“The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain.” Karl Marx

Many years ago, I got my nose pierced. I think I was going through a rough period, because I remember my husband barging into the tattoo parlor to finish an argument with me.

Just recently, I decided to change the gold stud for a hoop. I think I was hoping for a jolt of pain, and I was not disappointed. But the cheap steel nose ring I bought wasn’t very pretty. I wanted a gold one, to match my earrings.

After a few weeks, I found the gold nose ring that my brother gave me, back when he decided to stop wearing shit in his nose. I knew I’d have trouble changing the rings, so I went to a piercing place just down the street from my house. A nice young hipster changed the nose rings. He had the assured but delicate touch of a brain surgeon.

Naturally, my brother’s nose ring was much too big and looked stupid. It bothered me all the time. I cry so often that I’m constantly blowing my nose. So I found a cheap gold ring that I hoped would be the right size.

Today, craving more pain, I waked down the street to see the nice young piercer. I learned that he was out of town, but another piercer would help me. An older , battered looking guy with a million faded tattoos led me to the piercing station and told me to lay down on the table.

His hands hovered above my nose, shaking badly. He attempted to get hold of my nose ring. I tried to conceal my fear as I asked, “Why are your hands shaking?” The hands started shaking wildly as he made another swipe at my nose.

I said. “That’s it, stop!” He backed away as I sat up. I don’t know who was more embarrassed but I wasn’t going to let some fucker rip my nose. He looked at me with a resentful expression and announced: “Hypoglycemia.”

I walked out as fast as I could. I walked a few blocks to another tattoo parlor. I explained what had happened to a dwarfish young guy with gigantic holes in his earlobes. He led me to a chair and replaced the big ring with the smaller one, warning that I would feel some “pressure.” The pain was a solid nine on a scale of one to ten. Hours later, my nose still hurts.

Of course, the new ring is too small.

Some helpful readers have alerted me to the Gala Darling wish list at Amazon.com, and it has been a revelation. Here I thought those wish lists were for books you wanted to read.

The list of 348 items that Gala wants is as brazen as Gala herself.  It includes cosmetics, chocolate, a personal laser hair remover ($448), magazine subscriptions, soda, and oddly enough, books.

The books are deeply offensive to a literary snob like myself, so don’t make me list them. Let me just say that I’m tempted to fulfill her wish for a copy of “The Haunted Vagina” but I can’t justify spending $7.95 for a moment of perverse satisfaction.

I still can’t understand the appeal of this Gala person, aside from reveling in her awfulness. She makes me feel squeamish.  The wish list business suggests a new level of shamelessness that I hesitate to even explore.

But if wish lists are okay for bloggers, I want one too. Here are the preferred items:

1. New roof (somewhere between $4000 and $7,000)  Nice to have before the next rainfall!
2. Pay my medical bills from hip fracture, $2,200
3. Pay my auto insurance and gas bills.
4. Nordstrom bill minimum payment $35
5. Facial filler $600 +

Oh god, this list is no fun, no wonder I’m never invited to blogger conferences!

Gala may not want your comments but she wants a shitload of merchandise. Feel empowered to leave her a comment here.  I will go first:

Dear Gala Darling, What the hell is your deal?! Why all the icky self-help books when I thought you were a self-help guru yourself? Why the hair-removal? Why the pink? And what’s up with the Nubby Twiglet? No offense, but don’t you guys have mirrors? Sorry about all the questions, just ignore them if you want, cuz I’m not gonna buy you anything, ever. Love, SW

It has been brought to my attention that the blogger known as Gala Darling has stopped taking comments, as if I’m the fucking Minister of Comments.  Fine. I took the time to read Ms. Darling’s emotional manifesto regarding her controversial decision.  It didn’t make any sense, but it seems to boil down to this:

Writing should not be corrupted by the anticipation of a response. Writing should be a pure form of expression by the artist, whose art need not and should not be produced for an audience. Otherwise, the artist is just pandering to the audience, from whom he/she desires approval.

Not only that, but the comments are hindering Ms. Darling”s personal growth.

Okay then! Do any of you feel compelled to leave a comment for Gala Darling, at the risk of fucking with her personal growth? If so, here is your chance. I will go first:

Dear Gala, I wonder why you don’t do your writing in a journal, so as to maintain your purity of purpose? The most sincere artistic expression is that produced in private, with no thought as to the market or audience! Why not go the distance, and keep your writing for yourself! Think of the purity, the boldness, the largess of freeing up bandwidth  for those cheap hucksters who write in order to communicate with  others! Ah, what do I know, right? Follow your bliss, but maybe lay off the  tattoos for awhile. Love, SW

I was excited about finding a new blog to hate, based on the recommendations of my astute readers. You all know what a hater I am. Although I don’t hate “on” people, as I’ve already made clear.

Anyway, I went to check out the girl who calls herself Gala Darling, only to find to my horror that I couldn’t hate her!

She seems like a ridiculous person, yes. She goes on and on about shit in a wordy but bland manner, and she certainly seems to love herself, a trait that normally enrages me.

But her nose is too big, and that may be where I draw the line.

How can you really work up a good head of hatred for someone when you feel bad about their nose? The only exception is Sarah Jessica Parker, who brandishes that nose around just to spite us.

The big nose is such blight on the Darling girl’s life that she is trying desperately to compensate with a kooky personality and Manic Panic hair color. Her whole persona screams, “I want love and attention without having to get a nose-job!” But as we know, this won’t work.  The nose is there, we see it! Even though Barbara Streisand has an amazing voice, we were bothered by her nose!

I feel I have failed my faithful readers in this unforeseen hatred malfunction. I tried to hate a seemingly worthy target and yet I’m blocked. I did look at her boyfriend though, and I think I can hate him with no trouble.

Let me have another chance! Suggestions?

Dear Jen,

I know you want some positive attention, and posing naked is always good for that. But here’s the problem, and I say it with all due respect: Your chin is the deal-breaker.

Your nose came out great, especially after the last tweaking. It’s verging on adorable, in fact. I bet you’re wondering why you didn’t get a cute nose way back in the day. You were probably thinking that your healthy girl-next-door look was attractive enough to allow for a less than perfect nose, and you were right, because look how rich you are! You must have a zillion dollars from Friends. Your nose wasn’t an issue back then, remember?

The Brad thing has really screwed you up, and I’m so sorry! I can’t imagine anything worse that seeing the hussy who stole your man on every magazine cover, leering at you with those huge enormous lips. I don’t know how you survived the public humiliation.

But you’re never going to be beautiful in the way you want to be! You’re a great girl with a great, toned body, and your hair always looks so nice. Why can’t that be enough? Your cute nose only highlights the chin situation. It’s something you could talk about with Reese Witherspoon if you weren’t in such denial!

Jen, I feel your pain. I wish Vince had stuck around and given you a baby, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be. Your thing with John Mayer does help to position you as a sexpot but realistically, that guy is just bad news. He’ll fuck anything that moves, and plus there’s that awful Guitar Face thing where he looks like he’s getting a tetanus shot….ugh, you know what I mean.

I wish I had some good advice for you, but I’m not a psychiatrist (even though I play one on TV, haha.) I do know that nudity is not the answer. You won’t get Brad back and it makes you seem a little desperate. Have you considered just minding your own business instead of going around trying to prove that you’re a hottie even though you’re no you-know-who?

If I were you, I’d spend my time spreading rumors that Brad is a lousy fuck and has herpes. Then I’d marry a hot young Latino and kick back, watching TV and ordering shoes from Saks while Angie has 50 more babies with stupid names and 50 more tattoos to mark her ownership. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about my uterus falling out!

Just trying to help,
xo Sister Wolf

I know that in the grand scheme of things, celebrities don’t matter, but once in a while they intrude upon my thoughts and sicken me more than a hideous display of fringed boots at Nordstrom.

John Mayer is not just an ugly face or a mediocre musician, he’s now proved him self to be an unforgivable cad. If you’re above watching trash TV, you may not know that John Mayer stood on a New York street corner to tell some paparazzi why he broke up with Jennifer Aniston. He repeated the phrase “I ended it because” several times. He needed to make sure that the world knows he is the dumper, and Jennifer Aniston is the dumpee. His insistent praise of her (“She is the loveliest person! The most sophisticated person!”) were just more knives in her back. The unspoken clause is obviously, “but I still don’t want a relationship with her.”

John, didn’t anyone ever teach you some manners? What an egotistical fucking douche! After all the nosejobs she’s had, doesn’t Jen deserve better?! Does she need to hack off the entire nose?!?!

All one can do is wait patiently for the tabloids to plot Jennifer’s next move. It will be one of the following:

1. “Jen turns to Brad for consolation!”
2. “Jen is furious, because SHE’S the one who ended it!”
3. “Jen bounces back by dating the hunky [fill in name here."]

After winning the title of “Most Publicly Humiliated Woman in the World” from Hilary Clinton, Jennifer Aniston merits a place on the Democratic ticket or at least a decent boyfriend who’ll stick around and keep his mouth shut.

I was surprised to find my self addicted to The Tudors, on Showtime, which just had its season finale last week.  It seemed pretty stupid the first time I watched it. That Jonathan Rhys Meyers is such a terrible actor. He seems to think he’s playing Elvis most of the time, or else he’s just glaring insanely. And I’m not really interested in historical drama.

What drew me in was the unforgettable face of Natalie Dormer as Anne Boleyn. She has what I consider a pig nose, in the best sense of the term. It’s so turned up, you could look right into it. And she held that pignose high, even into death. ( At least I think she did, because I had to close my eyes for that.)

Every Sunday night, I curled up on the couch to see that nose. The production values were excellent, the costumes were beautiful, the plot was full of intrigue, but for me it was all about Natalie Dormer. Her trajectory from devious minx to a deeply tragic figure was so gripping, and superbly acted.  And at the center of her performance was her nose.

I miss her already. I couldn’t care less about Season 3. They’re all dead to me now.