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Hello all, Mark Lisanti here. I thought I'd spent my entire "vacation" strapped to the Y of the Hollywood sign, letting the transformative waters of our local tsunami (please, hold your hate mail and send your relief checks to the Red Cross) wash away a truly debilitating "eating disorder," but then I realized the whole experience was part of a guided meditation with my "cruise director," Nurse Ratched.

She tried to convince me that rehab was for quitters—then I noticed the unfamiliar swell beneath my sweater, felt the dull, throbbing pain around my nipples. Ratched smiled and assured me my new breasts were 100 percent natural, the answer to all my problems. She encouraged me to do the talk show circuit to evangelize the divine provenance of my super-rack. The new D-cups were lucious, but did nothing to reduce my cravings for pure, Colombian "pop-tarts," and my areolas were two silver dollars of shining pain. I realized then that she didn't have my best interests at heart; there was nothing left to do but seize the control panel in the tub room, toss it through the nearest window, and jiggle through the raindrops to freedom.

Sure, I may not have kicked the "bulimia" or gotten a respite from my "exhaustion," but now I look fucking incredible in a tank top. This is really gonna be my year, I can feel it!

Happy New Year, and back to business. And a very special thanks to Choire Sicha for minding the storefront last week. He'd like me to tell you that he's about one good blowjob away from seizing control of the Gay Mafia. We're all so proud of him!