yeah, i'm back. f*ck you, too.

Hey, you know why I hate DC? Because everyone who lives here is an asshole. That's right. You're all a bunch of dicks. (Well, except for you.)

And I have concrete proof: I didn't get an old-timey ticker tape parade when I got back. Nope. Instead, all I got were a few emails and comments telling me I've somehow failed them by gracing this city with my exceptionally dressed presence again. But one comment really gave me a heater, probably because it was the most blunt. It's from someone who calls himself (or herself, who knows?) "i formerly loved you."

You're back in DC?! After all that build-up and the ultimate climax of actually getting out? Ugh. M@ deserves more respect at this point.

OK. Fine. So I may have portrayed my escape from DC like I was getting out of prison when I left all those months ago, but you know what? Suck it. Should it really come as that much of surprise that someone who's been in jail before winds up there again? These are statistics, people! (That is, these are statistics that may not have anything to do with this blog, but these are, indeed, statistics.)

So here I am. Again. I am the proverbial second-time offender, except my only crime this time around was getting sick. That's right, assholes, I'm here because I might have a motherf*cking brain tumor.

OH SNAP!

I bet you didn't see that one coming! (See? I told you you're all a bunch of dicks! Who "formerly loves" someone who might be hosting strange cells on her pituitary gland? An asshole! That's who!)

Uh, but I'm serious. Unlike my jabs at having a tapeworm and rickets (although I am truly Vitamin D deficient), for once, I'm not just joking about disease. Yep. I may, indeed, be growing a second head. But don't you worry your wired little screen-face, Internet, because 1) nothing is confirmed, which I will explain in a moment, and 2) even if I am tumorized, it neither means it's fatal nor cancerous, which I will explain after I return to explain point No. 1. God, you're all going to feel so awkward after this. This is my dream post...

OK, so let me underline that I have not yet been diagnosed with a brain tumor and hopefully I never will be. According to medical professionals with legitimate degrees, a medication I was on (not the crack, which is back, in case you didn't know) may just be making it seem like I have a brain tumor. How the hell does that work? I don't freaking know. I can't even tie my own shoes yet. All's I know is that I had a bunch of blood drawn and my endocrine system is completely out of whack, which could indicate a lesion on the ol' pituitary gland and/or a tumor in the section of the brizain that controls the pit-gland (ew). OR, and this is my preferred outcome, my wacky blood work could just be the fault of a lady pill I was on (AWKWARD!). And so while I continue to allude to using ironic street drugs and anti-baby pills, I'm stuck here in DC until said medical professionals can get "clean" blood tests to decide whether I really do need to get an MRI to find a brain lump or if I simply need some other sort of medication. (More crack?) So yeah, f*ck you for yelling at me for being back.

And now to point No. 2, which I'd like to add since I dropped the words "brain" and "tumor" in a menacing kind of way and don't want to start receiving Evites to my own funeral. Although I would love to partake in a Make-A-Wish Foundation sponsored activity, I don't want anyone thinking there's something more wrong with me (well, at least physically) than there actually is. That would be a dick move, and clearly, like you, lovely non-hating reader, I, too, am an exception to DC's dick rule.

So, here are the facts: Apparently, the type of brain tumor I'm a candidate for (OMG! I'm just so excited to be qualified for something!) is actually pretty common, meaning up to 10 percent of you may have this sh*t, too. The thing is, a lot of people don't realize it because your second head doesn't cause any symptoms that affect your daily life, or because you're drunk all the time and have no idea what's going on around you. But whatever. Getting back to me, this narcissistic egomaniac is not dying. Duh. I'm immortal. So yeah. Suck on that poached egg of knowledge, haters!

CLICK. That'll surely lighten the mood.

Hi there. How are we all doing? Good? Are we all googling brain tumors right now? Aw, that's great. Anything I can do to spread mass panic awareness. I'll give you a moment and then I'll propose we never blog about brain tumors again. Agreed? Good. Now, where were we...

Oh yeah. I'm back in DC. Hey, you know what's even more f*cked up than me disclosing my medical problems to the entire Web just to make a couple people I don't even know feel like complete assholes? I'm actually glad I'm back. That's right. The last two weeks here in DC have been great. In fact, I think I've smiled more than I've grimaced, which is weird because the grimace is to me what sturgeon face is to Bill Clinton. That is, I'm a damn natural at looking simultaneously confounded and perturbed and DC presents so many opportunities for this signature look.

But don't worry, those of you who don't just formerly love me but love me (or at least e-love me) unconditionally and still want to read this blog -- I won't ever write about the things that have been making me smile, although I assure you, it's not the tumor. (Oops! I dropped the T-bomb again!) That would all be highly inappropriate, kind of like joking about your possible brain tumors. Plus, after all, this blog is still called The Anti DC. And if my helper llama Eugene's calculations are correct (I picked him up in Peru), no matter how much good stuff is going down in your life, if you live in DC, experience shows there will be more than enough exceptionally messed up sh*t to complain about here to keep up a daily blog.

So, buckle up lovers and haters, I'm back and even more unemployed so I'm going to start blogging like there's nothing else to do because there is nothing else to do. Well, except wait with bated breath for jorts season to begin. Razzle dazzle!