In need of a bib... or at least the ability to transfer food directly from my hand to my mouth without any detours to Boobville.

My area of boobage has become a hostile war zone.

First, my chest got bombed by the ranch dressing I was eating. (Carrots and ranch dressing = yum!)

I went to the bathroom for some damage control and managed to keep the wet spot to the size of a quarter. It was still visible to the curious-coworker-eye, but not as bad as it could have been. I think the arm I held up in front of it, as I subtly nibbled on a fingernail, camouflaged it quiet nicely. Just an old trick of the (Slobs R Us) trade.

Then, as I was eating some chicken noodle soup (Maruchan Instant Lunch = yum!) I got attacked again. This time by three separate drops of Liquid Evil.

This caused flashbacks to the last time I was attacked by three simultaneously dropped 'bombs.' I was about 11 years old, riding on a ferry with my parents and brother as we traveled from the north island of New Zealand to the south island. I was standing by the railing, watching the approaching land mass, when a bunch of seagulls starting circling up above me. I remember panicking, thinking, I should move before one of them craps on me. One particularly evil seagull picked up on my fear. Oh yeah, he smelt it. Then he dealt it. He shot three turds at me. THREE turds I tell ya!

Time slowed down for me then.

I had time to count each bird turd as they flew towards me.

One.

Two.

Three.

I had time to be afraid.

Oh.

My.

Gawd!

I even had time to dodge two of the turds. The third one, though, had my number. It splattered all over my new jacket.

I. Was. MORTIFIED!

To commemorate the special occasion, because you're nobody until a bird poops on you, my godfather bought me one of the grossest, coolest looking t-shirts. It was blue, with fake white and green bird poop all over it, and it said something clever about being crapped on by a bird like... well, I can't quite remember the exact wording. I think I still have that shirt somewhere though...

Anyways, speaking of shirts... the first spot had almost dried when my chest got attacked again. I made another trip to the War Room and did my best to clean my messy self up. But now? I've got a HUGE wet spot on the front of my shirt! Like, regulation sized donut HUGE.

Sigh. When will I learn that these noodle instant lunches are messy and that I should be more careful? Apparently not any time soon. If anyone walks by, I think I'll pretend that I'm having heart palpitations or something (as to cover the HUGE water spot on my shirt!). Maybe I'll print out a picture of Matthew McConaughey (hubba hubba), pin it up on my wall, and pretend I'm swooning or something.

Gah! It looks like I suffer from projectile drooling!