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.”