Couple of pointers, I get that you’re super homeless and everything but may I suggest you put some energy into your vocation? Maybe take a voice class. Professionals everywhere often take to attending classes in order to hone their skills and I don't think you’re taking your job of homelessness very seriously. If I can't hear what you’re mumbling at me how am I supposed to decipher which demand it is that you’re barking in my general direction? Articulate and project! I barely have time to stop and give you anything in the first place (Oh...cause I have a JOB to get to) and I certainly don't have the time to stop in an attempt to ascertain what the hell it is you’re blubbering at me. Furthermore, I have zero desire to be any nearer to the smell of urine than I already am. If I liked the smell of pee I’d visit my Nana in the nursing home. And if basking in the stench of hot garbage and humiliation sounded fun to me, I'd put some energy into figuring out what a bus is and how to ride it (ugh...poor people are the worst).
Why not pick up a talent? Juggle or something. If there's one thing worse than a needy, vocally challenged homeless person, it’s one who offers nothing. This is a business transaction and you are bringing no cards to the table. You could stand to take a few pointers from my friend Stan. Stan is my favorite kind of homeless person. I see him every time I go down for a smoke. I give him a cigarette and he tells jokes. Stan is making an effort and as a result, he’s constantly smoking. These are the kinds of gifts you could look forward to if only you had the initiative.
Let me tell you what’s not working for you, digging through the trash. Last I checked recycling was not as lucrative as you’re all pretending it to be. Five cents a can is not going to get you a home…idiot. Also, it’s going to perpetuate the garbage smell that lingers each time you approach a stranger making it far less likely for some passerby to offer you anything other than some anti-bacterial gel and a kick in the ass.
Listen homeless person, I am rooting for you! I want desperately to give you a dollar but you’re not making it easy. Who knows what could come of some hard work and diligence on your part. The more impressed I am, the more likely I am to help you achieve your dreams of shooting up before noon. I want you to have all the things you’re driving for in this world. Whether it be a sandwich that doesn’t consist of coffee grounds and cardboard or a new grocery cart, these are your goals and I want to help to guide you on your road to freedom instead of the road that you sleep on. Meet me halfway homeless person. Let’s get you to a point where instead of sleeping in a tent on skid row, you’re sleeping in your car in the parking lot of a Ross Dress for Less. You can do it!!! Look at Stan! Is he homeless? Absolutely. Is he ever going to have a job? Certainly not. But while you’re adjusting your newspaper pillow, Stan is basking in the glory of his achievements. He’s taking it all in. One Marlboro Red at a time.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Fat Doctor
I can’t remember what atrocious life event initially compelled me to seek a general practitioner. It was likely the horror of turning thirty coupled by an inability to breathe effectively due to years of smoking. I do know that what followed was a string of horrifying visits to a myriad of physicians in Los Angeles, all of whom I believe are trying to kill me.
A transcript of my first visit to the doctor:
Doctor: Hello
Me: Hello
Doctor: So…you’re clearly overweight.
Me: Ummm?
Doctor: Lose 20 lbs.
Me: I haven’t even gotten on the scale yet.
Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.
Me: How can you tell?
Doctor: I’m a doctor.
Me: Ok well I’m actually here because I have a bump on my arm.
Doctor: Stop making excuses.
Me: I’m not, I just…
Doctor: Get out.
I wish that any of that was a joke but I promise you I had a tape recorder in my pocket and that’s exactly how it went down. Truth be told, I actually did have a bump on my arm and that horrible woman, who I now refer to as The Fat Doctor, sent me to a surgeon to have it removed. Luckily the surgeon was very nice. Unluckily, he only had one arm. An Edward Doctor Hands, if you will. After my experience with The Fat Doctor, I was so bewitched by Edward’s kindness that I didn’t have the heart to refuse him the opportunity to perform a one-armed surgery.
On the day of my surgery with Edward Doctor Hands, I brought my friend Farnaz. In Farnaz’s defense, she valiantly opposed my procedure but I could not be talked down. I needed a surgery and this man, hand or not, was the man to do it. I could tell. It was all very minor and it took place during my lunch hour. Afterwards, I was impressed and by impressed I mean drunk. I didn’t remember anything which in my mind means everything went well. Mission accomplished.
For Farnaz, it was appalling. She later told me that Edward Doctor Hands seemed sedated through most of the procedure. She described how he unprofessionally answered a call during the process and was so reckless in his operations that at one point the cyst from my arm flew across the room and hit a nurse in the face causing Farnaz to pass out. What a wimp. For me, it was just like every other lunch break in that I spent the entire hour taking a nap in a strange place.
Last week I was sick, yet again, and had no other choice but to go back to The Fat Doctor. I needed a Zpac and I needed it bad. As usual, our visit was flabbergasting. She started by pretending she didn’t know me (puhleeease). She then opened my chart, acted surprised and said, “You’re super fat.” I was not going to fall for it this time.
A Transcript:
Me: Listen lady, I need a Zpac.
Fat Doctor: You’re sick a lot.
Me: I know.
Fat Doctor: What do you think’s wrong with you?
Me: I don’t know! That’s why I’m at the doctor!
Fat Doctor: Did you know the swine flu is going around?
Me: Alright…
Fat Doctor: Someone just died.
Me: Ok, take it easy. Just give me the Zpac.
Fat Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.
Me: God! Damnit!
Fat Doctor: Do you have a temperature?
Me: I DON’T KNOW!!! I’M NOT A DOCTOR!!!
Fat Doctor: Ya know what you should get?
Me: Ugh…what?
Fat Doctor: A Zpac.
Me: AAAHHHHHH
During this process, she actually did try to take my temperature, at one point, but when she went to remove the thermometer, it fell on the ground and then she just sort of shrugged and wandered off.
I mean…I’m not even sure what to say here. I constantly complain that I’m in the process of dying and it’d be nice to know that a) anyone cares and b) my doctors are not the cause of these bereaving feelings. Clearly I can never go to the doctor again. I told you how I went to the dentist once and that animal told me I had eight cavities didn’t I? Well…never again. In my opinion, no one in the medical field can be trusted. I’m going back to self-diagnosing myself and buying medication off the street or stealing it from my Nana. Ya know what’s great about Nana? Two. Arms.
A transcript of my first visit to the doctor:
Doctor: Hello
Me: Hello
Doctor: So…you’re clearly overweight.
Me: Ummm?
Doctor: Lose 20 lbs.
Me: I haven’t even gotten on the scale yet.
Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.
Me: How can you tell?
Doctor: I’m a doctor.
Me: Ok well I’m actually here because I have a bump on my arm.
Doctor: Stop making excuses.
Me: I’m not, I just…
Doctor: Get out.
I wish that any of that was a joke but I promise you I had a tape recorder in my pocket and that’s exactly how it went down. Truth be told, I actually did have a bump on my arm and that horrible woman, who I now refer to as The Fat Doctor, sent me to a surgeon to have it removed. Luckily the surgeon was very nice. Unluckily, he only had one arm. An Edward Doctor Hands, if you will. After my experience with The Fat Doctor, I was so bewitched by Edward’s kindness that I didn’t have the heart to refuse him the opportunity to perform a one-armed surgery.
On the day of my surgery with Edward Doctor Hands, I brought my friend Farnaz. In Farnaz’s defense, she valiantly opposed my procedure but I could not be talked down. I needed a surgery and this man, hand or not, was the man to do it. I could tell. It was all very minor and it took place during my lunch hour. Afterwards, I was impressed and by impressed I mean drunk. I didn’t remember anything which in my mind means everything went well. Mission accomplished.
For Farnaz, it was appalling. She later told me that Edward Doctor Hands seemed sedated through most of the procedure. She described how he unprofessionally answered a call during the process and was so reckless in his operations that at one point the cyst from my arm flew across the room and hit a nurse in the face causing Farnaz to pass out. What a wimp. For me, it was just like every other lunch break in that I spent the entire hour taking a nap in a strange place.
Last week I was sick, yet again, and had no other choice but to go back to The Fat Doctor. I needed a Zpac and I needed it bad. As usual, our visit was flabbergasting. She started by pretending she didn’t know me (puhleeease). She then opened my chart, acted surprised and said, “You’re super fat.” I was not going to fall for it this time.
A Transcript:
Me: Listen lady, I need a Zpac.
Fat Doctor: You’re sick a lot.
Me: I know.
Fat Doctor: What do you think’s wrong with you?
Me: I don’t know! That’s why I’m at the doctor!
Fat Doctor: Did you know the swine flu is going around?
Me: Alright…
Fat Doctor: Someone just died.
Me: Ok, take it easy. Just give me the Zpac.
Fat Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.
Me: God! Damnit!
Fat Doctor: Do you have a temperature?
Me: I DON’T KNOW!!! I’M NOT A DOCTOR!!!
Fat Doctor: Ya know what you should get?
Me: Ugh…what?
Fat Doctor: A Zpac.
Me: AAAHHHHHH
During this process, she actually did try to take my temperature, at one point, but when she went to remove the thermometer, it fell on the ground and then she just sort of shrugged and wandered off.
I mean…I’m not even sure what to say here. I constantly complain that I’m in the process of dying and it’d be nice to know that a) anyone cares and b) my doctors are not the cause of these bereaving feelings. Clearly I can never go to the doctor again. I told you how I went to the dentist once and that animal told me I had eight cavities didn’t I? Well…never again. In my opinion, no one in the medical field can be trusted. I’m going back to self-diagnosing myself and buying medication off the street or stealing it from my Nana. Ya know what’s great about Nana? Two. Arms.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
What If Everyone Was Right? #3
What if drinking to excess isn't the responsible choice? Is it possible, hold on, this hurts, is it possible that drinking to blackout proportions is wrong? How could that be? Every time I've drank heavily, amazing things have happened! For starters, I've made friends with strangers across the country. That's a beautiful thing, yes? We may not remember one another the next time we meet, hell, I may have stolen from you, but for one moment, we shared something. In a world where people are continually too busy to even say hello when passing each other on the street, isn't it nice to know you can get liquored up and share a laugh? Doesn't drinking take courage? Each time I've run from the cops or refused to rat out a friend, I was fueled by alcohol. Every time I start to drink, I have no idea what's going to happen. Doesn't that take trust? Don't I want to be a trustworthy person? Isn't consistency something we find lacking in young people these days? Well I have been consistently drunk through most major life experiences. Isn't that worth anything? Isn't alcohol teaching me to be social? To talk to people? To give people rides home? To run? Ya know what? It does. I refuse to let this one go.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
What If Everyone Was Right? #2
What if smoking is actually bad for you? I can't possibly fathom this. I view cigs as binkies for adults. They're comforting, they're warm, and they make whoever's got one in their mouth look adorable....right? Throughout my life, I have continually succeeded through nerve-wracking situations by simply putting something in my mouth. It’s inconceivable to think that this is not the solution. Through breakups, car accidents, depressions, wedding, funerals, cigarettes have always been there, ready to calm me with their hypnotic warmth and assurance. I am instantly relieved by the sound of a lighter and that first puff of the smoky unraveling of all my ailments. What could possibly be bad about this? Threats of cancer and heart disease can't possibly terrorize me to desert my beloved. Everything causes cancer. Each year, the ever-growing list is updated to reveal more causes. Cell phones, chocolate, and wine have all made the list. Then there is, of course, exercise, lack of exercise, Kleenex, microwaves, anything that's been within 15 feet of plastic, cotton, deodorant, brushing your teeth. No one expects us to dodge all of these conspirators so why should I have to avoid cigarettes? No one asks you to not use your cell phone outside so why can't I smoke outside? P.S. This is the fucking dumbest rule I've ever witnessed. No smoking outside? Oh, ok that makes sense. Why don't you just keep supplying me with chemicals and then scream at me for smoking them. Also, if you've ever walked anywhere near me and then coughed in an attempt to remind me that what I'm doing is killing myself and possibly you then I'd like to make a suggestion. Suck ma dick. If I ever see you do it again, I'll mount you and blow smoke in your mouth with your nose pinned. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine. Don't think I won't do it.
Friday, February 11, 2011
What If Everyone Was Right? #1
What if the only way to happiness is through money, success and beauty. Let's be honest folks, if this is the case, I'm fucked. Once in a blue moon, I build some confidence and waltz right down Melrose and into the nearest trendy boutique and think, "today is the day that I access the mystifying and elusive world of leggings." 30 minutes later, after the sales woman has me draped in scarves, gold heels, and peacock feather earrings, I take a look at myself and still only see some Midwestern broad in overalls, then I switch to, "Oh Christ, what's the point" and I start actively seeking chocolate. Isn't it possible that skinny jeans and I will never get along? I have to believe that if that's the truth, I will still be able to thrive in this world. Do you have any idea what it’s like to valet your 2001 Daewoo at The W? Well its beyond distressing. I can't do it all people. If I'm going to eat at The W then you're going to have to accept my horrible car. You're also going to have to accept the fact that I bought this outfit at Target. And yes, these are boot cut jeans....deal with it. You're not better than me.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Stupid Questions
There are a couple of horribly inane questions that I’m bothered with on a daily basis. This is particularly true on my horrible days which breaks down to literally every day. And seeing as February 8, 2011, has somehow managed to trump all other recent, soul crushing days, I’m taking it as an opportunity to inform you of things you should never ask me unless you want a dick slapped across your face. (I don’t care if I don’t have a dick. I’ll find one and slap you with it.)
The first inane question is the most obvious. How was your day? It was fucking terrible. It always is. I started by waking up. Strike 1. This was followed by a trip down to my car where I was faced with the horrifying realization that I drive a Daewoo. Next I participated in a telephone call with a Russian landlord who made me cry. After that I called my Dad, seeking solace, and all he did was talk about wall paper the whole time. Finally I got to work which reminded me that I moved thousands of miles away from Chicago to be a legal assistant. Luckily, on the elevator ride up to my office, I had time to remove my Russian landlord’s dick from my ass, just in time for my boss to ram his up there.
Second stupid fucking question. How are you? What is wrong with you? Seriously? Why would you ask me that? I’m horrid. Obvie. Literally everyone knows that. Your question is like a slap in the face. How am I? Honestly. Why do you hate me? Only someone who hates me would ask me that. The only way to answer that question is “aggressively overweight.” That’s how I am and I resent your inability to be a little kinder to the fat people around you. Do you think I want my butt to be this big? Well I don’t. But these are the cards I’ve been dealt…by God…who also hates me. I have proof. #1 The Packers are the superbowl champions. Bullshit. #2 He’s made me allergic to alcohol which is the only thing that brings me joy. #3 He made cigarettes bad for you which doesn’t make sense cause they’re delicious. #4 He invented pregnancy thereby taking a lot of the fun out of irresponsible sex with strangers. I could go on but I’m bored. Cause your questions are stupid.
Final stupid question of the day. Are you dating anyone? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??!!! WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT?!! Of course I’m not dating anyone you animal. Look at me! I’m completely unstable! I’m making unsubstantiated claims that the Czar of the Universe specifically hates ME and that that’s why he invented pregnancy. Be reasonable. The only person who would be able to tolerate my constant antics has got to be a deaf/blind person but he hasn’t been able to find me BECAUSE HE CAN’T SEE OR HEAR ANYTHING. God, you are such an IDIOT!
Ugh, anyway, everything’s wrong. Luckily Oprah taught me to see the silver lining. Ok. I guess the good news is that I’ve been booking a lot of acting work (totally untrue). Also, I make a ton of money at my day job for all the hard work I do (no I don’t). And my apartment has rooms (no it doesn’t). Plus I’m an amazing cook and always get to come home to deliciously cooked meals (all I eat is cereal). And I’ve always been a morning person so I get to wake up each day and go to the gym (upon waking up I’m in a murderous rage and I’ve always thought that “gym” was code for “hamburger factory”). I guess I do have a lot to be grateful for (only if I get hit by a bus). I’m really lucky to be supported by such amazing friends (not true. My friends are all drunks). I’m just going to slow down and focus on getting married (I hate weddings) and having kids (I’d rather drag razor blades over my retinas). At the end of the day you just have to put things into perspective. Things could be a lot worse (prove it). When I think about all the starving children in Africa (I’d kill to be that thin) or nations at war (I wish I had a gun), I’m always reminded of how lucky I really am to be me. Super. Fat.
The first inane question is the most obvious. How was your day? It was fucking terrible. It always is. I started by waking up. Strike 1. This was followed by a trip down to my car where I was faced with the horrifying realization that I drive a Daewoo. Next I participated in a telephone call with a Russian landlord who made me cry. After that I called my Dad, seeking solace, and all he did was talk about wall paper the whole time. Finally I got to work which reminded me that I moved thousands of miles away from Chicago to be a legal assistant. Luckily, on the elevator ride up to my office, I had time to remove my Russian landlord’s dick from my ass, just in time for my boss to ram his up there.
Second stupid fucking question. How are you? What is wrong with you? Seriously? Why would you ask me that? I’m horrid. Obvie. Literally everyone knows that. Your question is like a slap in the face. How am I? Honestly. Why do you hate me? Only someone who hates me would ask me that. The only way to answer that question is “aggressively overweight.” That’s how I am and I resent your inability to be a little kinder to the fat people around you. Do you think I want my butt to be this big? Well I don’t. But these are the cards I’ve been dealt…by God…who also hates me. I have proof. #1 The Packers are the superbowl champions. Bullshit. #2 He’s made me allergic to alcohol which is the only thing that brings me joy. #3 He made cigarettes bad for you which doesn’t make sense cause they’re delicious. #4 He invented pregnancy thereby taking a lot of the fun out of irresponsible sex with strangers. I could go on but I’m bored. Cause your questions are stupid.
Final stupid question of the day. Are you dating anyone? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??!!! WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT?!! Of course I’m not dating anyone you animal. Look at me! I’m completely unstable! I’m making unsubstantiated claims that the Czar of the Universe specifically hates ME and that that’s why he invented pregnancy. Be reasonable. The only person who would be able to tolerate my constant antics has got to be a deaf/blind person but he hasn’t been able to find me BECAUSE HE CAN’T SEE OR HEAR ANYTHING. God, you are such an IDIOT!
Ugh, anyway, everything’s wrong. Luckily Oprah taught me to see the silver lining. Ok. I guess the good news is that I’ve been booking a lot of acting work (totally untrue). Also, I make a ton of money at my day job for all the hard work I do (no I don’t). And my apartment has rooms (no it doesn’t). Plus I’m an amazing cook and always get to come home to deliciously cooked meals (all I eat is cereal). And I’ve always been a morning person so I get to wake up each day and go to the gym (upon waking up I’m in a murderous rage and I’ve always thought that “gym” was code for “hamburger factory”). I guess I do have a lot to be grateful for (only if I get hit by a bus). I’m really lucky to be supported by such amazing friends (not true. My friends are all drunks). I’m just going to slow down and focus on getting married (I hate weddings) and having kids (I’d rather drag razor blades over my retinas). At the end of the day you just have to put things into perspective. Things could be a lot worse (prove it). When I think about all the starving children in Africa (I’d kill to be that thin) or nations at war (I wish I had a gun), I’m always reminded of how lucky I really am to be me. Super. Fat.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Sick
I'd like to start by saying I've been sick for days which should explain why I've been behind on my postings. It should also explain why I’ve been late to work, dressed in rags, and balls deep in a bucket of carbs at any given moment. Sadly, it does not. Everything I just described is me on a daily basis. Nonetheless, there are certain happenings that indicate I’m suffering from a severe self-diagnosed illness. When I get sick, my brain shuts down. It’s one of my symptoms. I spend a lot of time diagnosing and treating myself when I’m under the weather. I like to listen to my body, attempt to decipher what it needs and then act accordingly. Today it wanted salt and pepper chips and some orange juice. Yesterday it demanded a fried chicken dinner. I'm not sure why my debilitated body requires these things but I'll be damned if I'm going to deny my fragile frame loads of salt and buckets of fat when that's clearly what it's calling for.
In addition to unreasonable food requirements, when ill, my body tends to hanker for medicine...obviously. Recently, I've been treating my self-proclaimed head cold with crystal meth and alcohol also known as Sudafed and NyQuil. I had to show an ID and give blood just to get my hands on that fucking Sudafed. I'd have an easier time getting an eight ball at a nursing home then I did trying to buy some God damn medicine. Ugh…I don't drink anymore but it's always nice to line up a few shots of NyQuil and reminisce about the good old days. Once a month I always get real excited because I get to take Midol. I usually just chop it up at my desk and snort it. Is that bad?
I've also been able to catch up on some TV which is quite a luxury for me. I don't have cable, or any working channels on my television for that matter, but I am privy to a DVD player which has dramatically changed my life. One of my friends introduced me to The Wire. Despite being a spoiled, white, Midwestern girl whose biggest problems growing up involved trying to find a ride to The Gap, I deeply empathize with the fine people of West Baltimore. I'm like 90% sure I'd be an awesome gang member. My gang colors would be a floral print.
Ultimately, being sick just gives me justified reason to do all the things I want to be doing all the time anyway. If I confess to having spent the last 5 nights eating macaroni and cheese, shot gunning Nyquil, not showering and refusing to answer the phone, I’m a fat asshole. If I maintain that all of this behavior was the result of a tumultuous ailment, all is forgiven. For the most part, the general public has yet to get on board with the majority of my remedies but it’s just a matter of time. In my mind, food, dormancy, and isolation are all elixirs to all diseases. I also contend that sex cures the common cold and while I’ve yet to find any willing participants, I will continue to hack, cough and wheeze my way into the arms of a lover. Doctor’s orders.
In addition to unreasonable food requirements, when ill, my body tends to hanker for medicine...obviously. Recently, I've been treating my self-proclaimed head cold with crystal meth and alcohol also known as Sudafed and NyQuil. I had to show an ID and give blood just to get my hands on that fucking Sudafed. I'd have an easier time getting an eight ball at a nursing home then I did trying to buy some God damn medicine. Ugh…I don't drink anymore but it's always nice to line up a few shots of NyQuil and reminisce about the good old days. Once a month I always get real excited because I get to take Midol. I usually just chop it up at my desk and snort it. Is that bad?
I've also been able to catch up on some TV which is quite a luxury for me. I don't have cable, or any working channels on my television for that matter, but I am privy to a DVD player which has dramatically changed my life. One of my friends introduced me to The Wire. Despite being a spoiled, white, Midwestern girl whose biggest problems growing up involved trying to find a ride to The Gap, I deeply empathize with the fine people of West Baltimore. I'm like 90% sure I'd be an awesome gang member. My gang colors would be a floral print.
Ultimately, being sick just gives me justified reason to do all the things I want to be doing all the time anyway. If I confess to having spent the last 5 nights eating macaroni and cheese, shot gunning Nyquil, not showering and refusing to answer the phone, I’m a fat asshole. If I maintain that all of this behavior was the result of a tumultuous ailment, all is forgiven. For the most part, the general public has yet to get on board with the majority of my remedies but it’s just a matter of time. In my mind, food, dormancy, and isolation are all elixirs to all diseases. I also contend that sex cures the common cold and while I’ve yet to find any willing participants, I will continue to hack, cough and wheeze my way into the arms of a lover. Doctor’s orders.
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