in a salon on Madison Ave or does it look like it was just rescued from 3 months lost in the rain forest?

My latest dilemma goes a little something like this:  I can no longer shave my pubes, let alone even SEE my crotch.  Thanks to my stomach which is almost six months now, I can't see anything below my belly button when I'm in the shower. 

                                       Besides the bra, I'm naked.  How sad...

I now know what a fat guy feels like when he's trying to find his dick.  The other night I almost broke down in the midst of my shower.  After rationalizing to myself that my much needed tears would be masked by the shower head's water, as I was about to let loose a ten mile long journey of self-loathing, the water turned cold and my pity party was cut short.

It's just a matter of time before I look like a creature from the jungle.  And Sloppy Joes?  Forget about it.  No way can I expect to get any head loving with a bush of hair that you can get lost in (and I don't mean that in a 'let's be romantic' way).  Uggggh!  If my perils were marked on the calendar and recognized by the American government, we'd be on vacation at least 300 days of the year.  Starting with national Shave Your Crotch Day, we would go through the year and celebrate such holidays like Alexis Got Unjustly Arrested Day, My Credit Card Got Declined With My Male Prostitute Day, Send Out Your Hate Mail Day and my personal favorite, Guys With Fat Asses Day.  Hallmark would be the new sensational stock to invest in, flower shops would be swamped with clients and post offices would reopen for business. 

Until that miraculous day arrives, I am making a vow to stay in bed.  I have spent the majority of the afternoon (while SSL has been busy at work) creating a mini 'Save Alexis' Heart' fortress.  It's pretty much an island in the middle of the bedroom constructed from the bed.  I used the kitchen knife to carve out a centerpiece in the bed's mattress, which took an eternity.  In it's absence, I have inserted a brand new bedpan.  I also have moved the refrigerator (excuse the newly gouged out marks on the wooden floor) next to the bed.

Everything needs to be at arms length.  My playing cards are under my pillow in place of my future .45 and I have a few overdue books from the library that need to be polished off before I have SSL return them.  I also have a mountain of gummy bears and a stack of menus from local restaurants.  *(Can you hold on for a minute?  I have to place an order...)

Ok.  I'm back.  Yeah, so this is what my life has become.  I guess that you can call this early post... what is that shit that chicks get?  Post partum, right?  Yes.  So, I have early post partum depression and until I can stand up, look down and see my crotch again without the use of a mirror, I'm staying in bed.  I am officially on strike.  If you would like to show your support, please send a care package.  I have no known allergies, but I do have a serious aversion to grape flavored kool-aid, white powdered doughnuts and fortune cookies.  If you want a thank you note, include Hostess cupcakes, Werther's Originals butterscotch candies, Word Finds, sticker books that airports used to sell, and if you have the means, maybe send me a box of Cinnabuns with a side of frosting.  With your help and your help alone, I may just be able to get through this ...horrid time of...  Well, it's just a real fucking horrible time when your crotch goes missing.  Be thankful if you can't relate.  And if you can, may God have mercy on your soul, should you chose to not send me a care package.  I'm off now.  Let's chit chat later...