November 25, 2007
I love synchronizing my bodily functions to music. Earlier, for example, I squeezed out a log of shit while Lorenzo LaRoc's electric violin solo in "Savage Lover" reached its violent crescendo. It was a transformative moment.

October 1, 2007
Our bodies are like cars. We do not notice the effects of aging on a day-to-day basis, but over time the wear and tear accumulate. Last week I discovered a dent in the corner of my forehead. Not a scar, not a dimple, but a dent. I have no idea what caused it. A volcanic zit? An outbreak of shingles? It appears to be a hit-and-run case.

August 28, 2007
Today I can only bench-press half as much as I could as a teen-ager. Not working out every day makes a difference, but my muscles' apparent half-life reminds me of radioactive decay. I have started lifting weights again not to be ripped, but so I can rearrange furniture without throwing out my back.

June 14, 2007
Since I am a sucker for gadgets—especially those that involve grooming—I recently shelled out $14.99 for a portable pedicure device at my pharmacy. Its spinning buffer strips away dead skin, but the calluses on my heels are so thick I would need a power sander to exfoliate my feet.

March 16, 2007
Every time I sneeze, the tendons in my back and shoulders tremble like the strings in my harpsichord. Were I to compose an ode to my body ache, I would title it "Malaise, Fruit of My Desire."

March 8, 2007
I love to eat dried apricots at work. I could eat them all day long if not for one problem: diarrhea. I've cut back on the amount I eat—it used to be about a 200-gram bag daily. Now I have to stop myself after a quarter of the bag. Still, I find myself chewing a few extra ones by the end of the day, hoping I can make it through yoga or my language class without having to go to the toilet. Why do they make this product? It tastes great but you can't eat too much?

February 20, 2007
When I lie on my side for too long, a splitting pain develops in my ear, no matter how soft the pillow. Such is the peril of having a big head.

February 8, 2007
Peel-off facial masques test my patience. I have no problem with sticky gel glistening on my face, but as it dries I must fight the urge to pick at it. The same nervousness drives me to tear off blisters and scabs.

January 1, 2007
He has been in there a long time. By "in there," I mean in the bathroom of this small chic restaurant. One we haven't yet eaten in. We are sixteen, on a tour of Israel. We are not, in general, particularly rude young men. Seven hours of forced hydration on a tour bus without a bathroom simply relaxes some standards. It's good fortune that we only need to whiz, and do not have the dreaded shil-shul, the Hebraic Montezuma's Revenge that plagues most visitors to Israel. We had both, desperate with need, scrambled through the place and down the garden path to the restroom. He made it there inches before me, and so he scored the water closet. He has been in there a long time. As compared to how long it has taken me to empty my bursting bladder into the sink. I knock on the door. "You okay?" His frantic, high-pitched response squeaks through the door, like a novice's first go at a trumpet. I am disinclined to knock again, privacy and all, but footsteps on the path change my mind. I raise my fist, but before I get to the door, it flies open. My friend bursts forth, wraps his hand firmly around my forearm, and bolts, bleating, "Run!" Dodging waiters and a startled maitre d' we make good our escape. A block or two from the restaurant, we duck into a dark corner. "I... I had to piss real bad," my friend confides. "Real bad. So I just half dropped my pants and let go, right? And I just couldn't get it out of me fast enough, so I started pushing, you know, with those muscles... those muscles that control that whole area. Anyway, the next thing I know, my asshole just explodes. I guess there was a solid plug of shit, just a tiny one, holding in a flood of shil-shul, because it was like, 'Happy New Year!' cork blown, uh... champagne... everywhere. My shorts, the wall, the bad art. Everywhere. I tried to clean it up, honest, but I was just making it worse. I left my underwear in the corner. I think we should find some place else to eat." As soon as I can stop laughing, I agree. (© Zack Kushner)

November 13, 2006
I love fog, both the sight and the sensation of droplets of mist glistening on my face as I walk down the street.