Politically Incorrect with Bull Maher

I believe in a woman's right to choose.

I mean my liberal stance shouldn't surprise anyone in light of what I've written here.  Being pro-choice is really the only option when you're a healthy, single, 20-something woman in a major metropolitan area.  However, as I get older (and not necessarily wiser or more financially stable) I'm afraid it would be harder and harder to know that 100% I would, without a doubt, terminate should things go terribly, horribly awry.  It is for this reason that I do "touch-ups" if you will.

Let me break it down for you right quick:  When you color your hair you don't get a full head of highlights every single time you go to the salon.  Most of the time you just get your roots done.  You get a touch-up.  (Or so I hear; I am au naturale.)  In order to make sure I don't have to uh, get a full head should that time come, I like to um, do my roots from time to time to make sure things are in working order.  AKA, I make my body as inhospitable a place it could possibly be without seriously harming myself.

-I just ate half a bag of Baked Doritos for dinner, by accident.  I didn't set out to have a meal of processed cheese and cardboard chips eaten by the handful over my kitchen counter, but it just so happened that once I started I was unable to stop myself.  (Boy, in retrospect that rings true for quite a bit in my life.)  Try gleaning any serious nutritional value from that, potential fetuses.  (Feti?)

-I've recently been going to the dentist quite often for a toothache that just won't quit.  Since the dentist is having trouble figuring out exactly what's wrong, he takes x-rays almost every time I'm there.  I've asked them to stop putting that giant led apron over top of me and started rolling the dice.
     (-Also, they're x-raying my face.  Does it concern anyone else that they     don't bother to give you a helmet?)

- If that fails, at least I always stand in front of the microwave while I heat up my lunch.

-I hate being hungover.  It means I am getting old and can't hang as well as I used to.  It means that almost my entire next day is wasted in recovery, and sometimes into the next night.  I love being hungover.  It means that I've drank so much my liver has attempted to completely shut down and just destroy me once and for all.  I've said it before, but it bears repeating: If I can barely survive the alcohol flood, I'm fairly confident nothing else can either.

-Every six weeks or so I throw myself down the stairs for the hell of it.

-I take a veritable cocktail of drugs every day that are not safe for pregnant women.  Antibiotics? Don't mind if I do!  Aspirin?  Two please!  Retin-A?  Slather me!

-I'm thinking about posting an "I'll clean your kitty litter box!" ad on Craigslist.

So, those are a few of my tips.  Take them, leave them, tell all your friends I'm a monster.  Whatever floats your boat.  It never hurts (you) to touch-up!

Oooh, speaking of which, you can't color your hair when you're preggo...looks like someone's about to turn blonde!