Baby Showers

Baby showers mark the divide in women.  If you have a child and are attending a baby shower, you will feel at-ease, included, and sure of yourself.  If you are married, without children and attending a baby shower, you should prepare yourself to answer a lot of questions about the child you are certainly planning to have.  If you are single and attending a baby shower, you should literally just kill yourself.  You will inevitably find yourself navigating around one of three conversation topics: Being Single, Having Babies, Being a Full-Time Mom.

BEING SINGLE 

Just accept it.  Literally everyone is going to ask you about it.  I've developed several scenarios to combat this topic.  I find that some work better than others.

#1 Shock Value Response

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

Me: Nope…just banging strangers.

This one is my favorite but has to be timed appropriately.  It's best used on your way out so that you're not ostracized for the remainder of the party.  Like a rookie, I once dropped this bomb upon arrival and wasn't allowed to hold any babies for the rest of the afternoon for fear that said offspring might contract an STD.  YOU CAN'T GET HERPES FROM TOUCHING YOU IDIOTS!  Ugh…everybody knows that.

#2 Lie     

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

Me: No…I was married but we're going through a divorce.

Robot: What happened?

(I like to cater my answer to elicit the most fear in whoever I'm talking to.  If they're fat, I say my husband left me for a thin person.  If they don't have children, I say he left me because he was eager to start a family.  If they're religious, I say he was gay.  It's awesome.)

#3 Cater

Robot: Are you seeing anyone right now?

 

Me: *hysterical crying*

Sadly but not surprisingly, this scheme works best.  You will immediately be handed a) alcohol b) food and c) hugs.  You will be swarmed by women who want to lift your spirits.  The truth is ‑ they're just so relieved to hear that you don't want to be single.  It's just an unfortunate turn of events which is likely the result of you not meeting the right person.  You will then hear some of the dumbest bullshit that women LOVE to say to one another:

"It must be hard because you're so busy.  You've always been so focused on your career."

"The thing is that you intimidate men!  You're so strong and pretty!"

"Have you tried dating online?  Well I mean I've never done it but I know a girl who met her husband on OK Cupid!"

If none of the above tactics work you just need to pull out the big guns and say you were raped.  I know it sounds crazy but everyone will flee and you'll finally get some God damn peace and quiet. 

HAVING BABIES

If you managed to skirt the Single question, your audience will then move on to children.  The only thing worse in the world than a woman who isn't upset that she's single is a woman who's unclear about whether or not she wants to procreate. If you are in a suburban area, it's in your best interest to simply say you lost your uterus in a car accident and then start weeping. Otherwise, you will be crucified.  The thing that married people will typically discuss with each other after you reveal to them your indifference to childbirth is how you are intensely selfish. That is what people who want to have children always say about people who don't. They just can't believe how selfish you're being.

Other than the Virgin Mary, when has any birth been selfless? Furthermore, I have to imagine that if the Virgin Mary had better access to medical care and abortion was invented, she'd have had a tough decision to make. How in the world is having a baby not totally selfish? You're forcing a person into a world that they have no say in. I'd go so far as to say it's a step above slavery. You own that thing until it's eighteen and as soon as it starts talking, it's expected to pay its own way. It's subtle at first – pick up your toys, please and thank you, and then as the offspring gets older it's straight up drudgery.

Now quite frankly, I don't care if people get married and I certainly don't mind if they have children. I do mind the insinuation that I'm a bad person because I'm not filled with baby and that they're living a spiritual life that doesn't involve birth control or false claims of rape.

FULL-TIME MOM

If you can avoid Single Talk and Baby Talk at a shower, you have one more cross to bear.  The Full-time Mom.  She's my favorite.

Me:  So what do you do for work?

Robot:  Fulltime mom!

Me:  Oh so you don't have a job.

Robot:  Being a mom is my job.

Me:  Do you get a paycheck?

Robot: Well no but let me tell you…I had a job and it was way easier than taking care of three kids.

Me:  I'm sure it was.  Nonetheless, you currently don't have a job.

Robot: You can't imagine how exhausted I am at the end of the day.

Me:  No, I mean…I totally get it.  Being a mom is hard.  I'm just not sure that constitutes a job.  Maybe we could call you a volunteer?

Robot: Fulltime mom!

Me:  So what about moms who have actual jobs…do they have two jobs?

Robot: I don't know.

Me: Could you put "fulltime mom" on a resume?

Robot: No.

Me:  Ok great.  So we've established that you don't have a job.

Robot: BEING A MOM IS MY JOB!

I literally don't understand.  Why try to trick me into thinking that you have a job?  I mean…you totally don't and that's totally cool.  I can see you put a lot of effort into this baby shower (also doesn't constitute a job) and I thank you for this washcloth shaped like a bunny.

Ultimately, I'm not even sure what a baby shower is.  I'm constantly expecting to see the actual baby and instead I'm just glaring at a pregnant broad the whole time.  I find it to be a little bizarre that we're all invited to come watch you not have a baby.  I'm not trying to be a jerk or anything but it's fairly unimpressive.  Why not have the baby and then we can all get together and hear about how you shit your pants during childbirth.  Honest to God, that strikes me as way more interesting than all the topics we're currently stuck with.  Listen…I am single, sans child and employed (actual job) and I don't think I should be judged so harshly.  Take it easy on me, women with babies.  Either that or stop inviting me to your stupid parties where you lie about how there's gonna be a baby there.  Ugh…I fall for it every time.

I'm Bad At Things...

I'm not good at things.  And I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, I'm literally just terrible at all things.  While the general public is good at things like being employed, creating new offspring and not spilling mayonnaise on their pants, I’m attempting to not contract any more obscure liver diseases or purchase cars with my debit card.  I assure you I'm failing on both counts – I'm bad at things.

This belief was solidified by a recent string of auditions.  Much like all other areas of my life, I am failing at acting.  It's like watching a toddler trying to feed itself.  It's messy and disconcerting and elicits a lot of pity, but also a smidge of joy, from curious onlookers.

Let's start last week when I was called in to audition for a new sitcom on Fox.  I was elated!  I knew this was going to be my big break.  I got the script and began to memorize when I noticed something was off.  There was a reference to licking feet and I thought maybe I had missed something.  I had.  Turns out I was auditioning for the role of "transvestite."  IS THIS A JOKE?!  Do you know what that means?  It means the fine people of said Fox sitcom released a description of a transvestite into the ether, my agent then read this malarkey and thought, "Oh my God…we have someone who's perfect" and then submitted my picture.  Fox then agreed that I was indeed transvestite material which brings us to the audition portion of things.

Me: Hi.

Casting Agent:  Can you lower your voice?

Me: Um…I mean…I can but this just in, I'm actually a woman.

CA: Sure, whatever, just talk lower buddy.

I mean…I guess the thing that's most upsetting here is that I didn't get the role and I thought, "HOW DARE THEY!  I AM A GREAT TRANSVESTITE!  I'M BASICALLY A MAN!  I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT ROLE!"

It's complicated and embarrassing.  A few days later, I was called in to audition for a commercial that contained a lot of text.  I'm not sure if you heard but I was a theater major.  Lots of text = no problem.  I spent the day memorizing.  I insisted on reciting my lines to anyone who would listen.  I called everyone I knew and rehearsed my lines into their voicemails.  I. Was. Ready.  When I arrived at the casting agency I looked around at the room of desperate women – women who spend their days counting calories and dodging gluten.  While these women were starving themselves and scouring through racks of half-priced tunics at Ross, I was studying my craft.  I had gusto and sustenance and I thought it a shame that all these bitches had struggled in traffic just to have their asses handed to them by a chubby Midwesterner. 

When I went into my audition, lines ready to go, the casting agent gave me some instructions.

CA: Ok great, so you're going to walk from over here with this bowl and this apple, sit down at this table, address your imaginary daughter, show this card to the camera and smile!

Me: Got it.

CA: Ok…action!

Me While Slowly Ambling Around The Room Like A Deer Caught In The Headlights: Ah ga ga ga ga ga aahhhhh ga gaaa ga ga gaaa ga ga gagaa

CA: *stunned silence*

Me: *horrified expression*

CA: Ok great, we'll let you know.

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN THERE!  I was distraught.  I literally turned actually retarded as soon as I got into the room.  Apparently I'm the type of actor WHO CAN'T HOLD AN APPLE AND SAY WORDS AT THE SAME TIME!

It was demoralizing.  Today was no different when I drove to Santa Monica to audition for the role of "conservative put-together mom."  As you can imagine, this took a lot of work and I was pretty impressed by the results.  As I strutted my stuff down Santa Monica Blvd., I was feeling totally in control.  I was wearing a very cute and conservative dress, my hair was coiffed, my make-up was set, and my pearls were dangling demurely.  I got into the waiting room and smirked – once again, I have outdone myself.  It was at this point that I noticed my ankle was itching.  As I looked down, I realized it was covered in blood – CAUSE I HAD ATTEMPTED TO SHAVE MY LEGS THIS MORNING – LIKE A MOTHER FUCKING LADY! 

AHHHHHHH!  It's pointless.  Some people are just bad at all things.  It's not my fault really.  I mean it's not like I'm not trying!  Sure…maybe it's a sign from God that I should be doing something different with my life.  But I assure you, I've tried!  I can't cook, I'm terrible at being attractive, and I'm horrible at men.  The only areas in which I've ever excelled are sex with strangers and a bevy of narcotics which further proves my point THAT I WAS PERFECT FOR THAT TRANSVESTITE ROLE!  Ugh… 

Dear France:

 

I fucking hate you.  Seriously France, what is your problem?  Listen, I get it….YOU'RE SUPER FIT AND ATTRACTIVE.  Does that make you better than me?  PROBABLY FRANCE!  Paris is a scam France!  It was created solely to make Americans feel badly about themselves.  I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY FRANCE!  I doubt I'll be able to afford anything in your super swanky cities.  God you make me so sick.  TRÈS MALADE FRANCE!  Betcha didn't think I knew how to speak French did you France?  Well I don't!  And I'm sick of you pointing it out!  UGH...STOP BONJOURING ME FRANCE!  Are you too good for Hello?  Is that it?  I know you speak English France and we both know I'm American so why don't you cut me some mother fucking slack. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME FRANCE!  I know you're glaring at me France…THIS IS A CHICAGO BEARS T-SHIRT FRANCE!  GET OVER IT!  I wear clothes that look like pajamas because I can't fit into pants.  I CAN'T FIT INTO PANTS FRANCE!  I bet that makes you real happy doesn't it France.  You sick son of a bitch.  YOU HAVE AN EATING DISORDER FRANCE!  Seriously, get your shit together.  Your accent is stupid France…it's disgusting.  You sound like a fucking idiot so why don't you just cut the crap.  I get it France!  You're super unique and laid-back.  I AM FREAKING OUT OK FRANCE!?  I HAVE A JOB FRANCE!  While you're bulking up on espressos in front of some French-speaking café I AM GOING TO MY MOTHER FUCKING JOB.  Did you get that France?!  Your Marlboro Reds taste like Marlboro Lights France…and that…is fucking…bullshit.  I hate you.  I literally hate you France.  You better watch your mother fucking back. 

Muslims?

So here's what happened.  I got hired to write for this website and it has been taking up all of my time.  In case you care about Muslims or any other things political, you should check it out.  If you click on the tab called Shit People Say, you will see several posts by yours truly.  

As we all know, I care deeply about the Muslims world...YOU GUYS THAT'S A LIE!!!!  I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK A MUSLIM IS!  It was clear that this job would require some research.  To be fair, I had heard about Muslims before and was certain I knew at least a few things about them  – I mean, I'm not totally stupid.

#1 Muslims Hate Jesus.  I was sure of this but decided to research it because I take my job seriously.  You will never believe this but Muslims don’t hate Jesus!  They actually regard him as a prophet.  They just think Muhammad was smarter or something.  I’m gonna be honest.  I stopped reading.  Once I found out that Muslims didn’t hate Jesus I was perplexed because it blew a lot of holes into my next theory.

#2 Muslims Hate Me And Are Trying To Kill Me.  I ran into a lot of trouble on this one because, as it turns out, there is more than one kind of Muslim.  I guess this makes sense seeing as there is more than one kind of Christian but honestly, my mind was blown.  Now I had to categorize the Muslims into a) Muslims that hate me and are trying to kill me and b) other.

#3 My Religion Is Superior To The Muslim Religion.  I was super sure of this one and fully ready to extrapolate when I came to the horrifying realization that I have no idea what religion I am.  I went to call my Grandma and then remembered that she died like three years ago rendering that bitch useless.  Of course then I started to feel bad because I don’t even know if I believe in Heaven or Hell meaning I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE MY DEAD GRANDMA IS!

Ugh…religion is confusing.  I’m determined to find out what a Muslim is.  As of right now I can tell you, unequivocally, that they don’t hate Jesus and they may or may not be with my dead grandma right now.

So anyway, apparently there's an entire section of the world called "The Middle East" and I'm determined to learn more about it.  If you too would like to know why some bitch zillions of miles away is covering herself with a blanket every day, pop over to the other blog.  If blankets scare you but you're dying to know if I'll ever fit into pants, stay right here.  I deeply love everyone.  Thanks for reading!

Eggs

Most women my age are getting to the point where they’re concerned about their eggs.  I’m not sure what it is about female thirty-somethings and eggs but most of the women I know are obsessed with them.  I’ve never put a lot of thought into my eggs.  Mostly the mentioning of them, by other women, just makes me feel bad that I’ve not pondered eggs at all…unless they’re in omelet form…which I think about a lot…because omelets are delicious.  Anyway, what I’m driving at here are children and the possibility of one crawling its way out of my vagina in the future.  Seeing as I’m a thirty-something, it’s probably time for me to figure this out.

I love babies.  Wait…that came out wrong.  What I meant to say is that babies terrify me.  Nope, also inaccurate.  Herein lies my problem.  I don’t know anything about babies.  People seem to have them a lot – I see the pictures on Facebook.  Listen, I’m not trying to be a baby racist or anything but all those mother fuckers look the same.  I’m starting to get concerned because I thought I’d have baby-feelings by now.  Also, from what I understand, babies typically follow a marriage and I’m not having marriage-feelings either.  Instead of being depressed because I’m not married and I’m not filled with baby, I’m depressed because my indifference to such matters makes me feel like less of a woman.

You may be familiar with the American Dream.  Typically it consists of a house, a husband and children.  This all seems lovely, but as of right now my biggest goals are to figure out what Gluten is and to not get holes in my pants.  These goals may not seem particularly lofty to you but I assure you, they’re taking up all of my time.  Today by about noon I was experiencing high self-esteem based on the fact that I didn’t have any holes in my pants.  Moments later, I went to smoke a cig only to realize my pants were see-through.  I CAN’T WIN!  Based on this information, it seems unlikely that a) anyone other than the homeless vagrants downtown would want to marry me and b) I have any of the necessary tools to keep another human being alive.

A friend sent me a plant recently – I killed it.  I haven’t had toilet paper in my apartment for several months.  I view walking without falling down to be a challenge.  Do you believe in God?  I believe he exists but that he is trying to kill me.  With all of these quandaries to sift through, I haven’t had time to mourn my loss of eggs – and lost they are.  I can’t keep a pair of sunglasses for more than three weeks.  God only knows where the fuck my eggs have managed to run off to. 

My point here is that I’m going to try harder to want babies.  My lack of concern surrounding this issue is alienating me from other women – that and my propensity for banging other people’s significant others (Sorry girls!).  I am a woman God damnit!  I should want a baby!  What better way to right all the terrible wrongs I’ve experienced in my life.  My baby is going to be the shit!  My baby will fit into pants!  My baby will be responsible!  My baby will live in an apartment that has rooms!  My baby won’t drive a car manufactured by a company that also makes toasters!  My baby won’t have road rage!  My baby won’t kill plants!  MY BABY WILL BE THE QUARTERBACK FOR THE CHICAGO BEARS!!!!!!!!  Shit…my baby isn’t going to like me at all.

Bathtub Diving

Many years ago, I lived with three men in an apartment that had one bathroom.  In that bathroom was an oversized bathtub.  I believe it was this bathtub that led to the most successful relationship I’ve been party to, thus far.  Enveloped by a sea of bubbles I fell in love – with a couple.   

I like to get drunk and go swimming.  You may view this as a safety hazard – I view it as quirky.  A decade ago, when I still believed in love and the whiskey flowed like cocaine, I used to get drunk and invite people back to my house to “go swimming.”  There were a slew of problems with this scenario.  For starters, I didn’t have a swimming pool.  I did, however, have an oversized bathtub which I found to be wildly exciting and avant-garde.  Furthermore, this bathtub was connected to my roommate’s bedroom and I liked to burst through his room while running and jumping into the tub – “Bathtub Diving,” if you will.   

One evening I invited my co-workers, John and Natasha, to participate in the diving festivities.  We all worked at a nightclub together and had already gotten off of work and closed down a 4am bar.  John and Natasha lived together and had been dating for a while.  They were one of my favorite couples because they never made me feel like a third wheel.  Several hours later, we were swimming in my bathtub.  Several hours after that, I was navigating my way around a vagina.  OH BIG DEAL!  GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE!  Fine, John, Natasha and I had participated in a threesome but I’ll be damned if I let you cheapen this beautiful love story with your sick lesbian fantasies.  WE WERE IN LOVE OK?!  CAN I CONTINUE PLEASE?!  UGH…ANYWAY…

The next morning, John went to work and Natasha and I spent the day chain smoking and watching Lifetime movies.  We had so much fun that we opted to rerun the same scenario that very night…and the night after that…and the night after that.  After a few months, I found myself to be desperately in love with John and Natasha and stopped dating all other people.  If I were at a bar and a man asked for my number, which used to happen ALL THE TIME, I would decline and inform the man that I was in a relationship.  I was monogamous except for the times when I was banging two people simultaneously.  OH PUH-LEASE WOULD YOU LET IT GO?!  YES, I HAVE THREESOMES SOMETIMES.  THAT DOESN’T MEAN YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME!  

The problem with me and booze is that I can’t always control what’s going to happen to me after I’ve downed a few Budweiser Tallboys.  A few months into dating John and Natasha, I found myself in a bar (shocking) and I accidentally slept with a stranger.  This was not unlike me, although it did mark the first time I’d cheated on a couple.  The morning after, as I was gathering my belongings, the strange man handed me a key and said, “You live here now.”  I was hesitant but that bed sure was comfortable and if I were actually living there I wouldn’t have to get up – so I didn’t.  Thus began a new relationship.  I broke up with John and Natasha and ended up living with the mystery man for over a year.  (He was nice.  I wonder what ever happened to him…)

In the years since, I’ve never been able to recreate the deep emotional connection that I had with John and Natasha.  The other night I was feeling nostalgic and decided to take a bath.  It was terrible.  For starters, there were no other people in it.  Secondly, it wasn’t positioned in a way that would lend itself to Bathtub Diving.  And thirdly, it didn’t result in me dating a couple – a couple that strived to make love to me concurrently while I waded through bubbles.  WOULD YOU LET IT GO YOU SICK FUCK?!

What Is Wrong With You?

This is a question I’m forced to answer more often than I’d care to admit.  I’ve heard it said that we are often victims of our upbringing and I’ve had to dig deep to remember when it all started.  As I’ve reflected on my childhood, I’ve not been surprised to see that everyone has always been against me since the beginning – specifically my parents and more so my brother…Mitchell Royer…he’s trying to kill me.

It all started when that tyrant was born.  Even as a toddler, I remember thinking that this would not stand.  My parents, Mimi and Jim Royer, kept talking about the new kid who’d be coming around and I was not impressed.  HOW DARE THEY!  I was certain they were replacing me and on the day my mom went into labor, I was shipped off to my grandparents’ house.  REAL FUCKING COOL MIMI!  I SEE THERE’S A NEW ROYER IN TOWN!  I was clearly being banished so I figured I might as well get comfortable.  Out with the old, in with the mother fucking new.

You can imagine my surprise when I was picked up and taken to the hospital to meet my new brother, Mitchell.  What a bullshit name.  My eyes squinted, upon arrival, in an attempt to intimidate the wretched offspring.  He was god damn adorable.  So this is the monster they chose to replace me and now they’re gloating by showing him off?  It was heartless. 

Mimi and Jim Royer, and their master trickery, have always managed to outsmart me.  I’m pretty sure this is called MANIPULATION!  HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW MOTHER FUCKERS?!  GUESS WHO’S BEEN TO THERAPY!?  Ugh…anyway, after a moment of being in the hospital room, I was presented with a gift from the newest and least impressive Royer.  He had gotten me a doll.  I was suspicious but accepted this gift.  Mimi, that sneaky little devil, went on to tell me what a big responsibility being a big sister would be.  She informed me that I would be attending Big Sister classes at The Park District so I could fully come to terms with what my duties were to be.  AH HA!  OH SURE, THIS KID GETS TO LIE AROUND ALL DAY AND BE BREAST-FED AND I HAVE TO GO TO SOME CLASS JUST TO KEEP HIM ALIVE?!  I was furious.  This was worse than being pushed out but what was I supposed to do?!  I had to move forward seeing as I was now single-handedly responsible for this ankle-biting brute. 

As you can see, my parents tricked me and then forced me to raise the only child they’ve ever loved.  It was the beginning of a series of circumstances in which I was royally fucked over by the world-at-large, starting with the people who were supposed to be protecting me.  After Mitchell was born, I was relegated to serfdom.  I would never be able to outshine that masculine son-of-a-bitch.  My grandmother had given birth to three women and when she got a look at Mitchell’s wang she regarded it as a king’s scepter.  I didn’t have a dick and I knew this meant trouble.  What was I to do?  Mitchell was the first male born to a family of bitches and the last thing they were going to be impressed by was my flimsy jaydge.  I was cursed with a vagina.  I had heard that sex denoted power so I attempted to assert this power as soon as I had a chance…in high school…with anyone who was willing.

My four years at Lincoln-Way were debaucherous.  I had been misled!  Abandoned!  Beguiled!  Mitchell was three years younger than me but quick on my heels.  I was a senior when he was a freshman and I was quickly overtaken.  At that point, my high school career consisted of terminal one-night-stands that often resulted in aggressive gossip and pregnancy scares.  Big dick Mitchell rolled in and was immediately Homecoming King as well as a star football player.  My biggest claim to fame had been the etching of my name into several of the boys’ bathrooms.  In my final days of school, I was almost expelled after a dean had found drugs in my purse.  AND GUESS WHOSE DRUGS THEY WERE?!  MITCHELL MOTHER FUCKING ROYER’S! 

To be fair, I was also partaking but I doubt I would have gotten in trouble had I not been forced to carry around a bizzaro bowl that had been crafted out of some sort of extravagant bamboo.  This thing was out-of-control and Mitchell had received it as a gift from one of his many worshipers.  I tried to explain to the deans that this was my brother’s doing but they were not having it.  The real problem here is that I was trying to be masculine, cause clearly that was the solution, but some of my hare-brained girlfriends had forced me to start carrying a purse.  I was able to grasp the idea that you where supposed to fill it with stuff but couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that it then needed to be taken with you everywhere.  I had filled it with my belongings (cigarettes, weed, obscurely constructed bowl) but had forgotten to actually take it with me past the high school commons.  Ultimately, the deans took pity on me seeing as my mother was the principal at a neighboring school.  I was able to graduate but Mimi and Jim thought it was probably time for me to move the fuck out.

They were really fucking tricky about that shit.

Mimi: Honey, we think it’s so great that you want to be an actress.  You should immediately move out.

Me: Um…I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I have a D.U.I. making it virtually impossible for me to actually go anywhere.

Mimi: If you move to the city, you won’t need to drive.

Me: But my leg is broken.  It’s not real easy for me to walk.

Mimi: We’ll buy you some crutches.

Me: It’s just that…

Mimi: Ok love you bye!

That was it.  I got kicked to the curb and Mitchell was left to rule over his people.  If you go into my parents’ house there’s an entire wall dedicated to Mitchell’s football achievements.  It’s covered with ribbons and awards and blown-up pictures of him, in his jersey, on a snowy day, tackling someone less advantaged than him.  In the far corner of this room is a picture of me as an infant.  It represents a time when the world was still filled with hope and possibilities.  I didn’t yet know about penises or alcohol or the necessity to carry a handbag.  I was docile and hopeful and if you look closely…it truly seems…like nothing is wrong with me.      

Fashion

Well I just got my ass handed to me.  I started my day off in fairly high spirits.  I made it to yoga and was feeling pretty good about myself.  So good, in fact, that I opted to rock my cream sundress, which I purchased in the Macy’s junior’s department.  I am not a junior.  I have no business being in any junior’s department – anywhere.  I certainly shouldn’t be purchasing clothes from these establishments, but I’m bad at fashion and often shop alone -- despite my better judgment.  I concluded that all of these characteristics made me perfectly suited to review a clothing store which is what I just spent the last hour doing. 

For those of you that don’t know (literally everyone), I write for a website called LifeinLA.com.  My job responsibilities include reviewing different events around the city.  I get to pick what I review and, again, against my better judgment, I chose to review a boutique this morning.  It was worse than anything I could have possibly imagined.

I was nervous while preparing for today’s interview, but also excited.  I felt very confident wearing my $20 sundress to this high-end shop, just outside of Beverly Hills.  Once I got there I was greeted by Carla, the store’s stylist.  Carla is classic Los Angeles.  Blond, plastic surgery, older than my mother, and thinner than I’ll ever be.  Carla was rocking a fedora as she sized me up.  Carla knew I was writing a review so she was basically forced to be nice to me but I could tell she was unimpressed.

Me: Carla, pick out some clothes for me.  I’m bad at shopping.

Carla: Ok, well would you be comfortable in something a little longer?

(Strike 1 – Carla just called me a slut.)

Me: Carla, I bought this dress in the junior’s department at Macy’s.  Would you say that was a bad idea?

Carla: I just think you may want something a little more mature.

(Strike 2 – Carla just called me old.)

Me (Holding up a dress): What about this?

Carla: I’m not sure that we have that in your size.

(Strike 3 – Carla just called me fat.)

What a whore.  We were off to a real rocky start and I’m not sure if you know this but I’m a lippy mother fucker and I had a few things I wanted to say to old-woman Carla, but I refrained.  I had planned to walk out of that place with bags of clothes and so far, we had reached a stalemate.  In addition, I had initially been thrilled when the owner told me, “We don’t carry pants here.”  That was excellent news for me as I’ve recently decided that I’m too fat to wear pants.  I’ve completely extradited them from my wardrobe.  Pants or no pants, I was already in a tough spot but had to bounce back as I had an article to write.

Me: Alright Carla, bring me some clothes.  I’ll be in the dressing room.

Do you know what that bitch brought me?!  LONG DRESSES!!!  Carla, this is a God damn slap in the face.  Have you seen me?  Do I look like someone who can wear a long pencil skirt, you soulless monster?  I HAVEN’T HAD LIPOSUCTION CARLA!  I am a woman!  A woman with hips and a macaroni-and-cheese-gut.  I’M FROM CHICAGO CARLA!  Do you know what a diet is for me Carla?  It means boiling my brats in water instead of beer, you sick fuck.  I hate you Carla.  I should take a piss in your fedora Carla BUT I CAN’T, BECAUSE I DON’T DRINK WATER!!!!

This is not how I anticipated spending my Sunday.  After trying on those torturous long dresses, Carla completely gave up and just started bringing me pieces of cloth that she claimed I could wrap around my body and fasten with a belt.  I’m fucking on to you Carla.  You think I can’t tell that this isn’t an outfit?  Gimmie back my junior’s dress.

Needless to say, I left the shop empty handed and dead inside.  I realize I’m often dead inside but I was more dead than usual.  I had planned to grocery shop afterwards but now I was paranoid about my short skirt and instead came home to eat pad thai while shot-gunning diet cokes.  (YOU HEAR ME CARLA?!  I SAID DIET COKE!)

Anyway, I want to kill myself.  No big deal.  I will not be writing for anymore fashion stores.  (Ugh…look at me.  Fashion store?  Is that even a thing?)  I was ill-prepared for today’s events and quite frankly, I should have known better.  For now, I will go back to my wardrobe of Target smocks and leggings.  Carla may be better looking than me, she may be thin enough to wear pants, and she probably has the luxury of going home at night to a living environment that has rooms…but I have youth on my side.  I am young and vibrant and I give a great blow job – without having to remove my dentures.  Watch your back Carla… I’m comin’ for ya.

Happiness

My friend Amanda is mad with power. She recently celebrated a birthday and then got up on her high horse and demanded that I write a blog post of her choosing. Her request? Happiness. That’s right. Turns out my blog has been depressing poor Amanda and she asked me the following, horrifying question, “what makes you happy?”

Amanda asked me this and I was stunned. Clearly, she's a soulless monster. I was also in traffic, chain-smoking and swearing a lot, so she had caught me in a vulnerable moment. The fact that I couldn’t immediately think of anything that brings me joy ultimately depressed me, proving that Amanda is a witch. Regardless, she had me stumped and I could not shake the question. I then did what I always do when I’m trying to work something out in mind – I went home, watched several episodes of Glee, openly sobbed and ordered a delicious bowl of carbs from my local Italian eatery. This was, as usual, a recipe for success. After a considerable amount of television chased by numerous Marlboro reds, I finally came up with a few things that thrill me.

#1 Musicals. Any time I’m sick and have to call-in to work, I become secretly elated. I always spend this time watching old musicals. No amount of whiskey or promiscuous sex could bring me the deep-seeded joy that watching Gene Kelly slide across a dance-floor brings me. This is a deep, dark secret of mine and, upon further consideration, it is possible that Amanda does not want me to be happy so much as she wants to embarrass me at a public level. I am so overwhelmed with joy by thoughts of Liza Minnelli Fossying her way through Berlin in "Cabaret," nothing can get me down -- not even the burgeoning Nazi regime aspect of the movie.

#2 Football. I was inconsolable this evening while watching an episode of Glee that included a state championship football game. Somehow the stars aligned and brought together three things I love dearly: men banging into each other at incredible speeds, a series of choreographed dances and cheerleaders.

#3 Cheerleaders. I fucking love cheerleaders. Had I spent less time at buffets growing up, it’s possible I could have been one. (mmmmm….buffets) I particularly love adult cheerleaders. There is nothing more pathetically amazing to me then watching an NFL game and seeing grown women on the sidelines with face-paint and pom poms. It does not pay well to be a professional cheerleader, which means that those broads work their day jobs all week, run to the salon to get their grays touched up and then roll in on game day. That is conviction, and I salute it.

#4 NAPS!!!!!!!!!!!!

#5 Things That Are Funny. I really like making people laugh. I like making people laugh so much that I absolutely don’t mind if they’re laughing at me. My co-worker Mike turned to me the other day and said, “Alison, I love your blog because once I’m done reading it, I’m just so glad I’m not you.” That was basically one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. If Mike can laugh at my HORRIBLY PAINFUL LIFE, then I have made him happy and my job feels complete.

My friend Nikki got diagnosed with Leukemia last year, and I went to visit her in the hospital. I went into that hospital room with guns blazing. I was loud, and obnoxious, and talking about L.A. and all the ridiculous men I had been stalking and my terrible acting career. And of course all my other friends were there, and they were ripping on me, and teasing me, and then Nikki glared right at me and said, “Honestly Alison, drinking Drano is less abrasive than you.” And then…she laughed. That bitched laughed right in my face. She was so proud of herself and it was at my expense. And I couldn’t have been more delighted. Nikki passed away last Christmas. I won’t go into the horribleness that we all went through and I wish her story would have ended a different way. But I like to believe that maybe I was able to offer her a little bit of relief when she was in incredible pain.

So Amanda, you horrible monster, you killed my friend Nikki.

Ok, you didn’t, but you have brought her up and that was heartless. If I have to spend the rest of my life breaking my legs in blackouts, dating men who are wrong for me and getting admitted into the hospital, I’ll do it. As long as it makes you smile. Happy birthday, you shrew.

50 Shades of Suicide City

I’m thinking about taking 800 aspirin.  One of my friends tried it once and while she didn’t manage to kill herself, she claims she hasn’t had a headache since.  I blame my newfound suicidal tendencies on every trilogy I’ve ever read – the most recent being Fifty Shades of Grey.

You guys…seriously?  How am I supposed to keep up?!  After reading Twilight I learned that if you’re a virgin, you’re going to meet a hot, rich man and then he’ll bite you (cause he’s a vampire…obviously) and you’ll get to live forever.  In Fifty Shades of Grey I learned that if you’re a virgin, you’re going to meet a hot, rich man whose only goal in life is to make you happy, buy you clothes and occasionally gag you.

Spoiler alert: I’m not a virgin.  While every other woman in America is at home right now furiously masturbating to Fifty Shades of Grey, I am freaking out! Listen, I lost my virginity a long time ago.  If someone would have explained to me how important my chastity was going to be, it’s possible that I would have paid more attention to where it went.  It’s sort of like when you’re in line at a fast-food restaurant and right after you order they give you that little ticket with the number on it.  If you’re me, you find yourself sitting in a booth, five minutes later, wondering why the fuck you’re holding garbage.  After that, people start screaming numbers at you and you realize that the little piece of paper was wildly important.  Now you’re accidentally eating a kid’s meal when you could have had a Whopper.

Also, how do both the women in these books get men to aggressively stalk them?  Is it the virgin thing?  I can’t even get a guy to pick me up from my apartment.  These books are making me feel inadequate!  You think I haven’t tried to get men to stalk me?  I once told a diabetic that I live in a candy store and do you think that mother fucker ever stopped by?  Ugh….

In Fifty Shades of Grey, Anastasia spends all her free time eating pancakes and bacon yet a constant theme of the book is how she’s super thin and can’t put on any weight.  IN WHAT WORLD?!  When I was in high school I caught anorexia from a friend and I weighed 130 lbs.  That means that with full-blown anorexia I remained a regular sized person.  In the meantime, my show-off friend only weighed 89 lbs and kept getting called into the principal’s office.  Cut to me in detention where my teacher is screaming, “Yo Royer, you look great.  Don’t stop doing what you’re doing.”  Oh you mean continue to not eat food?!  Real nice detention teacher.  I can’t even do an eating disorder correctly.  I wish I was dead.

Listen, I have enough reasons to feel sorry for myself. I’m dying, I have an out-of-control drug addiction and I drive a Daewoo.  Isn’t it possible that an overweight Midwestern girl can still find love in this world?  I am young (31), attractive (boy haircut) and single (desperate).  I should be enjoying myself! Instead I spend my free time Googling “How to become a vampire” and “Is macaroni and cheese a carb?”  I hate everyone.  I hate vampires.  I hate flashy CEOs who have a panache for S&M.  And I hate men who can’t give me a simple reason to file a restraining order against them.  As soon as I can figure out how many bottles it takes to make 800 aspirin, I’m outta here.

I'm literally dying...

I just spent an hour Googling “Welts from Humira.” That’s the shot I have to take, now that I’ve been diagnosed with my weirdo auto-immune disorder. I’m not quite sure what the fuck is happening around here but I’m having a hard time keeping up. All of a sudden I was in the hospital, then I was receiving a slew of gifts and flowers, then everyone I ever met was calling me, then my dad flew to L.A., then I was diagnosed, then I was released, then I was on disability, then my mom flew to L.A., then everyone was gone and I was left with some semblance of a life I had created pre-hospital and it is this life I’ve been floundering in ever since.

I like to drink Budweiser in the back of pick-up trucks, yet I haven’t had a drink in several years. I grew up in the gritty Midwest yet I seem to reside in sunny California. I work at a law firm while facing the hopeless plight of an actress. All this while jamming a needle into my abdomen every two weeks. I’m gonna be honest, it’s a little overwhelming and it’s forcing me to ask myself the big questions like, “Hey, why not drink alcohol? It’s delicious.” or “Who gives a shit about the law? Aren’t you supposed to be a waiter or something?” To be honest, I think I may be having a midlife crisis. I wish I had a family to leave. I’m not sure how a single woman in Los Angeles burns the house down in a way that conveys crisis mode but I’ve got a few ideas.

Option 1: I move to Kentucky and work at a bourbon distillery. This strikes me as very dramatic. For starters it would include drinking alcohol again and there’s nothing more dramatic than that. It would also have me living in some rural country town which would be shocking in itself as I’ve never lived farther than 30 miles away from a metropolitan area. The downside is I would probably get pregnant cause last I checked, all anyone in the bible belt does is drink whiskey and get knocked up. Oh and they go to church and judge gays…and single white women trying to make it big in Los Angeles…which I guess would make me a hypocrite…although technically I would have left that life for beautiful Paducah, KY. Ugh…fuck it. I hate Kentucky. Get me outta here.

Option 2: I become vegan. This goes against everything I stand for and would likely shock all my friends and family. The key here is that I wouldn’t just become vegan, I would be real high and mighty about it. Like I would even stop smoking and then tell people how bad it is for you and I’d cough if I came in contact with smoke. Wait…can vegans not smoke? This is bullshit.

Option 3: I move in with someone on Craigslist. There is nothing creepier than this prospect although I’m not sure it screams “midlife crisis.” It more so screams “barista” or “struggling artist.” And I’m a struggling artist and everything but not the kind that owns purple, skinny jeans and smokes cloves. I’m struggling in the way that my body is breaking down and my Burberry bag is starting to fray. OMG, I hate this. Poor people are terrible.

Option 4: I could meet someone, trick him into marrying me, get pregnant, wait for the child to be at an age where I can emotionally scar it, and then run away with a yoga instructor. This seems to be the most common midlife crisis, however, it seems slightly harder than veganism and while being vegan doesn’t strike me as all that fun at least I won’t have to carry a fetus.

The problem here is that I’ve absolutely lost my grip on normalcy and I may be in the middle of a breakdown. I carried a needle in my purse to work today and that’s not exactly where I expected to be by the age of 31. I have a whole new host of problems like, “Why is there a huge welt on my stomach after injecting myself with a needle?” and “When’s the next time I have to get my blood drawn?” I’m dying to go back to, “How come I can’t fit into pants?” and “Why is my agent ignoring me?” It’s all completely intolerable. The point here is don’t ever get sick. And certainly don’t ever stay in the hospital for an extended period of time. And whatever you do, don’t get to a point in your life where you’re forced to inject yourself with a needle. And for God’s sake don’t be a vegan. From what I understand, they’re not allowed to smoke cigarettes.

Hospital-Final Diagnosis

After six weeks off work, ten days in the hospital and visits from my father, mother and aunt, I have a diagnosis and a possible willingness to live.

Here’s the thing, my ailments were found to be so peculiar by my doctors that they actually want to write a journal about me. It seems fitting that after three years attempting to cobble together an acting career here in Los Angeles my biggest achievement would be a rare disease that launches me out of obscurity.

So here’s the final assessment. I have a weirdo auto-immune disorder called Ankylosing Spondylitis. Ever heard of it? Obviously not. Literally no one has. Apparently it’s a form of Arthritis. In addition, the governing symptom of A.S. is that my tailbone is fused to my pelvis. Ultimately, I can add Arthritic Woman unable to move her pelvis to my on-line dating profile so that’s great news. Here’s where it gets a little weird, A.S. is predominantly found it men yet here I sit, arguably a woman. In addition, 90% of A.S. patients test positive for a gene called HLA-B27. I tested negative. This wretched A.S. then launched a secondary disorder called H.L.H. which is typically found in babies. BABIES! I’m a God damn enigma. Either that or I’m a baby boy. That would be just my luck.

I was initially thrilled by this diagnosis merely because I finally knew what was wrong with me. It took eight days at Cedars-Sinai before my doctors finally came to this conclusion. Ugh…doctors. Let’s just talk about those clowns for a minute. In my quest to achieve health, I saw a hematologist, an oncologist, an infectious disease doctor, a rheumatologist, and a liver specialist. I was given a M.R.I., a CAT-Scan, a liver biopsy and a bone marrow biopsy. This is all in addition to wretched nurses taking zillions of vials of blood from me a day. Those assholes would wake me up in the middle of the night just to stick needles in me. I hated them. I still hate them. All nurses. Everywhere.

To be fair, I liked most of the doctors, mainly my liver specialist. The good news is he was fucking hot. The bad news is that he was married, had several offspring, and saw me on days where I was yellow and had just peed my pants. Shockingly, our interactions did not end with him leaving his wife. My least favorite doctor was The Twirp. I think this moron was maybe nineteen years old. He claimed to be an infectious disease doctor and he instantly bothered me. For starters, he was a child and I doubted he had anything to offer me. Secondly, he immediately started harassing me about my drug use and sex life and I didn’t know how to explain to him that he was a little late to the party. I had already tested negative for H.I.V. and Hepatitis and the rest of us had moved on to Lymphoma at that point but whatever, I answered his boring questions.

The Twirp: What drugs have you done?

Me: Like in life?

The Twirp: Yes.

Me: All of them.

The Twirp: *Silently Glaring At Me* You just want me to write down all drugs?

Me: I don’t really care what you do, I don’t have AIDS.

The Twirp: Are you sexually active?

Me: Not technically but I’m willing.

The Twirp: I have to go.

So yes I was trying to make him uncomfortable because he was the worst and he needs someone to launch him into adulthood. Anyway, by the time the rest of my doctors and I had moved past Lymphoma and onto an infectious disease, this clown was still in the weeds. He called me on my hospital phone a few hours later.

Me: Hello?

The Twirp: Um, hi Alison? Ya know I was just thinking and I noticed that some of your symptoms are very similar to something that I was looking into and I just wanted to ask…have you ever done ecstasy?

Me: What? Yes. Obviously.

The Twirp: Oh, ok good so when was the last time you did ecstasy?

Me: I mean…literally ten years ago. Are you trying to suggest that the ecstasy I took in college is responsible for my enlarged liver?

The Twirp: Uh…no, I guess that would be too long.

Me: I would say so. Stop calling me.

So for the last three weeks I’ve been on steroids which means I eat nine meals a day. This dashes all of my dreams of being thin after starving for two weeks. I cannot catch a break. The final crushing blow of this entire ordeal came last week when I had to see the rheumatologist. Guess what the treatment for A.S. is. Oh no big deal I just have to GIVE MYSELF A FUCKING SHOT IN THE STOMACH ONCE EVERY TWO WEEKS. You should have seen this needle. It looks like something you’d insert into yourself if you were ready to end your life. I’ve gotten two shots so far, none of which I’ve done on my own because why the fuck would I subject myself to pain. I have cried each time and the doctor keeps lying to me and telling me how normal this will all feel in a while.

Ultimately, I hate everyone. I guess the good news is that I don’t have Lymphoma, Herpes (no wait, shoot, I do have herpes) Hepatitis (that’s what I meant) or HIV. I do have a bullshit, made-up disorder that is typically reserved for baby boys…which I guess I might be. Now that it's all said and done I'm committed to moving on from this wretched hospital business. Let's all focus back up on alcoholism and move on with our lives.

Hospital Part 1

You have got to be fucking joking me.

I can’t even begin to describe to you the events which have occurred over the last month. It’s been a God damn blood bath. Last I knew I was enjoying a beautiful Superbowl day. I had gone to the gym, gotten a green tea pedicure, which I could not afford, eaten at Hooters and watched Tom Brady embarrass himself in front of the entire nation. Everything was coming up Royer. Nothing could have prepared me for Monday morning and the series of events which unfolded thereafter.

Monday:

Wake up, feel like I’ve been hit by Semi, sleep until Wed.

Wednesday:

Go to doctor, come home and lay in fetal position until Thu.

Thursday:

Receive call from doctor demanding that I immediately go to Emergency Room. Get ride to suggested emergency room, realize the horrors of the health care system, drive to Executive ER in Beverly Hills where they play Dr. Dre in the waiting room, received complimentary bottle of water. After many tests, it is imagined that I have gall stones.

Friday:

Return to Executive ER. Gall stone test came back negative. Believed to have Hepatitis C. OBVIOUSLY. Questioned about life-long drug use and all potential suitors. Everyone is embarrassed as I take 45 minutes to list all the drugs I've done and men I've slept with. I'm sure I missed several of both.

Monday:

Return to Executive ER. I am now jaundice because of crazy liver infection. Hepatitis tests came back negative. Also tested for HIV which came back negative. I feel like I've won the lottery. Regardless, sent to liver specialist for more tests.

Let’s just cut to Thursday where the liver specialist demands I be admitted into the hospital. Cedars-Sinai here I come. At this point I clearly don’t go to work anymore and my fevers are reaching 105 degrees which is kind of a perk because I’m having awesome acid flashbacks.

Here’s where my life becomes more demoralizing than I could have ever possibly imagined and you’re talking to a girl who has repeatedly run into people that looked familiar only to find out she banged them in a laundry room at a party one night. I assure you, this was worse.

At this point I hadn’t eaten in about two weeks and everyone kept asking me if I had diarrhea which I didn’t and suspected was the only thing I had going for me. After about four hours in the emergency room, I was laying on a bed in a hallway, I had the chills so bad that I was covered head-to-toe in blankets and heating pads and then I heard the voice of an angel.

Angel: Alison, we have your room ready for you.

Me: Thank you Angel, take me there.

Angel: We’ll just need to get your $750 admittance fee. How would you like to pay for that?

Me: Take all the money in my wallet you witch. But know that I don’t trust you anymore.

Well that bitch got the last word because as soon as I got into my room, I immediately had diarrhea. It’s like she willed it onto me. I was also diagnosed with pneumonia when I first got to the hospital so I was coughing a lot thereby shitting my pants. That happened about three times as soon as I got into my room and let me tell you what’s not easy, trying to not shit your pants while strapped to an IV. It’s an impossibility. And of course, the first thing these assholes wanted from me was a stool sample. NOT FUCKING COOL DUDES!

Wretched Nurse: Miss Alison? Can you give us a stool sample?

Me: I have diarrhea.

Wretched Nurse: That’s ok.

Me: So you just want a bowl of diarrhea?

Wretched Nurse: Yes.

Me: That’s fucking disgusting.

Wretched Nurse: Just leave it on the sink.

Me: Get out.

My ass hadn’t had so much attention since I visited the fraternities while in high school. About an hour after my diarrhea bowl was delivered I had another request.

Horrible Nurse: Alison, your temperature is 105.

Me: Who cares? Let me die.

Horrible Nurse: We need to give you a suppository.

Me: No.

Horrible Nurse: You could have a seizure.

Me: But at least your finger won’t be up my asshole. I’ll take my chances.

Horrible Nurse: Turn around.

Me: *desperate crying*

Have I painted an accurate picture? This was day one.

Can you watch my cat?

This has got to be the most offensive thing you can ask someone. “Hey, you don’t have a life, any prospects or things to do…why don’t you watch this animal which is touted as being fully self-sufficient?” Based on those reasons alone, I am often asked to watch other people’s cats. It’s completely insulting. What’s worse? I don’t listen and I’m lazy, so not one of these “favors” I’m supposedly doing for other people has actually ever resulted in appropriate cat tending.

The first cat watching I ever did was for my friend Jenny. Jenny is terrifying to begin with, and I knew if I fucked this up she would literally murder me. I tried incredibly hard to pay attention as she described the wet food/dry food mixture I was to abide by. After that, she mentioned something about ice cubes in the cat water at which point I basically blacked out. There’s something else that doesn’t fit into my “cat watcher” profile and that’s the fact that I fucking hate cats… they know too much.

I remember being pretty excited on the day I went to watch Jenny’s cats and this was largely due to the fact that she kept a carton of cigarettes in her freezer and I was fresh out. Score! Once I stole a pack, I was ready to attend to the wretched cats. I did everything Jenny asked me to and even took a few matters into my own hands by closing closet doors and putting the toilet seat down. I was pretty proud of myself. That is until three days later when Jenny got home and informed me that her cats had shit all over the shoes in her closet seeing as I had closed the door to the litter box closet. HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE THE LITTER BOX IS?! WHY DOESN’T THE CLOSET THAT HOLDS YOUR CLOTHES COME WITH A DOOR?! She claims it was pretty obvious, but so was the bottle of Jack Daniels I found in her kitchen... so I was a little preoccupied. Get off my back.

What’s crazy is that I relayed this entire scenario to my friend Rob and he then asked me to watch his cats. Ultimately, I don’t feel like I can be held responsible for what happened at his house. He had been warned. The sad thing is I was actually trying. I wanted to be good at watching cats, merely for ego reasons, but I kept getting waylaid by my deep hatred of the wretched little know-it-alls. That, combined with the general indifference I feel when it comes to doing things for others. Again, I wasn’t listening when Rob gave me my cat instructions, but I’m certain I felt like I was at the time. I didn’t notice the suitcases I had to walk over when I finally made it over to Rob’s house. I checked the water which seemed to be at a reasonable level as were the food dishes. Furthermore, the litter box was pristine. I called Rob to tell him the good news only to find out he had already vacationed and returned home. Turns out I was a little late in getting over there. Strike mother fucking two.

I know what you’re asking yourself, “Why the fuck did your idiot friends keep asking you to watch cats?” Honestly, I have no idea. I think it’s because they hate me but lo and behold, one week later, my friend Paul asked if I would watch his cat.

On the surface, watching Paul’s cat was a huge success. I was there at the correct time, did food and poop duties excellently, I even petted the horrid creature. However, everything backfired when I accidentally banged Paul. IT WAS A TRICK! Think about it... Paul could have asked anyone to watch his cat and he knew I was in a vulnerable place after failing twice before. After the run I’d had, it would be only natural that I wanted to go above and beyond the call of duty, which in this case meant sleeping with Paul. If he was a real friend, he would have understood that I was really working through something, but instead, he took advantage of me.

Paul’s was the last cat I ever watched. These days, if people ask me to watch their fleabags I tell them the truth, “I would…but the last time I did that, I ended up getting herpes. No, thank you.”