Category Archives: sickness

If I wake up as a puddle of blood tomorrow he’s going to feel really bad.

me:  I’m dying.

Victor:  You’re not dying.  You have a cold.

me:  I have hemorrhagic fever.

Victor:  Did you just make that up?

me:  No, I’m deadly serious.  First of all, I have a fever, and last night I had a nosebleed, and now my teeth are bleeding.

Victor:  I’m pretty sure teeth can’t bleed.

me:  My gums then.  Whatever.  The point is that I’m hemorrhaging internally.  Probably to death.

Victor:  I think you’re confusing hemorrhagic fever with gingivitis again.

me:  I don’t have gingivitis.

Victor:  Well you also don’t have hemorrhagic fever.

me:  It feels kind of like the Ebola Virus.  But like, totally worse.

Victor:  Where are all the forks?

me:  I think I’m bleeding out of my eyeballs.

Victor:  Try to do it over the sink.  Seriously, why don’t we ever have any clean forks?

me:  My nose just fell off.

Victor:  Why are all these dirty dishes in the washer?  Why would you go to the trouble of loading the dishwasher and not just start it?

me:  I can’t feel my legs.

Victor:  Great. Now we have no forks.  Way to go, hon.

me:  My heart just stopped and now I’m craving brains.

Victor:  And of course we don’t even have plastic forks.  If you use all the damn plastic forks you need to tell me so I can buy more.

me:  …braaaaaains…..

Victor:  How the fuck am I supposed to eat spaghetti with a spoon?

me:  *gurgle* * associated sounds of decomposition*

Victor:  Motherfucker.  So I guess I’ll have to go buy the forks since you’re too sick?

me:  …braaaaaaai-

Victor:  Fine. I’m taking your car.  I’ll be back in a bit.

me:  *sigh*

Disclaimer: Only the first few sentences of this post have actually happened.  The rest is a reenactment of what I assume will happen later this afternoon when Victor realizes that we don’t have any forks and I die of spite neglect whatever made those Nazi’s explode at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.  I’m pretty sure that was hemorrhagic fever too.

Comment of the day: Just be thankful it’s not *Hemorrhoidic* Fever.  Cleaning up exploding brains would be the LEAST of your worries. ~ moooooog35

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

One day I will be normal. (Updated)

Warning:  This is utterly unlike me and if it’s the first time you’ve come here you should skip this whole post and go read this one about how the GPS lady is trying to murder me.  I just needed to get this off my chest tonight for me and for everyone else who suffers from this.  I’ll be back to normal tomorrow, I promise.

I don’t usually write serious posts.  When I feel myself sink into a depression Victor makes me stay away from the computer, protecting me from myself.  He’s right to do it because I’m not well, not rational.  I get bouts of depression and anxiety attacks the way other people get summer colds.  The depression is easy enough to explain.  “I’m in the hole” is my typical way of describing it.  People who don’t know depression think it’s a metaphor and technically it is, but it’s more than that.  When I get into a true, chemical depression my sight actually changes.  I get tunnel-vision and things get all dark around the edges, like I’m stuck in a hole and can only see a telescopic view of the world around me.  I lose my peripheral vision and within a day the depression starts.  It used to scare me how dark it would get.  I worried that one day the world would go dark forever.  But secretly, I was a little relieved that there was a physical symptom to this disorder that feels like something you should be able to fix in yourself.  But you can’t…just like you can’t cure yourself from being blind just by willing yourself to see.  The depression is difficult but I’m lucky in that it never lasts long.  It seldom lasts more than a week and I only have major episodes a few times a year.  I live through it, knowing that any day the darkness will dissipate and I’ll crawl out of the hole, with no memory of what caused the episode.  The anxiety disorder is more difficult, mainly because it’s so unpredictable.  One moment I’m perfectly fine and the next I feel a wave of nausea, then panic.  Then I can’t catch my breath and I know I’m about to lose control and all I want to do is escape.  Except that the one thing I can’t escape from is the very thing I want to run away from…me.  And inevitably it’s in a crowded restaurant or during a dinner party or in another State, miles from any kind of sanctuary.

I feel it build up, like a lion caught my chest, clawing its way out of my throat.  I try to hold it back but my dinner-mates can sense something has changed, and they look at me furtively, worried.  I’m obvious. I want to crawl under the table to hide until it passes but that’s not something you can explain away at a dinner party.  I feel dizzy and suspect I’ll faint or get hysterical.  This is the worst part because I don’t even know what it will be like this time.  “I’m sick,” I mutter to my dinner-mates, unable to say anything else without hyperventilating.  I rush out of the restaurant, smiling weakly at the people staring at me.  They try to be understanding.  They don’t understand.  I run outside to escape the worried eyes of people who love me, people who are afraid of me, strangers who wonder what’s wrong with me.  I vainly hope they’ll assume I’m just drunk but I know that they know.  Every wild-eyed glance of mine screams “MENTAL ILLNESS”.  Later someone will find me outside the restaurant, huddled in a ball, their cool hand on my feverish back, trying to comfort me.  They ask if I’m okay, more gently if they know my history.  I nod and try to smile apologetically and roll my eyes at myself in mock-derision so I won’t have to talk.  They assume it’s because I’m embarrassed and I let them assume that because it’s easier, and also because I am embarrassed.  But it’s not the reason why I don’t talk.  I keep my mouth closed tightly because I don’t know if I could stop myself from screaming if I opened my mouth.  My hands ache from the fists I hadn’t realized I’d clenched.  My body shouts to run.  Every nerve is alive and on fire.  If I get to my drugs in time I can cut off the worst parts…the shaking involuntarily, the feeling of being shocked with an electrical current, the horrible knowledge that the world is going to end and no one knows it but me.  If I don’t get to the drugs in time, they do nothing and I’m a limp rag for days afterward.

I know other people who are like me.  They take the same drugs as me.  They try all the therapies.  They are brilliant and amazing and forever broken.  I’m lucky that although my husband doesn’t understand it, he tries to understand, telling me to “Relax. There’s absolutely nothing to panic about”.  I smile gratefully at him and pretend that’s all I needed to hear and that this is just a silly phase that will pass one day.  I know there’s nothing to panic about.  And that’s exactly what makes it so much worse.

I wonder how long it will take before he gives up on me.

I wonder how long it will take before I do.

********************

UPDATED: It’s been 4 days since I wrote this post and I’ve been amazed by the outpouring of support by people who left comments or who emailed me when their stories were too personal to share in a comment.  I’ve realized two things in the past few days…first of all, that I am incredibly lucky and grateful to have such amazing people who care, and also that this blog totally breeds crazy people. Either that or mental illness is a hell of a lot more common than I ever suspected.  Either way?  Thank you. And that’s not just a thank you from me.  It’s a thank you from all of the other people who read your comments and thought “I’m not alone.  I guess I never was.”   There were so many comments that spoke to me, made me laugh or cry or think, but I can’t choose just one as comment of the day so instead I’m going to just say thank you, for letting me be me even when I’m not myself at all.  You will never know the difference you make.

There is a crack in everything.  That’s how the light gets in. ~ Leonard Cohen

I’m way too whiney to think of a witty title for this right now.

zombie baby

Mmmmm...brains.

So the other day I cut through the park on the way to an appointment when I see these babies and I’m like Oh my God, those are the cutest babies ever but where are their parents and OH HOLY SHIT.

THAT BABY IS TOTALLY EATING THAT OTHER BABY’S BRAIN.

And that’s when I’m all “Fuck.  That baby is a goddamn zombie”.  Fantastic.  Oh, and now the other baby is infected and it’s a zombie too.  Fucking great. Awesome.  That’s exactly what I needed today was to be stalked by two zombie babies.  I mean it’s not that big of a deal because they can’t walk yet so I just have to keep shoving their heads away from me with my shoe, except what the hell do I do now?  It’s not like I can kill a baby.  Even a zombie one.  And where the hell are their parents anyway and why is this my problem? GET OFF ME BABIES. And then a police officer shows up and is all “IS THERE A PROBLEM HERE, MA’AM AND WHY ARE YOU KICKING BABIES?!”

And I’m like “No officer, there’s not a problem.  I’m just kicking these babies because they’re fucking zombies.  And it’s really less of a ‘kick’ than it is a ‘benign but effective defensive maneuver’.  What? No, actually I’m not going to lay down on the ground with my hands behind my head because that’s where the zombie babies are.”  And then I got distracted because the officer was being an asshole and that’s when one of the babies chewed through my Achilles tendon.

So long story short?  Yeah. I had a terrible day.

PS.  This post is really just a metaphor for the kind of day I’m having because someone sent me that picture and he was all “I thought this would cheer you up” and I’m all “THESE ZOMBIE BABIES ARE FUCKED UP.  STOP SENDING ME THIS SHIT” and my friend implied that I have emotional problems for immediately jumping to the conclusion that the baby was a zombie but I have an excuse because I’m dying.  And yes, that’s a slight exaggeration but not by much because I’m taking this chemo drug for my rheumatoid arthritis and it’s making me throw up a lot and and the outside of the bottle is all “YOU’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE“.

Actual text meant to scare the shit out of you, I assume:

“Some side effects of methotrexate may cause death. You should only take methotrexate to treat life-threatening cancer, or certain other conditions that are very severe and that cannot be treated with other medications”

Which sounds ungood, right?  But actually my arthritis has been in a remission for the last couple months so technically the worst part was just the treatment itself because it makes me throw up all the time.  So last week I convinced my doctor to cut my 10 pill dose down to 8 pills which was awesome because I stopped throwing up but then I woke up this morning and I can barely walk.  Awesome.  And what really sucks is that NO ONE EVEN KNOWS WHY THIS DRUG WORKS.  They’re guessing it *may* work because it fucks up your immune system and keeps cells from growing properly so your body attacks your immune system instead of your joints.  Because who needs a working immune system when you have an autoimmune disease that makes you so sick that your best option is to take a drug that can kill you?  Basically it’s like being stabbed in the neck to take your mind off your stubbed toe.  And that’s why today my feet feel like tiny zombies have been gnawing on them.  See what I did there?  Full circle. Moral:  Rheumatoid arthritis is worse than being attacked by baby zombies.  I think someone has said that before.  Probably Hemingway.

Comment of the day: I think this is just evolution in action: the big baby is going straight for the brain, & the little one is trying to figure out how to eat a SHOE. I’m assuming survival of the fittest works for zombies.  I mean they’re technically dead, right? I’m confusing myself now. ~ Drolgerg

It’s like we’re living on the Oregon Trail except none of us has dysentery yet

Yesterday Hailey’s preschool called to tell me that she had a rash on her stomach and back so I picked her up and I figured it was probably just a reaction from new detergent but I thought I’d run her by the Readi-Clinic just in case because it was on the way home and also there’s a pretzel shop right next to it but when I got there the doctor was all “Uh, this kid has scarlet fever” and I’m all “The fuck?Like what Beth died from in Little Women?” except I said it quietly so Hailey wouldn’t hear me and the doctor was all “It’s very treatable now.  Don’t panic” and I’m all “You know, just because I’m at a Readi-Clinic doesn’t mean I don’t have money.  We have great insurance.  I just came here because I wanted a pretzel” and the doctor was all “No, really.  Scarlet Fever isn’t a big deal anymore.  It’s basically strep throat with a rash.  Calm down” and I’m all “I AM FUCKING CALM” but I just said that in my head because I didn’t want to freak out Hailey.  Then Hailey’s all “Can I have a Popsicle?” and I’m like “We are going to set all your stuffed animals on fire when we get home” and then the doctor started laughing and I’m all “I AM DEADLY SERIOUS” and Hailey said we couldn’t throw Donkey on the bonfire because he’s her favorite and I’m all “Donkey is the germiest.  We’re going to burn him twice” and then Hailey and the doctor both looked at me like I’m the crazy one and I’m all “Fine. He’s going in the washing machine.  Like, for eighteen cycles.”  Then the doctor gave us a prescription for amoxicillin which is like the sad, weird kid of the antibiotic family and I’m all “What is this, bush-league?  I told you, I have money”.  Then he made us leave and I was so upset that I didn’t even remember to get a pretzel, so basically we’re all suffering.

PS.  Hailey is fine and is running around like normal and everything in the entire house is going in the dishwasher.  Then I’m going to burn the dishwasher in an abandoned field.  I may be over-reacting.

Comment of the day: When I was a kid, I had a children’s version of Little Women, and it totally skipped over Beth dying. It was like “Beth isn’t well” and then she just disappeared, and several chapters later, someone was like “I wish Beth could have been here to see this” and I thought maybe she was on vacation, or in detention or something. ~Kate

Or maybe you just shouldn’t do whatever the bathroom wall tells you to do.

So I was in the bathroom at Taco Cabana and someone had written “LIVE EVERY DAY AS IF IT WAS YOUR LAST” on the wall of the stall which is really horrible advice because if it was really my last day on earth I’d spend that day calling all the people who have wronged me to tell them they’re assholes.   But then you’d wake up the next morning and BAM, you’re still alive and now your voicemail is filled with people yelling at you because they all got the messages you left last night.  I was going to write this all on the stall but I couldn’t find a sharpie.  And then like a month later you’d be at a party and you’d totally run into one of the people you called but you don’t remember telling them how much they suck because you were probably drunk because who’s going to be sober on their last day on earth?  Not me, motherf’ckers.  And so I’d be all “Oh hi, you!” and they’d be like “Um…didn’t you leave me a voicemail calling me a giant whorebag?” and then I’d be all “Oh.    Awk-ward.”  But then I’d be all, “But I mean, you are kind of a whore.  You slept with my ex-fiance, remember?  Whore?”  Which would actually be kind of awesome.  Okay, I’ve changed my mind.  This is excellent advice.  Expect some calls tonight, assholes.

PS.  I tried to look up the “Live every day like it’s your last” saying to find the author but google was all “Did you mean ‘Live every day like no one’s watching’?” which I think means you can dig your underwear out of your butt during important business meetings.  I am totally going to get promoted.

PPS.  In utterly unrelated news, I got a letter from my doctor saying my final tests came back positive for rheumatoid arthritis but that my x-rays showed “no obvious deformities yet” and the doctor ended the letter by assuring me this “was all good news”.  I don’t know medicine terminology but I suspect when your doctor tells you the good news is “no obvious deformities yet” in layman’s terms it means “Lady, you are totally fucked”.  Someone start building my blog scooter now.  Also, I want ramps everywhere and from now on all the handicap parking spots really do belong to people in wheelchairs and not just to people who feel like they’re disabled because they have really bad cramps that day.  And also, if you’re in a wheelchair you get frontsies in line at the liquor store.  We need to get this all passed in congress before I’m disabled because then it’ll look like I’m just doing it for me because it’s what Jesus would do.

Comment of the day:  The only place with really bad bathroom stall wall advice is Wal-Mart. One time, I found my mom’s phone number written there.

Seriously. ~ Abby

Wolverines are the new sasquatch

Me and my friend Kregg discussing how shitty rheumatoid arthritis is:

Kregg:  So you still hurt?  Can’t they just do like a total joint replacement?

Me:  Exactly!  Like on Wolverine where they replace all my bones with edamame.

Kregg:  Uh…adamantium.

Me:  What did I say?

Kregg: Edamame.

Me: Oh that wouldn’t work.  My entire skeletal system replaced with steamed soybeans?  I’d be a giant puddle.

Kregg:  But when you get angry edemame would shoot out of your fingers.  Delicious.

Me:  And I’d totally eat them because I eat when I’m angry and the doctors would be all “Spit those beans out!  You only get those!  They won’t regenerate beans!”

Kregg:  Plus you’d probably have to be refrigerated.

Me:  And I’d get all mad at the doctors for only giving me one set of soybeans and they’d be all “You’re not like a plant, lady.  You can’t just magically grow beans.  This is science…not wizardry.”

Kregg:  We live in primitive times, my friend.

Me:  Fuck.  I’m going to be doing meth forever.  Or at least until science catches up with me.

Then we started talking about which piece of office furniture was heavy enough to break out my office window and one of us said something hysterical about snow or goblins or something.  I wrote it down but it doesn’t make any sense now.  I’d probably remember it if I wasn’t on so much meth.  Or possibly it was only funny because I’m on meth.  Either way it’s probably best forgotten but this is what the note says: “Snow in fountain for advertising.  Goblin mascot.”  Oh wait, it’s my grocery list.  Now it all makes sense.  Thanks, meth.

Comment of day: You know what scares me? That, some day, Jenny will wake up from the coma she is in, and realize that all of this – including all of *us* – was nothing but a coma-induced delusion. ~ EdT.

This is like a “What I did over the summer” essay except it’s about giant labias.

So the other day my friend (Tracy) was telling me about this documentary he saw about this woman who had a tiny upper body but everything from her waist down was enormous and I was all “My God.  I bet her labia is huge” and that’s when Tracy put down his fork and said he wouldn’t eat lunch with me anymore.

Me:  But scientifically it makes sense that her labia would be enormous.  If I were her I’d roll it up with binder clips.  Or those pink soft curlers we slept in when were little.

Tracy:  Yeah…I’m a dude, remember?

Me:  And then on special occasions she lets it out of the curlers and bingo: …spiral perm.  Totally ready for prom.

Tracy: Hi.  I’m eating tuna salad.

Me:  But imagine what you could do with it.  If you got attacked you could throw it on someone to swat them back or you could catch children jumping out of burning buildings.  Or like in the olden days when women would use their aprons to hold apples?

Tracy: Huh.

Me: I’m just saying I wouldn’t eat an apple if you happen to be over at her house.

Tracy: If I happen to be at the home of the lady with the world’s largest labia I shouldn’t eat any apples?

Me:  Yeah.

Tracy:  Excellent advice.

Me:  I bet it’s flat as a pancake too since it’s being squished by her legs.  You could put a lantern behind it and make shadow puppets.  It’s like a gift no one can ever use.  Except I would totally use my giant labia.  I’d entertain the whole world with it.  Because that’s the kind of person I am.  Saint-like.  If I had an enormous labia I would change the world with it.

Tracy: So the only thing holding you back is…how small your labia is?

Me:  Well it’s not like a handicap. I mean, I get by.

Tracy:  Honestly, I don’t even know why I eat lunch with you.

Me:  I’d say it’s roomy but compact.  Like a balloon valance.  Or a Honda Accord.

Then Tracy got all weird and was all “You aren’t supposed to tell me your vagina is like a Honda Accord!” and I’m all “You brought it up!”  Then there was this awkward silence while I tried to look penitent and Tracy tried to look stern but technically I was just thinking about how a giant labia would be like a lap blanket on cold nights and Tracy was probably wondering what a balloon valance was.  So then I was all “It’s like a tiny curtain” and Tracy was like “What?!” and I’m all “Oh never mind.”

Speaking of people whose bodies are trying to kill them, apparently God has heard me making fun of labias and decided to punish me with such severe rheumatoid arthritis that I’ve become practically bed-ridden.  I’m like Job except without the erectile dysfunction.  I finally got in to see the rheumatologist last week and he put me on a drug cocktail that includes another drug that starts with “meth” and ends with “all-your-hair-will-fall-out-if-you-don’t-take-a-daily-antedote” because apparently it’s a chemo drug.  Why does it work for arthritis?  No one fucking knows.  True story.  It’s in the pamphlet.  Also, a side effect of the drug is that even though it’s a drug designed to battle cancer, IT FUCKING CAUSES CANCER.  Like, not a lot but enough that they have to tell you you may get lymphoma at any time.  Yay.  And my arthritis has spread so now I can barely walk.  I can only assume that in the next month I will be blogging using only my tongue.  I’m on intermittent FMLA and would like to cross my fingers that the chemo drug will work but I must face the fact that I can’t cross my fingers because I FUCKING HAVE ARTHRITIS.  That’s why I’m going to try out some new money-making ideas I can do from home, like prostitution or knitting.  Except it turns out I can’t do either of those well and since we aren’t all blessed with the world’s largest labia I’m trying a new ad network called YouData.  I don’t completely understand it but it’s awesome.  It’s run by these guys I’ve known forever and they are huge blogging supporters and always hand me a martini every time I see them.  Basically, you personally get paid for looking at ads geared to you.  You set up your account and tell them who you are and they send you ads that you can chose to look at and get paid for.  I got $4 yesterday for looking at a few ads on Kirtsy and gave half back to kirtsy to support them.  They pay you through paypal or you can donate a portion to the blog you’re at or to a charity.  Also, it’s an awesome personality test because my YouData ads are all for pretty, horribly bizarre things and offensive t-shirts and when Victor logs in it’s all expensive clothes and boobies.  They totally nailed us.

Also, I plan on opening a few ad spaces when I feel better but I’m going to use one of those ads to pimp out random bloggers for free who you should read because they are awesome and/or amazingly loyal even when I give them a horrible long post about why arthritis is not as profitable as the world’s largest labia.  This means you.  Seriously, if you made it all the way to the bottom you are my new personal hero.  If my hands weren’t claws I would applaud you.

PS.  Best YouData ad I’ve gotten so far:  Tampon flash drive.

Honestly, I should be paying them.

Comment of the day:  Your tragic story gets me through the day. It’s like My Left Foot, but with only average size labia. So you’re twice as heroic. ~ Bananarama

The ASPCA doesn’t care if your dog is awesome or not.

So lately my rheumatoid arthritis has spread into my feet, making it almost impossible to walk and Victor felt so sorry for me that he decided to get me a puppy, which is a lot like giving a piano to someone who is only a torso but WHO CARES BECAUSE I HAVE A FUCKING PUPPY!

His name is _____________.

This is where I’ve been sitting for the last 6 hours because none of us can agree on a name so now we’re just calling him different names all the time, waiting for one to stick. The top contenders so far:

Alfie
Truman
Oliver
Chester
Barnaby
Leo
Mr. Pickles
TacoBama
Snugglepants the Death Bringer
I-am-Spartacus
Knuckles McGee

I have to get a name quick though because I need to know what to call him when I take him to the vet because last time we took the cat to the vet they accidentally declawed her and I was all “The fuck?” and they were all “Oh.  We thought that’s what you wanted” but it wasn’t and I had to pay anyway but they said I could have a credit so I’m going to use the credit to have the dog declawed because now neither of the cats have claws so it only seems right to level the playing field.  But then when I called the vet they were all “Uh.  We don’t de-claw dogs” and I was like “Well that seems kind of racist” and then there was this big pause probably because she was thinking “Yeah.  That totally is kinda racist”.  Then we got disconnected.  So I’m just going to take him up there and ask them in person.  And if they refuse to declaw him I’ll just have his ears pierced instead.

UPDATE:  Our ASPCA doesn’t even have ear piercing equipment, y’all.  What, do we live in the ghetto? So then I asked how old dogs have to be before they can start getting tattoos and the receptionist was all “WE DON’T GIVE DOGS TATTOOS“. And I was all “LIKE I’D EVEN LET YOU GIVE MY DOG A TATTOO, LADY”. And then we had to leave because Mr. Pickles was getting nervous from all the shouting. I mean, honestly, these are the same people who accidentally declawed my cat. You think I’m going to trust them to tattoo my dog? We’ll go to a professional for that, thankyouverymuch. The last thing I want is Truman ending up with some prison tattoo from the ASPCA.

PS.  I called the tattoo parlor and they were all “Huh?”  Honestly, I’m getting the worst customer service ever.  So I made a mock-up of how I want Alfie to look and I’m emailing it to them because maybe they just can’t appreciate how kick-ass this dog is going to look when he’s done.

And the answer to your question is “Yes. Yes, he is the luckiest dog ever.”

Comment of the day: You need to name him “My Vagina” that way you can call the vet and say things like “there’s something wrong with My Vagina” or “My Vagina just swallowed a shoe, is that dangerous?” ~ Anissa@hope4peyton

If my liver doesn’t stop making me look old I will personally remove it with a spoon.

So remember last week when my finger was swelling up and I thought it was cancer piñata?  Turns out my doctor says it’s not cancer piñata because that’s not a real disease (yet) and instead she diagnosed me with rheumatoid arthritis.  The day after I officially hit my mid-thirties.  Then like 10 minutes later I got this email from Amazon:

Okay, seriously, what the fuck?!  I don’t even own season one, Amazon.  You guys are assholes.

So then I emailed Victor at his office downstairs…

Me: The doctor says the tests indicate I probably have rheumatoid arthritis.  She wants me to see a rheumatologist.

Victor:  Seriously, Isn’t that an old people disease?   

Me:  Come here and I will beat the shit out of you with my cane.

Victor:  I was coming up there but I tripped on the cord to your heating pad.

This is the reason why the elderly don’t like to use the computer.  And then right after that the head spokesperson for Chipotle sent me an email requesting that I not send them nude photos of myself.  This is like the worst week ever.

PS.  Also, I asked the doctor why I’m suddenly developing freckles and she was all “Oh, those aren’t freckles.  Those are liver spots“.  Then she kicked me in the vagina.  Figuratively.

Comment of the day: I think that RA can hit at any age so you’re okay there but when Amazon suggests Matlock there’s really no hope. I mean, you were immediately offered season two, like “Jump right in! It’s too late to start right from the beginning! You won’t live that long!” I am really sorry. ~  ColetteNicole