She paused from removing my cuticles to give me a painful look affirming my suspicion. ”Everybody party,” she said.

She said even had an emergency case when a client came in with broken acrylic toenails. Just having worked on her plastic toes two days prior, she couldn’t help but ask her client how this happened. Her client explained that she attempted to jump from one side of the pool to the other, while intoxicated, and clipped her toenails with the edge.

Party on Urban Beach Weekenders. Party on.

Courtesy of Spektra.

‘n good news! I found a new Facebook muse. Thank you for all your words of encouragement, letters and voicemails. It took some time, but I think I found him. That’s right, it’s a man. And he is fantastic.

My last muse expressed herself in written form, which, don’t get me wrong, was inspirational. But, this guy shares nothing. Not a word on his status updates. Instead, he relies solely on posting images. Which only makes me want to fill in the blanks. I guess that old adage, “a picture is worth a thousand words,” has some serious merit.

My muse welcomes me with open arms.

After clicking through image after image after shirtless image, I’ve started writing again. Incessantly. This guy makes words flow from me like sewer water from a broken sprinkler. Frankly, I don’t even know where he came from. A friend of a friend maybe? I have a vague recollection of who this might be, but I can’t be too sure. Regardless, I’m happy because now I have B-cup pecks in my News Feed at all times.

Get your own muse. This one is mine!

In all fairness, he doesn’t always pose topless. My muse covers up when he has company. He recently posted this little gem from a get together:

Muse on the left. Ladies center. Grampa of muse holding a towel over his head on the right.

Can my muse get wild or what? And how cool is the dude in the glasses? More importantly, how do I get invited to this party?

Hmm. I suppose I have to take off my shirt.

The problems of famous people:

• Being too famous.
• Not being famous enough.
• People taking your picture.
• Struggling with the ethical dilemma of accepting expensive gifts that you probably don’t deserve.
• Deciding whether or not to fly private or hitching a ride on the jet of another famous friend.
• Wondering if your manager would fire themselves and hire their replacement if asked.
• Remembering the names of your legal team.
• Getting Ashton Kutcher to mention you.
• An insane fear of being irrelevant.
• Being asked for your opinion when you don’t have one.
• Being asked to make an appearance – everywhere.
• Secretly wishing for Perez Hilton to die.
• Figuring out if they are laughing at you or with you.

If you’ve answered yes, they you’re rich. Or want to sleep with me. Or both.

Bills are a problem for the majority of people, myself included. Well, not the actual bills. More like the method of paying them. But, after musing about the types of problems I’d have if paying bills weren’t an issue, I think I’d stick to avoiding the 1-800 calls of collectors.

This is the second of a three-part series dedicated to the problems that only the most annoying and ridiculous groups of people consider crippling.

The problems of rich people:

• The inability to decide what car to take to the party.
• Getting hurt when jumping into a pool of gold coins.
• The tennis coach is out-of-town.
• Desperately trying to buy a lap giraffe.
• Not having anything new to wear to the country club.
• The valet is full and therefore must self park.
• Deciding where to summer.
• Getting the stains made by your cheap True Religion jeans out of the leather seats of your Bentley.
• Being bored. All. The. Time.
• Losing count at $1,543,893.13
• Realizing that Picasso is dead and unable to paint your portrait.
• Lawyers cannot confirm if you will be able to take your riches into the afterlife.
• Not knowing if people really like you for who you are.