my hero

in case you don't know, chelsea handler is my hero. well, one of them, right after martha stewart and hot stud scott peterson. such go-getters, the whole lot of 'em.

anyway, i just read My Horizontal Life, which was even better than Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea. even more fits of laughter-induced tears. even more of a page-turner. this one only takes 2 nights before bed and one afternoon to read. but read both. you have to.

chelsea's affinity for vodka, vicodin, and semi-anonymous sex inspires me. she makes me wish i were single, and a whore; if being a whore had a PR rep, it would be handler.

one of my fave parts of MHL:

* * *

Then I saw him. My little midget, wearing a sombrero filled with chips and salsa on his head! it was the most adorable thing I had ever laid eyes on. As if my night could get any better, he was topless but wearing an apron and white pants. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

We hung out all night. I couldn't stop hugging him. He was one of the funniest midgets I'd ever met. Actually, he was the only midget I'd ever met -- if you don't count the Internet. He had the cutest little hands and a high-pitched voice. He was shaped like a perfect sphere. He kept telling me one racist joke after another, and I couldn't get enough of him. At one point I had to send him away because I needed to catch my breath. My stomach was aching. He kept slapping my chest when he laughed, leaving what looked like puppy's pawprints all over me. Then he started barking. I love a guy who doesn't take himself too seriously. He was a tricky little oompa loompa too. He kept giving me shot after shot of tequila, and he kept getting taller, and taller, and taller.

His name was Eric and he was from Cleveland. I wanted to call him Nugget but thought I'd wait until after we became better acquainted...

The sunburn combined with my fourteenth margarita was starting to cloud my head. I settled into a deep fog and didn't return to full 90 percent mental capacity until early the next morning.

The first thing I saw when I awoke were two tiny feet scurrying across the Spanish tile to the bathroom. I was so confused. At first I thought, Oh, great, I had a baby. Then I felt under the covers. My underwear was still on. I knew you could never have a baby with your underwear still on.

Then I heard what sounded like someone jumping off the toilet seat and landing on the floor. "Whew, these tiles are cold," said someone who sounded like he'd just inhaled an entire tank of helium. That squeaky little voice was too much. It all started coming back to me, and it was not good. My head was spinning and I was not in a good mood. I didn't know if things were going to get violent, but I did know one thing: Eric needed to be gone. But first I needed to know if I had slept with a midget, and I needed to know fast.

* * *

likely more to come.