Category Archives: If I was a dog I’d be dead by now

Tightrope walker

Today I turn 38.

Marc Davis' concept painting for Disney

37 was a hard year, but a good year.  It was a year of hospital beds and wheelchairs, of worry and mental illness, of fear and more fear.  It was also a year of being ridiculous and silly, of finding drugs that helped more than hurt, of laughter and finding my tribe, and of being furiously happy and stepping out onto shaky  limbs I never dreamed I’d reach.

I got this print last week.  It’s the concept art from The Haunted Mansion.  The girl in the final version they used looks very different – wan and bereft and abandoned.  But this one was peculiarly contrary.  It was perfect.  When I saw it in the shop I knew I had to have it because it was the first time I saw a painting that seemed so perfectly “me.”

Victor stared at me, baffled, and pointed out how wrong that seemed.  “It’s a girl on a frayed tightrope about to fall into the mouth of an alligator.  That’s pretty fucking bleak even for you.”

But that’s not what I see.

I see a girl intent on enjoying the sun while it still shines, smiling vehemently,  indignantly, and entirely celebrating a shining perfect moment even as alligators swim underneath.  Victor said she seemed oblivious, but she’s not.  She knows the alligator is there.

The alligators are always there.

They remind her to smile and enjoy those perfect moments whenever they arise, because life without fear is not a life fully appreciated.  She smiles – not because she’s unaware of the alligators – but because she’s aware of them and because she knows how wonderful it feels when they release their jaws from your ankles.

If you look online you’ll find a lot of critics who claim that the original tight-rope walker’s too-open eyes suggest that she’s just bat-shit crazy…too numb with fear to even understand the danger.  Her mind has snapped, and now teeters slowly, detached from reality.  I can’t argue with that, because that fits with my personality a bit too comfortably as well, but I still prefer to see what I see…a girl who has won a battle.  A girl who appreciates those moments between maulings.  A girl who knows all too well the dangers and pain around her but who has made a conscious and complete decision to be furiously happy in spite of it all.

A girl who knows how to wield a parasol like a fucking ninja.

I see me.  Proudly.

Happy birthday, me.

Look out, below.

I just paid to have someone beat me up

I just had my first ever Swedish massage and it was awesome, except for the parts when I thought I was going to be murdered.

Halfway through the guy told me to “smell” I was all “What?” and I opened my eyes and his hands were over my face like he was just about to smother me and I yelled “WHAT?” and he said, “I said ‘smell‘” and so I did and it was eucalyptus. I assume that’s some kind of aromatherapy but I have to think that the relaxation gained from smelling eucalyptus is not worth the stress you get from thinking you were going to be smothered.  Maybe it’s just me.  Then he rubbed the eucalyptus into my body.  Except by “rubbed” I mean “punched.”  I smell like I got beaten up by a koala bear.

Then he started pulling on my limbs and pushing them back in and it was kind of like if a class of kindergartners were told to kill you using only their hands and feet.  Then he tried to dislocate my arm.  Not on purpose, but he kept doing this thing and my arm was getting crunchy(?) and so he pushed harder and then I realized that he was trying to align my shoulder-blade except that I’m double-jointed and so he was trying to fix something unfixable and so I’m all, “Oh, it’s supposed to be like that.  You can move on”

Then he asked, “Um, have you ever had an allergic reaction to lotions or essential oils?” and I was all “No, why?” and he told me that my arm was really red and I was all, “Oh, that’s because YOU JUST TRIED TO DISLOCATE MY SHOULDERBLADE” but I didn’t say that out loud because at this point I was a little afraid that he was going to murder me, because who enjoys inflicting that much pressure on someone?  Sadists, that’s who.  But then it turns out that I am allergic to the oils, or that maybe I’m just breaking out in hives from the stress of my stress-relieving massage.

The only good part was when it was over and the guy was all “Make sure you drink a lot so you can flush your body of the toxins” and so I was all “Hell yeah” but when I got home and poured myself my second booze-slushie Victor said, “Water.  You’re supposed to drink water” and I was all “He was not specific“.

And that’s why there are so many typos in this post.  Because I’m therapeutically drunk and sort of bruised and dislocated.  That was not relaxing at all.  Next time I’m just skipping straight to the drunk part.

There might be some sort of voodoo curse on me.

I’m three weeks behind on this but I actually do have a very good reason which does not involve drinking or taxidermied alligators, for once.  Victor got a really horrific infection in his broken arm and was in the hospital for so long that I forgot where I lived.  Then Hailey and I both came down with strep and when they finally let Victor come home they put him on an antibiotic that costs $2,300.  After insurance. Then all the corpses from the Indian burial ground beneath our house started floating up in our pool and I considered moving to Canada and investing in my own bone saw.  (FYI…only that very last sentence is an exaggeration.  We don’t have a pool.)

But after all of that crap I realized that I probably need to have a bit more in savings in case this happens again so I’m going to stop turning down graphic ad offers on my blog and start offering them in between actual posts (labeled as ads right up front, of course).  I promise they won’t be awful.  And I’m not using an ad network so if you see an ad it’ll be from companies/bloggers/artists who actually contacted me directly and are bad-asses who are cool with advertising on a blog which no sane company would ever be advertising on.

PS.  If you want one they start at $250.  Email me if you want details.


Let’s begin the weekly wrap-up, shall we?:

What you missed on Ill-Advised:

What you missed on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a complete douche-canoe):

What you missed in my shop (tentatively named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on Shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

The week’s wrap-up sponsored by my real-life friend, Stephanie Smirnov, who just started a truly fabulous blog about finding horsemeat in your refrigerator (among other things). I once found a sack of sheep intestines in my refrigerator. There’s a lot of that going around. Also, I just want to point out that Stephanie is in charge of a PR company that isn’t afraid to invite me to molest the hot, gay guy from Project Runway. She’s not paying me to mention that but I’m going to anyway because that kind of bad-ass PR-ness should be rewarded.

Six years ago today.

Six years ago today.

And now we are six.

She shouldn’t be alive.  The first miscarriage should have killed me.  The second nearly did.  The third chipped away at what was left.

Four was always my lucky number.

She was born and everything that had been burned away in me started to grow again.  I gave her life, and then she gave me back mine.

Thank you, Hailey.  Your birthday is a celebration in ways you can’t possibly understand yet.  Thank you for living.

People in the country need xanax too.

Okay, so first of all my kidney infection was doing much better until last night when I seriously considered removing my left kidney myself because it hurt so much but it’s behind me and I’m not that flexible so then I thought about calling a hooker because  you always hear those stories about people going off with a hooker and waking up in a bathtub of ice with one kidney gone and what I gathered from that is that hookers are good at surgery but I don’t even know where to find a hooker because we live so far out in the country.  Also, with the way my luck’s been going I’d get the one hooker who doesn’t know how to illegally remove a kidney.  So instead I went to the doctor again and he was all “Well, your pee looks fantastic” and I was like “…Thank you?” and he’s all “I just mean that the antibiotics are really working on the infection but your kidney’s are still inflamed so I’m going to give you a shot” and then the nurse came in and was all “Bend over.  This is going to hurt” and I just kind of stared at her because “Um…what?”  Apparently she had to give me the shot in my hip because it was ” much too big for your arm” and it hurt so bad I almost kicked her.  But I didn’t because I’m a grown-up.  And because they said that they’d call in a refill on my xanax.  But I suspect that the only reason they gave me that horrible shot in the first place was so that I’d be distracted from the pain in my kidneys and would stop complaining about it.  That shot is like the equivalent of “I’ll give you something to cry about”.  Then the nurse asked if it hurt and I was all “Nope!  Feels great!” because I was afraid that if I said it hurt she’d rip off my ear or stab me with a pen to distract me from the distraction pain.  I wasn’t thinking very clearly at that point.

Then I drove an hour to the nearest pharmacy to pick up the xanax and they were all “Oh, we don’t have xanax in stock. WE’LL HAVE TO ORDER IT.”

(This is a space to let that shit sink in.)

So then I called Victor and I was all “What kinda fucked-up, backward, hillbilly town did you move us to?!” and Victor was like “You might be overreacting” and I was all “Well that’s probably because I MIGHT NEED SOME DAMN XANAX” and Victor was like “Well, you certainly can’t tell.  Did you react this well when you were actually at the pharmacy?” and I was all “Are you even listening to me? THEY. DIDN’T. HAVE. XANAX.” Then Victor said “Well, I’m guessing they’ll stock up for next time” but he said it with less of a “clearly-they-are-trying-to-destroy-you” kind of tone and in more of a “Great. Now we can never go back to Walgreen’s” kind of way.  Then a squirrel bit me in the eye.  That last part is made up but it sounds like something that would actually happen to me.  That’s the kind of week this has been.  Also I haven’t had any booze or caffeine in 6 days because of my kidneys and I think I might be having withdrawals because my brain is mush and I asked the doctor if I could get some methadone and he said he “wasn’t that kind of a doctor“.   I don’t what he meant by “that kind of a doctor” but I’m assuming he meant “helpful”.

I apologize for this whole post.  If I had some methadone I bet it would make a lot more sense.

Updated: For everyone asking me why in the hell I moved to this scorpion-infested, God-forsaken suck-hole, this is the view from my street:
Exploring the neighborhood

It does have some small perks.

And no xanax.  Apparently.

Fuck.  Now I’m mad again.

Comment of the day: If you decide to go through with the whole hooker kidney removal surgery thing, be sure to label which kidney she needs to remove. Because that would suck if she took your good one. Except I am pretty sure hookers take kidneys to sell on the black market, so if you label your bad one, then she will probably actually take your good one because how are you going to sell an inflamed kidney on the black market? Hookers don’t have time to worry about these kinds of things. They are paid by the hour, Jenny. So what you should do is mark your good kidney as the bad kidney so she will think she is taking your good kidney when she is really taken your bad kidney. Man, swindling hookers can be confusing. That is some espionage shit right there. But if you pull it off, you will have actually just screwed a hooker, but she will be the one that just performed an illegal activity. You win. Twice! Also, you should totally use Sonic ice to fill the bathtub because that stuff is the best. ~ Scott

I missed Victor and I’m ready for him to leave again.

Victor’s home (yay!) and he leaves again tonight (mother.fucker.) but it was nice because when he got home from his work retreat he was all “I’m exhausted.  Can you rub my temples?” and I was like “Um…no.  I have piratitis, remember?” and he was all “Like…fear of pirates?” and I was like “No.  It’s a severe kidney infection and I feel like crap. You should be rubbing my temples” and he was all “Well, my kidneys hurt too.  I had a lot to drink.  Plus my throat hurts from all that karaoke” and I was all “If this gets worse they’re going to put me in the hospital” and he was like “Oh, and my company rented out an amusement park for my team and my back hurts from riding the roller coaster too much” and I was all “On the way to the emergency clinic someone ran over a cat right in front of me” and he was all “Did you see these pictures of me hula-hooping?  I didn’t even know I could hula hoop” and then I was all “I found a scorpion in the toilet.  Now I’m afraid to pee but I can’t stop peeing because I HAVE A LIFE-THREATENING KIDNEY INFECTION” and he was like “I understand.  When I was in the airplane I bit my lip.  Hurt like hell. But then I got bumped up to first class so I had ice cream to sooth it.  They were out of chocolate though.  It was pretty devastating”.  Then I just stopped talking because I’m too weak with piratitis to find the guns.
PS.  Turns out it’s not “piratitis” but “pyelonephritis”, but “pyelonephritis” sounds like a fear of pylons, which sounds fucking ridiculous.  So I’m sticking with piratitis.
PPS.  Victor did rub my temples so I guess that makes us not even close to being even.
And now, my weekly wrap-up of shit-I-did-when-I-wasn’t-here, although it’s kind of crazy long since I didn’t do it last week because my dog died.  Also, this is the most depressing post ever.  I apologize.

I'm using this graphic because I don't have one of me on my deathbed.

    This week on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a douche-canoe):

    This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

    This week on the internets:

    This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

    Comment of the day: I googled “pyelonephritis” and one of the symptoms was “Mental changes or confusion” and then the whole post made more sense. ~ Stoic

    Random thoughts that should be burned

    I was looking at my blog and I noticed that I have 162 posts in my draft folder.  These are all posts that I started but never finished because they didn’t feel substantial enough to be published but then I thought that maybe if I clumped 3 or 4 of them together they would be worth one post.  Or they’d be 3 or 4 times worse than most of my posts.  Either way?  This is happening.  You might want to just avoid my blog this week.


    Every time I get into a cab I always sit there for a few seconds waiting for the disco lights to start blinking on the ceiling and then they don’t and I’m all “Oh, another not-Cash Cab.  Awesome.”  I bet cabbies get tired of hearing that all day.  One day when I’m 80 I’ll probably get into the cash cab but I’ll have been so disappointed by that time that I’ll be all “You know what, cash cab?  Too late. You blew it.”   Then I’ll just walk away.  It’s too fucking late, Cash Cab.


    There’s a rumor in my family that somehow Marlene Dietrich is related to us.  My sister (the family genealogist) has been unable to prove it but I like to think it’s true.  I liked to imagine that there’s a little bit of Marlene Dietrich in me.  Dark, brooding, and shrouded in mystery.  Then I remember that I’m chronically unable to stop over-sharing and that everyone with basic internet access knows my  phobias,  my weaknesses and has seen me in various states of undress.  I’m not the dark, brooding girl shrouded in mystery and I’ll never be her.

    My sister did call to tell me though that she was getting closer to confirming that our great, great aunt was murdered by our great, great uncle when he hammered a nail through her skull and buried her in the backyard.  Well, that seems about right.


    me:  It’s a good thing that Prince isn’t on twitter because there isn’t a key for the symbol of his name so no one could ever @ him.

    Victor:  Huh.  Remember when we used to talk about things that weren’t about twitter?

    me:  Not…really?


    Last week I went to my rheumatologist to get more meth and I was the only person in the waiting room under 90.  And I sat there thinking that these people could literally die of old age in the waiting room and that it sucks that they’re wasting the short amount of time they have left in the world in a doctor’s office and I was thinking of just letting everyone in the waiting room go ahead of me because it’s not like I had anything to do but then Victor called and I explained what I was going to do and he was all “The fuck? You have PLENTY to do.  We have no clean clothes in the house.  You sent Hailey to school in a swimsuit” and then I hung up on him because it was a swimsuit cover-up thank-you-very-much and she fucking picked it out herself. And she had clean socks.  If you’re wearing clean socks and you don’t have hooks for hands then I’ve succeeded as a mother.  Then one of the old people started coughing and it was this hacky death-rattke cough and I thought that maybe I’d cursed the old people so I ran over and got him some water and he was fine but then an old lady asked for some water too which was weird but I got it and when I gave it to her she asked if the wait  would be much longer and I was all “Oh, I don’t work here” and then another one asked me if she was in the right waiting room and I was all “I DON’T WORK HERE, OLD PEOPLE” but they didn’t seem to get it even though I was wearing jeans and a ripped Tori Amos t-shirt.  This is why next time I’m waiting at the rheumatologists office I’m going to wear a halter top and some short-shorts so that it’ll be more obvious.  Then the nurse called my name and I considered telling her that everyone else could go first but you know what?  Fuck that.  I got those assholes water and none of them even said ‘thank you’.  Way to waste your time being impolite, old people.  Then I told the nurse that next time she saw me I’d be in a halter top and short-shorts and she was all “Oh, you’re going on a diet?”  Awesome.  I am never going back there again.


    Did you know that the guy that invented the Marconi radio telegraph system was named Guglielmo Marconi?  I don’t know Italian very well but I’m pretty sure that’s pronounced “Googley – Elmo”.  I cannot say this name out loud without laughing.  I bet whoever presented his Nobel Prize had to practice saying his name for like a week before he could say it without cracking up.


    Me morphed with Marlene Dietrich. It's like we're fucking TWINS, y'all. Except that she has a huge head. Also, why is one eye more closed than the other? I can't tell if she's drunk or if she's having a stroke. Which is *exactly* what my sister said about me at our last family reunion. I think this proves something. Probably something about how I need to stop drinking so much around judgmental family members who are most likely just angry that they have to be the designated driver but maybe you should have thought about that before you started breast-feeding, Lisa. *I* didn't get you pregnant. You brought this on yourself.

    Comment of the day: I’m related to the Fondas. And Pocahontas. And my family invented chewing gum. And gatorade. Different sides of the family. Mom’s side is gum, dad’s side is gatorade. Why I’m not eating off of solid gold plates? I have no idea. Oh wait. Yes I do. Cocaine.  That’s why. ~ Miss Grace

    WTF, me? (UPDATED)

    I can barely even type this because my hand is all swollen but I was just putting Barnaby Jones to bed when he suddenly did this flip which almost broke my flipping-off finger and then he ran in between my legs and I fell so hard that I couldn’t even move and the dog was jumping on my head and I yelled for Victor and I was laying on my stomach and he was all “What.  the fuck.  did you do?” and he started to call an ambulance and I was all “DO NOT CALL AN AMBULANCE” and he came back and was all “If you don’t move your legs I’m going to call the ambulance.  Except that I’m probably going to get arrested for domestic battery because what the hell happened?!” and I was all “The dog tried to kill me” and Victor was like “OUR DOG?  Our little dog did this to you?” and I was all “HE’S LIKE A NINJA!” and he was all “He’s a fucking pug, dude” and I was all I’M VULNERABLE, ASSHOLE” and he was like “Where is all this blood coming from?”  And that’s when I noticed I had a long, shallow gash on my hand and I was all “How the hell did that happen?” and then I realized that I was bleeding BECAUSE I’D BEEN STABBED BY CHICKEN.  And this is when I realized that no one would ever believe this and that Victor was definitely going to jail because who gets stabbed by chicken?  I do, apparently.  But it was a dried chicken breast that I was going to feed to Barnaby Jones so it was totally sharp and apparently quite stab-able with enough force but I’m still pretty sure I’m the only  person in the world to ever get stabbed with chicken.  I win.  Or lose.  And then I told Victor I got stabbed with chicken and he started to call the ambulance again because he assumed I had a concussion but then I grabbed the chicken breast in my good hand and made a stabbing motion and he stopped threatening to call the ambulance because he understood or maybe he thought I was threatening to stab him.  Then he said that he was afraid to call the ambulance anyway because there’s no way anyone would believe that a dog did this sort of damage to me and he said it in a really condescending way and I was all “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE’S LIKE” and Victor was all “Barnaby Jones? Our dog?” and I was all “He would have pushed me down the stairs if we had stairs!” and then I realized I was overreacting and probably in shock.  I shouldn’t even be allowed to type this right now.  I should be wrapped in a warm blanket and not be allowed to go to sleep.  Or I should be made to sleep.  One of those.  Or maybe I need a hot toddy.  I probably knew the correct procedure before the dog tried to kill me with chicken.

    PS.  Victor totally owes me because he would have gone to jail automatically because he was only wearing a half-shirt and if you aren’t wearing a whole shirt when the police come you go to jail.  That’s how jail works.

    PPS.  It’s a half-shirt in that it’s sleeveless.  Not that it ends under his nipples.  Victor can’t really pull that sort of look off. I don’t know if you go to jail for that kind of shirt.  I’m going to go lie down because I don’t think I’m making sense.

    PPPS.  How do you know if your pupils are dilated?  What are they supposed to look like normally?  Why is Web MD so complicated?  Why can’t I stop reading about cancer when I’m trying to look up concussions?  Great. Now I have cancer.  Thanks a lot, Barnaby Jones.

    UPDATED: Went to the ER this morning.  Explained the situation.  They wrote “Stabbed by chicken” on my chart.  Then they asked if I had any “psych issues” and I thought they said “psychic issues” and I was all “Like, can I read your thoughts?”  Then they put me in a private room.  Lesson here?  If you fake mental illness you’ll get better service.  The good news is that my finger is not broken but the bad news is that it’s still pretty fucked up so I have to wear a splint until it heals and I have to keep it elevated.  Me, driving myself home:

    Stop honking at me. I'm *disabled*, you bastards.

    Awesome.  The people in my neighborhood are lucky to have me.

    Also, several of you indicated that Barnaby Jones was probably  just acting in self-defense because you’re not supposed to give dogs chicken bones but these are filleted, boneless chicken breasts.  Meanwhile, I’m eating ramen noodles and his sweater cost more than my entire outfit.  Way to blame the victim, people.  I may never play the ukulele again.

    No one's falling for it, Barnaby Jones.

    UPDATED AGAIN: Okay, so apparently people are finding this post when searching for real concussion advice.  I’d like to apologize to those people. But here’s a comment that my friend left me that might help you: “Here is what dilated pupils look like. Well on a cat. Well on 2 cats. Well on 2 cats that I drew in MS Paint. Whatever. ~ MODG

    See?  Totally helpful.

    Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. Having a cold on your birthday is even worse.

    I feel bad for whoever said “Dying is easy.  Comedy is hard” because it was probably the thing he’s most famous for and he said it while he was on his deathbed so he totally never got any play out of it.  Unless whoever said it was someone already famous like Winston Churchill or something.  Then I feel less sorry for him but only a little because I didn’t even know Winston Churchill was trying to be funny.  And what sucks even more is that the whole phrase would have been huge on twitter because it’s both pithy and way under 140 characters so people would’ve retweeted the shit out of that.  So, it’s kind of a double tragedy.

    Also, I think I have the plague.  Or possibly just a cold.  Either way, I’m dying in that way where you feel like shit and you just want to stay in bed but you already can tell that tomorrow you’re going to feel even worse so you should really be up and working today so you can rest tomorrow except if you get up you’re going to spend all day tomorrow wondering if you’d feel less likely to want to drown yourself in the bathtub if you’d have just rested when you were actually sick instead of forcing yourself to work even though you’re technically worthless and are making no sense and have such a fever that you actually think this sentence will make sense to anyone else but then you remember that tomorrow is your birthday so you can stay in bed and justify it as your birthday present to yourself and then you feel all relieved but right after that you’re all “WTF, me?!  Your birthday present is to allow yourself to actually rest when you’re sick?  That’s fucked up” and then I feel all defensive like I need to defend me from me and is this sentence still going on? Holy shit.  This whole post is a terrible mistake but I’m posting it anyway because I’m on a lot of cold medication and so it seems vaguely funny to me.  So bottom line?  Tomorrow is my birthday.  I probably have swine flue or whatever killed Beth from Little Women.  I’m too exhausted to make myself stop yelling at myself.  Isn’t it ironic?  No.  Not at all, actually.

    Comment of the day: Last “winter”  I was diagnosed with The Black Lung. And by diagnosed, I mean that I looked it up my symptoms on WebMD and chose the worst possible illness. ~ sarah

    UPDATED: Yes, I realize Posey is a girl’s name but I thought he was a girl cat when I rescued him and the name stuck. His full name is Posey Von Lichtenstien though so he still feels bad-ass when people call his name at the doctor’s office.

    Me:  The vet just called.  Apparently Barnaby Jones also needs to have some baby teeth extracted.

    Victor:  What the hell?!  I thought you just took him in to get fixed?

    Me:  I did.

    Victor:  Well, they’re looking in the wrong end.

    Me:  They did a check-up too and apparently he needs his wisdom teeth removed or something.  It’s gonna be another hundred dollars.

    Victor:  Fuck.  Call them back and tell them to give him a $10 shot instead.

    Me:  ?

    Victor:  Of antifreeze.

    Me: What?!

    Victor: What? That’s what I’m doing with you.  You think you’re just sick all the time from some auto-immune disease?  No. I’ve been shooting you up with antifreeze for years.

    Me:  Why would you do that?

    Victor:  It’s a slow and easy way to die.  You’re welcome.

    Me:  If I end up dying with antifreeze in my system you are going down.  I’m writing all of this in my blog right now.

    Victor:  Dude. I’m totally just kidding.  But not about the dog.

    Me:  You love Barnaby Jones and you know it.  Besides, I need someone furry to snuggle with after Posey’s gone.  He’s like 140 in people years.

    Victor:  Seriously? Posey is in the hall right now looking around like “WTF?  Where am I going?!”


    Victor:  He’s totally not buying it.

    Posey:  Meow.


    Victor:  He looks suicidal.

    Me:  He always looks that way.

    No, really. He does always look that way.

    See. He does always look that way.

    Victor:  Okay, now I’m kind of paranoid that you’re going to accidentally drink antifreeze and I’m going to get blamed for it.

    Me:  How would I accidentally drink antifreeze?

    Victor:  How do you do any of the fucked up things you do? You once accidentally swallowed a needle, for God’s sake.


    Victor:  You’re very defensive today.

    Me:  It must be all the antifreeze in my system.

    Victor:  I doubt it.  It’s never had that effect before.  I mean, what antifreeze?

    UPDATED: Video of Banaby Jones after surgery.  He had to wear the collar to keep him from licking himself.  And because it was hilarious.  But then we took it off after an hour because we love him.  And because he knocked over a chair with it and practically gave himself a concussion.  We’re not made of chairs, Barnaby Jones.

    Comment of the day: Is this the same doctor that squeezed your cat to death? Because I don’t think we should trust him anymore. “Yeah, I know his balls are down there. Just thought I’d check to see if I could charge you with a bunch of shit before I kill this one in front of you.” ~ Lori