I probably should have saved the shitty valium title for today’s pathetic diatribe but hey, whatever. I could be my very own title Nazi but I’m choosing to let this morning’s morphine injection rule my thoughts. Which means everything is followed with a ‘meh, whatever’ and then a disgusting giggle or dopey smile.
If you’re me, and you’re not, obviously, because I’m me, then you hate when people start conversations with sentences like “When I was on morphine this morning….” because that means you’re obligated to mentally sigh and say “Oh my! Why were you on morphine this morning?” It’s like people so desperately want to divulge their personal business but they don’t want to come across as the grandmotherly-type who talks about her bowel movements. So they dangle the carrot and wait for you to bite, and you do, but not because you want to. You bite because society has dictated certain behaviors as acceptable and you’re too much of a pussy to stand up to The Man.
The morphine came from a gallbladder test this morning, only I wasn’t aware there was a chance that morphine could be involved. So when my gallbladder proved mighty elusive and cantankerous, the nurse in pink scrubs came in with a shot of morphine to move things along. This information would have proved useful previous to the morphine insertion. If for nothing else, it would have saved me the mild embarrassment of rambling nonsensically about kitty cat heaven and my inexplicable dislike of peanut butter. And Amanda would have been much more prepared when I called her from the nuclear medicine lab to come get me, because as I was talking to her I was imagining that my voice sounded much like butterflies. Like that scene from The Green Mile where the guy spews forth all manner of creepy computer generated bugs. Only way less creepy, because butterflies are sweet and gentle. Unless you read books by Laurell K. Hamilton, and then the butterflies are mean little fairies who nibble off bits of flesh.
Back to the whole point of this, which is valium. Valium is useless. I’ve gotten higher pumping gas than swallowing four of those orange tablets in a six hour period. Ugh, and now I’m realizing that I never explained the reason for the spasming esophagus and the need for valium. I only alluded to contacting aliens via a radio transmitter, and this is not near enough explanation for someone as verbose as me.
The radio transmitter was implanted, not by aliens, but by my doctor. Who may or may not be working with the aliens. They’re supposed to sedate you while they slide the camera down your throat, cut off pieces of flesh for biopsies and then staple gun this eraser-sized contraption to your esophagus. Only as I’ve previously learned, I have the world’s highest tolerance for valium and demerol. So after my second injection and pleading, tear-filled eyes aimed at the doctor, he slid the camera out of my throat and patted me on the cheek, saying he was very sorry but he just couldn’t give me any more. My blood pressure was too low, so be a good girl and this will all be over in a second. Most of the time when women hear this phrase they end up pregnant. I got a pissed off esophagus. Same thing.
Normally this procedure is completely painless. You wear a pager on your right hip to receive the (alien) transmissions about ph levels for 48 hours. The transmitter falls off five days later and gets eaten by stomach acid. Or something. I also had a catheter inserted into my right nostril with a tiny ph-measuring bulb that hung by my tonsils. Not really that comfortable, but not painful, either. And it was definitely attractive having a plastic tube taped to the side of my cheek. I’m surprised the people at work didn’t have sex with me right then and there.
But obviously I’m a human reject, which means I spent last Wednesday night cranky and miserable. Upon calling the doctor the next day, he was only mildly sympathetic, stating that he had suspected I would be uncomfortable. While most people breeze right on through these tests, my symptoms indicated an extremely sensitive upper GI area. *insert technical doctor jargon here* As such, I was probably in quite a bit of pain.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into people lately, but there have been several times in the past few weeks where I’ve had mental screaming matches with myself about how very useful certain information would have been previous to these events.
To compensate, Senor Doctor called in large bottle of valium at my local Walgreens. Super, I think. I will take the valium and go into a lovely pain-free trance-like state. But four pills and six hours later found me sitting on my couch, wishing death upon the entire world. Still in pain, still cranky and slightly homicidal.
As such, my holiday season was spent popping valium. Lots and lots of valium. It takes four pills at a time to make me relaxed, and another two if I feel like sleeping.
The alien transmitter fell out late Tuesday evening. I feel much better now. Also, I have a new cat. Her name is Sugar Monkey. Or maybe Gidget.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Dear Santa: Your elves have shitty valium.
I thought about describing my pill-popping Christmas by going into great detail about my mental disintegration after the vet “accidentally” killed Llama (with valium, no less). I would describe the ever-increasing emotional hysteria, culminating in an office meltdown of epic proportions. Then on to the brief but stern admonishment from my boss regarding throwing sharp projectile objects in spaces that might be occupied by other humans. My story would end when a sympathetic coworker popped open a bottle of valium and force fed three orange pills down my throat, which left me comatose and slightly drooly. After which I was fired for my unsatisfactory conduct.**
But then I realized not everyone finds me amusing. Plus, this is the holiday season, and whether you sing that crazy dradle song or the one about a baby in a poop-filled barn, most deities hate liars, especially blatant ones. And while I definitely cried, okay, sobbed, on the phone with my mother after the vet called with his bad news, I wouldn’t describe my emotional state as unstable. Pissed off would be far more realistic. And maybe just a little sad. Oh, and guilty. See below:
By the time I finally managed to call the vet back, it was late afternoon. I’d spent my morning within the bowels of a hospital eating eggs laced with nuclear matter and reclining under what appeared to be a giant black drum. While it’s inordinately uncomfortable for me to lie perfectly still for any length of time, this was by far the most enjoyable portion of my day. Possibly because I hadn’t been able to eat anything since 9pm the night before and I’m not one of those kids who forget to eat. Forget my keys, maybe. Eating, never. As such, those nuclear eggs were like manna from heaven.
The only moderately cool thing from that whole ordeal was watching the little nuclear bits hang out in my stomach. They kind of resembled very busy microscopic ants with a tendency to stay in a giant dotty cluster. I’m using the word ‘cool’ very loosely, because while it was neat in that ‘look at my innards!’ kind of way, I’ll be the first to admit that I have very irrational semi-fears about things. Mostly they involve aliens, alien babies and bird noises. My greatest fear would have me standing next to a long-armed alien while I birthed his alien spawn from my stomach, all while they communicated via bird noises. So it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that while watching the little nuclear bits move around in my abdominal cavity, the Crazy part of my brain was all “You know that’s how they breed, don’t you? The eggs are merely a vehicle for their alien spawn. Look at them on the screen- invading every molecule of your body. You’re going to be the Mary for the bug-eyed alien race.”
The non-crazy part of my brain, the one that deals frequently with my overactive and slightly paranoid imagination, responded by sighing in resignation. “You’re going to write about this on the internet, aren’t you? This is not how you get boys to make out with you.”
However, I’m going to blame low blood sugar on the brief (but stunning) coup by Crazy Brain. I’m quite aware that nuclear matter does not equal alien babies and should the previous admission diminish anyone’s desire to make out with me, I’m deeply sorry.
Following my nuclear morning, I was sent to another hospital building for a CAT scan. This wasn’t nearly as amusing as the egg test, mainly because I had to drink a gallon of pink Crystal Light infused with some unidentifiable substance. I was not to drink it too quickly, however, because it would make me nauseated. I nodded my head in acknowledgement when the nurse told me this, then informed her that everything makes me nauseated so this should be wicked exciting.
The scan itself wasn’t anything to write home about, with the exception of whatever drug was injected into the vein in my right arm. After the technician left the room, her voice came over the intercom and told me that I would probably feel like I was wetting myself and that my pelvis would feel abnormally warm. Personally, I feel that this is the sort of information that should be shared before the drug injection. But hey, who’s judging?
Now that I’ve run through my six hours of hospital visiting, you can understand why it took me five and a half hours to return the message left by my vet. I thought it was just a normal update on the declawing and shot-giving for The Demonspawn. Maybe letting me know that they were resting comfortably, ready for pickup after 5pm. Unbeknownst to me, Llama was definitely resting comfortably. In a fucking body bag. He’d died when the nurse had injected the kitty cat valium into his hind leg. Dropped dead right on the table, the vet said. I got to hear about that ‘dropping dead’ part about eight or nine times, which is exactly the mental image you want of your pet. Right next to the one of an ice-encrusted ball of fluff inside the confines of a plastic ziploc bag. Because I’d taken so long to return his call, he said, they’d had to put him in the freezer. To halt decomposition. Again, THANKS FOR THAT MENTAL IMAGE, ASSHOLE.
So I drove across town to pick up Lily, because one pet death was really all I could handle. Had I ingested more than Crystal Light and nuclear eggs that day, I probably would have had the energy to disembowel the vet like I envisioned on my drive over. But hunger and sadness hand rendered me weak, and instead I just held Lily’s furry little body to my chest and cried silently all the way home. Feeling like a horrible cat-mother for sending them off for an unnecessary procedure, just to save my new couch from frenzied clawing. Feeling horrible and heartless for shoving a normally docile Llama into his cat carrier, clawing and hissing all the way. Feeling even guiltier for thinking, over and over, you had to kill my favorite one, didn’t you?
Oh, and before you think I was kidding about the elves making shitty valium, I’m totally not. Tomorrow I promise to tell you how I made contact with the aliens via the radio transmitter implanted in my esophagus. And no, I’m not kidding. At least about the radio transmitter. The alien part is up for interpretation.
** Just so we're clear, I'm not terminated. Nor did I have a hissy fit and throw objects at humans. I did let a tear or twelve slip out when everyone at work stopped by to hug me, and it was all very Terms of Endearment-y.
But then I realized not everyone finds me amusing. Plus, this is the holiday season, and whether you sing that crazy dradle song or the one about a baby in a poop-filled barn, most deities hate liars, especially blatant ones. And while I definitely cried, okay, sobbed, on the phone with my mother after the vet called with his bad news, I wouldn’t describe my emotional state as unstable. Pissed off would be far more realistic. And maybe just a little sad. Oh, and guilty. See below:
By the time I finally managed to call the vet back, it was late afternoon. I’d spent my morning within the bowels of a hospital eating eggs laced with nuclear matter and reclining under what appeared to be a giant black drum. While it’s inordinately uncomfortable for me to lie perfectly still for any length of time, this was by far the most enjoyable portion of my day. Possibly because I hadn’t been able to eat anything since 9pm the night before and I’m not one of those kids who forget to eat. Forget my keys, maybe. Eating, never. As such, those nuclear eggs were like manna from heaven.
The only moderately cool thing from that whole ordeal was watching the little nuclear bits hang out in my stomach. They kind of resembled very busy microscopic ants with a tendency to stay in a giant dotty cluster. I’m using the word ‘cool’ very loosely, because while it was neat in that ‘look at my innards!’ kind of way, I’ll be the first to admit that I have very irrational semi-fears about things. Mostly they involve aliens, alien babies and bird noises. My greatest fear would have me standing next to a long-armed alien while I birthed his alien spawn from my stomach, all while they communicated via bird noises. So it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that while watching the little nuclear bits move around in my abdominal cavity, the Crazy part of my brain was all “You know that’s how they breed, don’t you? The eggs are merely a vehicle for their alien spawn. Look at them on the screen- invading every molecule of your body. You’re going to be the Mary for the bug-eyed alien race.”
The non-crazy part of my brain, the one that deals frequently with my overactive and slightly paranoid imagination, responded by sighing in resignation. “You’re going to write about this on the internet, aren’t you? This is not how you get boys to make out with you.”
However, I’m going to blame low blood sugar on the brief (but stunning) coup by Crazy Brain. I’m quite aware that nuclear matter does not equal alien babies and should the previous admission diminish anyone’s desire to make out with me, I’m deeply sorry.
Following my nuclear morning, I was sent to another hospital building for a CAT scan. This wasn’t nearly as amusing as the egg test, mainly because I had to drink a gallon of pink Crystal Light infused with some unidentifiable substance. I was not to drink it too quickly, however, because it would make me nauseated. I nodded my head in acknowledgement when the nurse told me this, then informed her that everything makes me nauseated so this should be wicked exciting.
The scan itself wasn’t anything to write home about, with the exception of whatever drug was injected into the vein in my right arm. After the technician left the room, her voice came over the intercom and told me that I would probably feel like I was wetting myself and that my pelvis would feel abnormally warm. Personally, I feel that this is the sort of information that should be shared before the drug injection. But hey, who’s judging?
Now that I’ve run through my six hours of hospital visiting, you can understand why it took me five and a half hours to return the message left by my vet. I thought it was just a normal update on the declawing and shot-giving for The Demonspawn. Maybe letting me know that they were resting comfortably, ready for pickup after 5pm. Unbeknownst to me, Llama was definitely resting comfortably. In a fucking body bag. He’d died when the nurse had injected the kitty cat valium into his hind leg. Dropped dead right on the table, the vet said. I got to hear about that ‘dropping dead’ part about eight or nine times, which is exactly the mental image you want of your pet. Right next to the one of an ice-encrusted ball of fluff inside the confines of a plastic ziploc bag. Because I’d taken so long to return his call, he said, they’d had to put him in the freezer. To halt decomposition. Again, THANKS FOR THAT MENTAL IMAGE, ASSHOLE.
So I drove across town to pick up Lily, because one pet death was really all I could handle. Had I ingested more than Crystal Light and nuclear eggs that day, I probably would have had the energy to disembowel the vet like I envisioned on my drive over. But hunger and sadness hand rendered me weak, and instead I just held Lily’s furry little body to my chest and cried silently all the way home. Feeling like a horrible cat-mother for sending them off for an unnecessary procedure, just to save my new couch from frenzied clawing. Feeling horrible and heartless for shoving a normally docile Llama into his cat carrier, clawing and hissing all the way. Feeling even guiltier for thinking, over and over, you had to kill my favorite one, didn’t you?
Oh, and before you think I was kidding about the elves making shitty valium, I’m totally not. Tomorrow I promise to tell you how I made contact with the aliens via the radio transmitter implanted in my esophagus. And no, I’m not kidding. At least about the radio transmitter. The alien part is up for interpretation.
** Just so we're clear, I'm not terminated. Nor did I have a hissy fit and throw objects at humans. I did let a tear or twelve slip out when everyone at work stopped by to hug me, and it was all very Terms of Endearment-y.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Where I continue to overshare
I had every intention of keeping my mouth shut about future health malfunctions because I finally reread a week’s worth of entries and realized that I was one whiny bitch. My throat hurts, I feel bad, my body is achy, my toe has a cramp, wah wah wah. It’s like someone opened the floodgates and instead of just calling my mother every night to complain, I had to open my laptop as well. Super.
But then Friday morning I woke up with the Stomach Death and I realized I was totally going to have to word vomit my experience into the bowels of the internet again, just like I vomited up a week’s worth of dietary intake straight into my toilet.
It started at three o’clock, a time when the majority of the greater Little Rock area was fast asleep in their dry comfortable beds. When I woke up, my entire body was covered with the kind of sweat that says “I just robbed a convenience store and sprinted for two miles to escape the police, pardon me while I pass out in your front lawn from exhaustion.” Obviously something was wrong, but I’m a stubborn one. I had a vested interest in keeping twenty dollars worth of pan-seared salmon below the Mason-Dixon line.
Four Tums (useless fruit-flavored crap) and an hour later, I was begrudgingly sliding out of bed, only to be hit with a wave of nausea so intense my legs almost gave out. The blood vessels around my eyes, the ones that always burst unattractively after a bout of vomiting, were already preparing themselves by puffing up in excitement.
And so my fifteen hour love affair with the porcelain goddess began. By seven-thirty I was confident I had expunged not only the pan-seared salmon and a gallon and a half of stomach bile, but possibly a kidney as well. I made a pathetic attempt at lightheartedness when I called and left a message for my boss, not realizing until the last second that the stomach acid had damn near ripped my vocal chords in two and I sounded like an eighty-five-year-old man with a four pack-a-day habit. Which meant the verbiage about dying alone in my apartment with two hungry cats who would eventually gnaw off my face sounded unnervingly real. And I was only half joking.
When eight o’clock rolled around, the early morning sweat attack had dried to little crystallized spikes all over my body. Obviously I was dying. Best to speed it up by drowning myself in the tub, where at least I could die warm. Only I’d forgotten to purchase a drain stopper during each previous grocery excursion, which meant I’d have to figure out how to drown myself in the shower. But this required standing, and countless hours of compulsive vomiting had rid me of any coordinated leg movements. So I flipped on the shower nozzle and waited for the hot water to hit my hand before rolling myself over the edge, red trackpants and all.
Unfortunately, my hot water heater is a useless, malignant oozing sore on the face of humanity. It provides about nine minutes of shower-worthy water before abruptly giving out. There are probably ways I could fix this, but I’d lay money on it being older than the invention of fruitcake and I have a strict no-fondling rule for persons and objects greater than twenty years my senior.
And though there was nothing left to give up, no semblance of liquid left in my body, The Goddess and I continued to have a face-to-face relationship until mid-afternoon. I’d covered the floor in soft fluffy towels, where I reclined in wait of the next dry heave, the next organ-loosening contraction, the next near-death experience.
By late afternoon I had the following conversation with my stomach- here is the transcript:
Me: Hi, Stomach. This is me, Robin. First, I want to say I completely and utterly to submit to the rule you have over my body. If I have slighted you in the past, I do humbly beg your forgiveness.
Stomach: As it should be.
Me: Obviously Amanda contaminated us with a virulent strain of Vomiticus, which forced you to expunge last evening’s choice of dinner- the aforementioned dinner shall remain nameless as I have come to the conclusion that the mere thought of it sends you on a well-deserved jihad against my esophagus.
Stomach: You are observant, my child.
Me: I wonder if I might run a few things by you- feel you out, so to speak.
Stomach: Please, go right ahead. I’ll be sure to inform you if I am displeased.
Me: Thank you, Stomach. You are most gracious. I was wondering how you feel about crackers?
Stomach: I believe this would be a hasty decision. Imagine what non-lubricated cracker bits will do to your esophagus on their way back up.
Me: Your opinion is duly noted. What say you about juice?
Stomach: What kind of juice are you suggesting?
Me: We have grape in the fri--
Stomach: DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A CLEAR LIQUID TO YOU?
Me: Um, no sir.
Stomach: Then perhaps you had best stay away from it.
Me: A pear, then? They’re awfully juicy. Very soft.
Stomach: That’s a negative, ghostrider.
Me: Where did you learn such colloquialisms?
Stomach: Please stay focused.
Me: My apologies. *pause* There are popsicles in the freezer. Cool and soothing....
Stomach: After the juice debacle, I’m afraid to ask what flavor.
Me: Well, they’re creamy coconut but you usually ADORE creamy coconut.
Stomach: Are you high?
Me: No, just sore.
Stomach: Stupid, then?
Me: So the coconut is a no-go. *long pause, cringing* How about some Sprite?
Stomach: Hmmm. Possibly. Maybe you should take a sip?
Me: Is this a trick? Because I did not like the previous revolt and-
Stomach: Do not anger me, missy. I will do as I see fit and you will like it. Do you understand me?
Me: Yes, Stomach. I understand you. So you’d accept a small cup of Sprite? Could I trade two sips of liquid for one cracker nibble?
Stomach: *thinking, thinking* Yes, provided the cracker nibble is extremely well chewed.
Me: *mentally shaking hands* Deal. Two sips for every cracker nibble. I will not disappoint you, Stomach.
Stomach: Let’s hope.
But then Friday morning I woke up with the Stomach Death and I realized I was totally going to have to word vomit my experience into the bowels of the internet again, just like I vomited up a week’s worth of dietary intake straight into my toilet.
It started at three o’clock, a time when the majority of the greater Little Rock area was fast asleep in their dry comfortable beds. When I woke up, my entire body was covered with the kind of sweat that says “I just robbed a convenience store and sprinted for two miles to escape the police, pardon me while I pass out in your front lawn from exhaustion.” Obviously something was wrong, but I’m a stubborn one. I had a vested interest in keeping twenty dollars worth of pan-seared salmon below the Mason-Dixon line.
Four Tums (useless fruit-flavored crap) and an hour later, I was begrudgingly sliding out of bed, only to be hit with a wave of nausea so intense my legs almost gave out. The blood vessels around my eyes, the ones that always burst unattractively after a bout of vomiting, were already preparing themselves by puffing up in excitement.
And so my fifteen hour love affair with the porcelain goddess began. By seven-thirty I was confident I had expunged not only the pan-seared salmon and a gallon and a half of stomach bile, but possibly a kidney as well. I made a pathetic attempt at lightheartedness when I called and left a message for my boss, not realizing until the last second that the stomach acid had damn near ripped my vocal chords in two and I sounded like an eighty-five-year-old man with a four pack-a-day habit. Which meant the verbiage about dying alone in my apartment with two hungry cats who would eventually gnaw off my face sounded unnervingly real. And I was only half joking.
When eight o’clock rolled around, the early morning sweat attack had dried to little crystallized spikes all over my body. Obviously I was dying. Best to speed it up by drowning myself in the tub, where at least I could die warm. Only I’d forgotten to purchase a drain stopper during each previous grocery excursion, which meant I’d have to figure out how to drown myself in the shower. But this required standing, and countless hours of compulsive vomiting had rid me of any coordinated leg movements. So I flipped on the shower nozzle and waited for the hot water to hit my hand before rolling myself over the edge, red trackpants and all.
Unfortunately, my hot water heater is a useless, malignant oozing sore on the face of humanity. It provides about nine minutes of shower-worthy water before abruptly giving out. There are probably ways I could fix this, but I’d lay money on it being older than the invention of fruitcake and I have a strict no-fondling rule for persons and objects greater than twenty years my senior.
And though there was nothing left to give up, no semblance of liquid left in my body, The Goddess and I continued to have a face-to-face relationship until mid-afternoon. I’d covered the floor in soft fluffy towels, where I reclined in wait of the next dry heave, the next organ-loosening contraction, the next near-death experience.
By late afternoon I had the following conversation with my stomach- here is the transcript:
Me: Hi, Stomach. This is me, Robin. First, I want to say I completely and utterly to submit to the rule you have over my body. If I have slighted you in the past, I do humbly beg your forgiveness.
Stomach: As it should be.
Me: Obviously Amanda contaminated us with a virulent strain of Vomiticus, which forced you to expunge last evening’s choice of dinner- the aforementioned dinner shall remain nameless as I have come to the conclusion that the mere thought of it sends you on a well-deserved jihad against my esophagus.
Stomach: You are observant, my child.
Me: I wonder if I might run a few things by you- feel you out, so to speak.
Stomach: Please, go right ahead. I’ll be sure to inform you if I am displeased.
Me: Thank you, Stomach. You are most gracious. I was wondering how you feel about crackers?
Stomach: I believe this would be a hasty decision. Imagine what non-lubricated cracker bits will do to your esophagus on their way back up.
Me: Your opinion is duly noted. What say you about juice?
Stomach: What kind of juice are you suggesting?
Me: We have grape in the fri--
Stomach: DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A CLEAR LIQUID TO YOU?
Me: Um, no sir.
Stomach: Then perhaps you had best stay away from it.
Me: A pear, then? They’re awfully juicy. Very soft.
Stomach: That’s a negative, ghostrider.
Me: Where did you learn such colloquialisms?
Stomach: Please stay focused.
Me: My apologies. *pause* There are popsicles in the freezer. Cool and soothing....
Stomach: After the juice debacle, I’m afraid to ask what flavor.
Me: Well, they’re creamy coconut but you usually ADORE creamy coconut.
Stomach: Are you high?
Me: No, just sore.
Stomach: Stupid, then?
Me: So the coconut is a no-go. *long pause, cringing* How about some Sprite?
Stomach: Hmmm. Possibly. Maybe you should take a sip?
Me: Is this a trick? Because I did not like the previous revolt and-
Stomach: Do not anger me, missy. I will do as I see fit and you will like it. Do you understand me?
Me: Yes, Stomach. I understand you. So you’d accept a small cup of Sprite? Could I trade two sips of liquid for one cracker nibble?
Stomach: *thinking, thinking* Yes, provided the cracker nibble is extremely well chewed.
Me: *mentally shaking hands* Deal. Two sips for every cracker nibble. I will not disappoint you, Stomach.
Stomach: Let’s hope.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The Agony
On the way back from lunch, Nancy shot her arm across the span of the car to turn down the “puppy killing” music that Kimberly had selected to help combat our post-lunch slump. She then turned her perfectly coiffed blonde head towards the three of us in the rear and fanned her face in mock excitement, exclaiming that up here on the left is where Robin and I were attacked by the bee!
She was right. And as far as I’m concerned, it should be hallowed ground protected by pink forcefields and vicious attack kittens because it’s not everyday that you pop your Embarrassment Cherry in front of the entire lunch-going population of West Little Rock.
It started at Mimi’s, a relatively new addition to the generic restaurant chains that sprout up in under fourteen days. These family oriented establishments come complete with a uniformed and seasoned crop of servers just dying to read you the specials, smile firmly in place, because working at Mimi’s is totally going to increase their tip revenue and waiting tables at On the Border is just so passé.
Throughout lunch I kept finding the crispy remains of flies on our table in places that had been decidedly fly-free only moments before. Like the heavens confused fly carcasses for manna and dropped them liberally upon unsuspecting restaurant patrons. And then halfway through the meal I saw something small, black and winged fly just past my eyelash. I have no idea where it landed but judging by its trajectory, the French onion soup one table over might have received an unexpected visitor.
For whatever reason, the six or seven dead flies I was personally witness to didn’t affect my gross-out factor. Because, I suppose, they were dead. If they’d been buzzing around my face, this would have been an entirely different story. Obviously whatever was supposed to kill them was killing them, however unfortunate their crinkled little black bodies looked beside the bread basket.
Nancy and I had taken my Honda to lunch, mainly because we like putting as many vehicles on the roads during lunch hour as humanly possible. Also, global warming is just a scam and it’s not like we really need the rain forest, anyway. On the way back we cranked up the air conditioner because September in Arkansas is akin to placing your delicate, naked body upon a hard reflective surface at high noon on the equator. Only it’s more humid here.
About a quarter of the way back to the office, Nancy inexplicably stopped mid-sentence and I turned my head, confused, just in time to watch her blue eyes go from normal mascared size to the kind of eyes you see on dead people. Specifically, dead people who have just been confronted with an alien race that intends to drown you in festering alien pus while sharpening their razor sharp teeth on your tailbone.
The only thing she could get out was a breathless squeak of unadulterated fear. She pulled her suddenly frozen hand from her lap and pointed at the side of my head, finally managing to form her mouth around the words that nobody trapped in a moving vehicle with air-tight windows wants to hear: BEE.
As Nancy finally gained her breath and forced a scream out of her windpipe, I lost every ounce of my sanity and swerved to the right, narrowly missing a silver Toyota. When I realized that a twelve inch tall curb significantly prevented me from ramping into the median, I swerved again, this time to the right. I imagine that the people behind me nonchalantly let off their gas pedals because look what we’ve got here, another corporate junkie coming off a liquid lunch. Surprise.
I turned a space just barely big enough to fit a tuna can into my impromptu parking spot and jumped out of the car, not caring that my door was open and the chances of it being ripped off were pretty high. Also, there’s that whole human body versus oncoming traffic thing but that’s just not what crosses one’s mind when confronted with a vicious bee in one’s hair.
At first I ran to the front of the car, hoping to dislodge it and send it on its merry way. But Nancy immediately and shrilly confirmed that it was most definitely still stuck in my hair and if I didn’t hurry it was definitely going to eat my face off. So I ran to the passenger side and threw my head towards my knees, assuming the quick flurry of activity would rid me of my unwanted hair accoutrement.
Here’s where it gets even more amusing: After twenty seconds of head-flipped-over screaming and indescribable panic, I finally convinced Nancy (via more screaming and panic) that she had to help me and she had to help me right that very second. So she sucked up her courage and got out of the passenger seat, scrunching her nose and averting her face, hands pawing at my hair in the manner of a girl-fight circa 1975 Connecticut. I say Connecticut because hello, I spent the majority of my high school years in a place (Mississippi) where girl-fights meant somebody’s weave was getting ripped out and the sign of a seasoned fighter was a string of self inflicted box-cutter scars on the forearm. Those bitches did not play.
I finally flipped my mass of hair back over, only to be met with Nancy’s horrified eyes. The bee, it was still there. Which just launched more screaming and general ass-hattery.
Three hair flips later and Nancy deemed my tresses bee-free. After a moment of hysterically tinged laughter, I got back in the driver’s seat and drove us back to the office, where we diligently reenacted our embarrassing and irrational display.
Also? That bee? It was already dead.
She was right. And as far as I’m concerned, it should be hallowed ground protected by pink forcefields and vicious attack kittens because it’s not everyday that you pop your Embarrassment Cherry in front of the entire lunch-going population of West Little Rock.
It started at Mimi’s, a relatively new addition to the generic restaurant chains that sprout up in under fourteen days. These family oriented establishments come complete with a uniformed and seasoned crop of servers just dying to read you the specials, smile firmly in place, because working at Mimi’s is totally going to increase their tip revenue and waiting tables at On the Border is just so passé.
Throughout lunch I kept finding the crispy remains of flies on our table in places that had been decidedly fly-free only moments before. Like the heavens confused fly carcasses for manna and dropped them liberally upon unsuspecting restaurant patrons. And then halfway through the meal I saw something small, black and winged fly just past my eyelash. I have no idea where it landed but judging by its trajectory, the French onion soup one table over might have received an unexpected visitor.
For whatever reason, the six or seven dead flies I was personally witness to didn’t affect my gross-out factor. Because, I suppose, they were dead. If they’d been buzzing around my face, this would have been an entirely different story. Obviously whatever was supposed to kill them was killing them, however unfortunate their crinkled little black bodies looked beside the bread basket.
Nancy and I had taken my Honda to lunch, mainly because we like putting as many vehicles on the roads during lunch hour as humanly possible. Also, global warming is just a scam and it’s not like we really need the rain forest, anyway. On the way back we cranked up the air conditioner because September in Arkansas is akin to placing your delicate, naked body upon a hard reflective surface at high noon on the equator. Only it’s more humid here.
About a quarter of the way back to the office, Nancy inexplicably stopped mid-sentence and I turned my head, confused, just in time to watch her blue eyes go from normal mascared size to the kind of eyes you see on dead people. Specifically, dead people who have just been confronted with an alien race that intends to drown you in festering alien pus while sharpening their razor sharp teeth on your tailbone.
The only thing she could get out was a breathless squeak of unadulterated fear. She pulled her suddenly frozen hand from her lap and pointed at the side of my head, finally managing to form her mouth around the words that nobody trapped in a moving vehicle with air-tight windows wants to hear: BEE.
As Nancy finally gained her breath and forced a scream out of her windpipe, I lost every ounce of my sanity and swerved to the right, narrowly missing a silver Toyota. When I realized that a twelve inch tall curb significantly prevented me from ramping into the median, I swerved again, this time to the right. I imagine that the people behind me nonchalantly let off their gas pedals because look what we’ve got here, another corporate junkie coming off a liquid lunch. Surprise.
I turned a space just barely big enough to fit a tuna can into my impromptu parking spot and jumped out of the car, not caring that my door was open and the chances of it being ripped off were pretty high. Also, there’s that whole human body versus oncoming traffic thing but that’s just not what crosses one’s mind when confronted with a vicious bee in one’s hair.
At first I ran to the front of the car, hoping to dislodge it and send it on its merry way. But Nancy immediately and shrilly confirmed that it was most definitely still stuck in my hair and if I didn’t hurry it was definitely going to eat my face off. So I ran to the passenger side and threw my head towards my knees, assuming the quick flurry of activity would rid me of my unwanted hair accoutrement.
Here’s where it gets even more amusing: After twenty seconds of head-flipped-over screaming and indescribable panic, I finally convinced Nancy (via more screaming and panic) that she had to help me and she had to help me right that very second. So she sucked up her courage and got out of the passenger seat, scrunching her nose and averting her face, hands pawing at my hair in the manner of a girl-fight circa 1975 Connecticut. I say Connecticut because hello, I spent the majority of my high school years in a place (Mississippi) where girl-fights meant somebody’s weave was getting ripped out and the sign of a seasoned fighter was a string of self inflicted box-cutter scars on the forearm. Those bitches did not play.
I finally flipped my mass of hair back over, only to be met with Nancy’s horrified eyes. The bee, it was still there. Which just launched more screaming and general ass-hattery.
Three hair flips later and Nancy deemed my tresses bee-free. After a moment of hysterically tinged laughter, I got back in the driver’s seat and drove us back to the office, where we diligently reenacted our embarrassing and irrational display.
Also? That bee? It was already dead.
Monday, December 11, 2006
What? More snot?
Let’s be honest- at this point I almost have no choice but to morph this blog from a spewing of mindless drivel to a spewing of health related dysfunctions, including examples of my patheticness when sickly. This is not to say I’m over being sick, because I’m not. We have officially kicked off week two in Robin’s Misery Campaign and what better way to make my proposed format transition than by notifying everyone that from this point forward, I will talk incessantly about bowel movements, mucus balls, eye goop, bloody snot and vomiting.
Only I hate talking about bowel movements, this is just where I draw the line. They shouldn’t be discussed with anyone outside of the healthcare profession or that one friend who talks openly about dropping the kids off at the pool. The friend who will openly and unashamedly tell you that now is definitely not the best time to visit the ladies because she’s about to go in there and coat the pipes. We all have this friend so it does you no good to deny it.
It’s just I’ve spent a lifetime of listening to my grandmother describe color and texture and frequency and suppository insertion and pain of poop removal. Add onto that another lifetime of listening to my mother bitch about how she has to smile and nod with concern or appreciation during these stories, and it’s like being tag teamed by herds of angry rhinoceros and gassy warthogs. The rhinoceros are pissed because they’ve had their delicate ears assailed with stories of poop carnage and the warthogs are oblivious to the fact that a) eating the crunchy caterpillars gives them lower intestinal difficulties and b) the rhino’s aren’t really that keen on hearing about the rectal expelling of the caterpillars.
Obviously I need to come up with better analogies. The point being that I’m not going to talk about poop. My poop, your poop or your girlfriend’s poop. I will, however, talk about cat poop. Because that shit stinks and it’s especially foul when it gets stuck in the kitty cat butt-fur. Besides, my whole goal in life is to grow up to be the cantankerous lady next door who smells faintly of cat litter. It’s just an added bonus if I get to smell like cat litter tainted with poop. It’s like asking god to strike a trifling whore with a case of chlamydia and instead he gives her a kid plus thirty pounds of stretch-marked baby weight.
Only I hate talking about bowel movements, this is just where I draw the line. They shouldn’t be discussed with anyone outside of the healthcare profession or that one friend who talks openly about dropping the kids off at the pool. The friend who will openly and unashamedly tell you that now is definitely not the best time to visit the ladies because she’s about to go in there and coat the pipes. We all have this friend so it does you no good to deny it.
It’s just I’ve spent a lifetime of listening to my grandmother describe color and texture and frequency and suppository insertion and pain of poop removal. Add onto that another lifetime of listening to my mother bitch about how she has to smile and nod with concern or appreciation during these stories, and it’s like being tag teamed by herds of angry rhinoceros and gassy warthogs. The rhinoceros are pissed because they’ve had their delicate ears assailed with stories of poop carnage and the warthogs are oblivious to the fact that a) eating the crunchy caterpillars gives them lower intestinal difficulties and b) the rhino’s aren’t really that keen on hearing about the rectal expelling of the caterpillars.
Obviously I need to come up with better analogies. The point being that I’m not going to talk about poop. My poop, your poop or your girlfriend’s poop. I will, however, talk about cat poop. Because that shit stinks and it’s especially foul when it gets stuck in the kitty cat butt-fur. Besides, my whole goal in life is to grow up to be the cantankerous lady next door who smells faintly of cat litter. It’s just an added bonus if I get to smell like cat litter tainted with poop. It’s like asking god to strike a trifling whore with a case of chlamydia and instead he gives her a kid plus thirty pounds of stretch-marked baby weight.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Chuck Norris, come kick this mucus in the ass!
This past week has been an in-depth study in the inadequacies of hydrocodone and the sheer ineptitude of medical professionals. Barring the mono incident during my junior year in college, this is by far the most miserable I have ever been. And when I say miserable, I mean so miserable that the act of swallowing my own spit actually keeps me awake at night. The sheer pain involved in contracting my throat makes me want to tear the heads off helpless gerbils. Though obviously I can’t do much more than make paste-o-gerbil in my oral cavity. Like pate’, only not.
I made it into wok for a solid hour yesterday when I decided the world would definitely be a better place if I would take my cantankerous ass home to bed. Many hours of sleeping later and I was equally as cranky as when I left work. And my throat still felt like a breeding ground for unhappy scorpions.
This morning I made deals with myself: I did not have to wash my hair but I did have to shower. I did not have to shave my legs but I did have to brush my teeth. I did not have to dress in a professional manner but I did have to put on a bra. This made these accomplishments easier to stomach, simply because I had exempted myself from the more laborious tasks. Also, it’s winter. Who cares if I miss one day of leg shaving, anyway?
Once at work I realized what an awful, terrible thing it is to be cooped up in one’s apartment for many, many days in a row. It was abundantly clear to me upon sitting at my clean, clutter-free desk that my apartment had gone from meeting the definitions of those words to being an apartment that might actually collapse under the weight of stacks of leftover sherbert bowls and popsicle wrappers and half-eaten pasta frozen dinners. Much like cleaning the yogurt remnants from my three-day-old scarf, I apparently couldn’t be bothered with little things like putting the crusty dishes in the sink or picking discarded blankets off the floor.
And even though the thought of my living space sitting in such a mound of cluttered filth would normally send me straight home for cleaning, nothing short of a building fire and the smoldering remains of my belongings could illicit a greater reaction than ‘meh.’ And even now, thinking about the smoldering couch and charred shoes, my first thought is “that’s why you have renter’s insurance” followed immediately by “meh.”
I made it into wok for a solid hour yesterday when I decided the world would definitely be a better place if I would take my cantankerous ass home to bed. Many hours of sleeping later and I was equally as cranky as when I left work. And my throat still felt like a breeding ground for unhappy scorpions.
This morning I made deals with myself: I did not have to wash my hair but I did have to shower. I did not have to shave my legs but I did have to brush my teeth. I did not have to dress in a professional manner but I did have to put on a bra. This made these accomplishments easier to stomach, simply because I had exempted myself from the more laborious tasks. Also, it’s winter. Who cares if I miss one day of leg shaving, anyway?
Once at work I realized what an awful, terrible thing it is to be cooped up in one’s apartment for many, many days in a row. It was abundantly clear to me upon sitting at my clean, clutter-free desk that my apartment had gone from meeting the definitions of those words to being an apartment that might actually collapse under the weight of stacks of leftover sherbert bowls and popsicle wrappers and half-eaten pasta frozen dinners. Much like cleaning the yogurt remnants from my three-day-old scarf, I apparently couldn’t be bothered with little things like putting the crusty dishes in the sink or picking discarded blankets off the floor.
And even though the thought of my living space sitting in such a mound of cluttered filth would normally send me straight home for cleaning, nothing short of a building fire and the smoldering remains of my belongings could illicit a greater reaction than ‘meh.’ And even now, thinking about the smoldering couch and charred shoes, my first thought is “that’s why you have renter’s insurance” followed immediately by “meh.”
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Misery also loves The Real World
Much like yesterday, I spent the majority of my time today in heinous fits of misery. I rotated from the couch to the bed and from the bed to the couch roughly every four hours. Not because I really wanted to, but because I once watched a Primetime report about nursing homes and the horror that is an oozing bedsore. Obviously my bedsore risk rates fairly low, seeing as how I've only been confined to my apartment for three days. I never claimed to be totally rational.
I wish I could enjoy what is effectively a four day weekend but it's amazing how old forcing down popsicles and yogurt can get, especially when one's throat feels like someone set your esophageal area to the pureed setting. I also tend to doze off at the oddest of times, normally snapping to attention when my body has text messaged my sleeping self with 'Hey bitch. U have snot rnng dwn ur face and ur throte needs sum h20. Thnx!! xoxo.'
And then there are the really confusing moments, like when you wake up to two over-zealous Real World sluts performing a vicious oral examination when the last thing you remember is watching a polar bear documentary on Animal Planet. Just in case you're wondering, that's a whole twenty channels worth of flippage or some very coordinated channel selection, all while heavily sedated.
Tomorrow I'm going to make a concerned attempt to make it in to work. This requires that many things be accomplished before 7:30am, specifically, a shower. I'm not sure how that's going to work seeing as how I've had the same black scarf around my neck since Sunday at 2pm. That's going on fifty-five hours of crustification, including the mounting yogurt stains achieved by attempting to feed myself in a semi-prone position. I couldn't be bothered to do more than wipe half-heartedly at them, seeing as how I was conserving my energy for the next time I was going to have to get up and pee.
I wish I could enjoy what is effectively a four day weekend but it's amazing how old forcing down popsicles and yogurt can get, especially when one's throat feels like someone set your esophageal area to the pureed setting. I also tend to doze off at the oddest of times, normally snapping to attention when my body has text messaged my sleeping self with 'Hey bitch. U have snot rnng dwn ur face and ur throte needs sum h20. Thnx!! xoxo.'
And then there are the really confusing moments, like when you wake up to two over-zealous Real World sluts performing a vicious oral examination when the last thing you remember is watching a polar bear documentary on Animal Planet. Just in case you're wondering, that's a whole twenty channels worth of flippage or some very coordinated channel selection, all while heavily sedated.
Tomorrow I'm going to make a concerned attempt to make it in to work. This requires that many things be accomplished before 7:30am, specifically, a shower. I'm not sure how that's going to work seeing as how I've had the same black scarf around my neck since Sunday at 2pm. That's going on fifty-five hours of crustification, including the mounting yogurt stains achieved by attempting to feed myself in a semi-prone position. I couldn't be bothered to do more than wipe half-heartedly at them, seeing as how I was conserving my energy for the next time I was going to have to get up and pee.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Misery doesn't love company, it loves mucus
I spent the majority of my day either huddled into a corner of the sofa or huddled in a ball on my bed, covered by copious amounts of polarfleece and down.
Amidst all my misery, I received the following touching message from a friend of mine:
Some people are like Slinkies... Not really good for anything, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down a flight of stairs.
There's really nothing like an inspirational pick-me-up to brighten your day. *tear
Amidst all my misery, I received the following touching message from a friend of mine:
Some people are like Slinkies... Not really good for anything, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down a flight of stairs.
There's really nothing like an inspirational pick-me-up to brighten your day. *tear
Sunday, December 03, 2006
An apple a day
This morning I woke up with Tickle Me Elmo having a go at my throat. Which would be all well and good if I were a masochistic puppet but last time I checked I wasn't made of velveteen remnants or polyester hair. And I certainly don't require someone's hand up my ass to simulate strange hinged-jaw movements that showcase my delightful gullet-less orifice.
Also, I somehow managed to restick my Breathe Right strip to my right forearm in the middle of the night. As breathing rarely has anything to do with right forearms, this did nothing to curb the steady drizzle of snot making it's way down into my stomach. Breakfast of champions, it is not. I tend to rub my face a lot when sickly, so sometime between midnight and feeling healthy and seven and feeling an unfortunate weather condition of mucus, I appear to have rolled myself in a field of Agent Orange. I knew all those years in 'Nam were going to bite me in the ass one day.
I pushed on through four hours of nursery duty because the money's good and what better way to spread Christmas cheer than by letting a five-month old gum your dioxin-infected fingers? Besides, Tickle Me Elmo had deserted his voracious tickling of my throat, probably in lieu of the veritable gold mine that is a room full of two-year-olds.
After lunch I made my way home and climbed three flights of stairs that felt distinctly like eighty. All the way I cursed the Third Floor Walk-Up, damning contractors the world over for failing to install one measly elevator. Once inside I went immediately to the thermostat and moved it up to seventy five because my fingers had suddenly lost all blood flow and if I wasn't careful, I'd be dropping frozen appendages like Elizabeth Taylor drops husbands.
Two hours later I woke up from my fitful and drug-induced nap in a fit of shivers and in distinct need of some pliers to remove the glass spikes from my throat. These moments always make me want my mama, not only because I know she'll bring me hot tea but because I have some morbid need for someone to see me when I'm deathly ill. I need someone, somewhere, to fully comprehend just exactly how miserable I am in that current moment. I need them to reassure me that I really am sick and I have every right to moan half-heartedly under the covers. And they're really handy when it dawns on you that the bottle of hydrocodone that Doogie Howser gave you after your stomach tried to birth an alien baby is sitting in the depths of your purse. Which is sitting in the middle of the entryway, right where you dropped it on the way to your bed mere hours before.
The only problem with hydrocodone is that a whole pill puts me in a very vomitous frame of mind-- and while eating wasn't high up on Things To Do list, forcing acid coated vomit up through the bloody remains of my throat was even lower. So I forced The Demonspawn from their very appreciated spots on my feet and pulled all the covers from my bed, grabbing my scarf from the closet because I quite like my nose and what if it should get frostbitten? It'd be all black and crusty and nobody likes a girl with an icky, half-gnawed off nose.
I stood in my kitchen wrapped in four layers of down comforter and polar fleece and watched the microwave while it heated up my pasta, knowing if I went back to my bed to wait out the cooking time, I'd never get back up. And then I'd never take the happy pill. And then I'd never make it to the Pier One sale because I'd have up and died alone with my cats in my third floor walk-up. And that's just too sad for words.
Which brings us to now: HIGH AS A FUCKING 747 FLYING OVER THE ATLANTIC. Still cold, but in a very dreamy sort of way. I have a very squishy mouth. Specifically, my lips feel all poofy and soft and when I bite them they seem to just kind of spill over my tongue. At least the glass spikes have subsided to a sort of swollen spikey marble feeling. I will take a throat full of swollen spikey marbles over the rotating slice-n-dice of the glass spikes any day. And if you're the one who has been sending me the glass spikes, have no doubt that I will find you and I will cut you.
Also, I somehow managed to restick my Breathe Right strip to my right forearm in the middle of the night. As breathing rarely has anything to do with right forearms, this did nothing to curb the steady drizzle of snot making it's way down into my stomach. Breakfast of champions, it is not. I tend to rub my face a lot when sickly, so sometime between midnight and feeling healthy and seven and feeling an unfortunate weather condition of mucus, I appear to have rolled myself in a field of Agent Orange. I knew all those years in 'Nam were going to bite me in the ass one day.
I pushed on through four hours of nursery duty because the money's good and what better way to spread Christmas cheer than by letting a five-month old gum your dioxin-infected fingers? Besides, Tickle Me Elmo had deserted his voracious tickling of my throat, probably in lieu of the veritable gold mine that is a room full of two-year-olds.
After lunch I made my way home and climbed three flights of stairs that felt distinctly like eighty. All the way I cursed the Third Floor Walk-Up, damning contractors the world over for failing to install one measly elevator. Once inside I went immediately to the thermostat and moved it up to seventy five because my fingers had suddenly lost all blood flow and if I wasn't careful, I'd be dropping frozen appendages like Elizabeth Taylor drops husbands.
Two hours later I woke up from my fitful and drug-induced nap in a fit of shivers and in distinct need of some pliers to remove the glass spikes from my throat. These moments always make me want my mama, not only because I know she'll bring me hot tea but because I have some morbid need for someone to see me when I'm deathly ill. I need someone, somewhere, to fully comprehend just exactly how miserable I am in that current moment. I need them to reassure me that I really am sick and I have every right to moan half-heartedly under the covers. And they're really handy when it dawns on you that the bottle of hydrocodone that Doogie Howser gave you after your stomach tried to birth an alien baby is sitting in the depths of your purse. Which is sitting in the middle of the entryway, right where you dropped it on the way to your bed mere hours before.
The only problem with hydrocodone is that a whole pill puts me in a very vomitous frame of mind-- and while eating wasn't high up on Things To Do list, forcing acid coated vomit up through the bloody remains of my throat was even lower. So I forced The Demonspawn from their very appreciated spots on my feet and pulled all the covers from my bed, grabbing my scarf from the closet because I quite like my nose and what if it should get frostbitten? It'd be all black and crusty and nobody likes a girl with an icky, half-gnawed off nose.
I stood in my kitchen wrapped in four layers of down comforter and polar fleece and watched the microwave while it heated up my pasta, knowing if I went back to my bed to wait out the cooking time, I'd never get back up. And then I'd never take the happy pill. And then I'd never make it to the Pier One sale because I'd have up and died alone with my cats in my third floor walk-up. And that's just too sad for words.
Which brings us to now: HIGH AS A FUCKING 747 FLYING OVER THE ATLANTIC. Still cold, but in a very dreamy sort of way. I have a very squishy mouth. Specifically, my lips feel all poofy and soft and when I bite them they seem to just kind of spill over my tongue. At least the glass spikes have subsided to a sort of swollen spikey marble feeling. I will take a throat full of swollen spikey marbles over the rotating slice-n-dice of the glass spikes any day. And if you're the one who has been sending me the glass spikes, have no doubt that I will find you and I will cut you.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Dear MSN,
Seriously. This picture does nothing to put me in a Holiday mood. I do not care that it’s a “fun” parade float. I do not care that this is considered to be the french-fry dispenser by children the world over. I DO NOT CARE. It is early and I don’t appreciate being greeted by a building-sized air-filled clown whose expression is less “Happy Holidays, kiddies!!!” and more “Please, I beg you, get this light pole out of my ass.”
Sincerely,
[redacted]
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