Professional Needle Stabber

                As many of you know, I am not one prone to using Western Medicine unless I absolutely have to—and even then it takes me to feel like I am about to croak before going to that. Now don’t get me wrong, there are many good things that come with using Western Medicine. Unfortunately I haven’t made good experiences and I am weary using anything, especially after watching commercials filled with smiling and dancing people, while in the background the narrator informs you of side effects including suicidal thoughts, bleeding organs, and the occasional side effect of spontaneous combustion.

                A week ago, I decided that I need to find a natural way to take care of my hypoglycemia and I wasn’t about to try the newest latest pill that may or may not work for me while giving me a side effect of growing a second head. Looking online, I went to my favorite website ever, “Groupon.” (If any of you reading this have not tried Groupon, I want you to know that you are missing out on life. Groupon is a magical place of discount services where you can frolic through expensive places, pretending to be rich, before handing the receptionist your coupon of a 5 million dollar discount. Okay maybe it’s not that extreme of a discount, but I have saved a *gabillion dollars using this website that makes dreams come true.) I found an ad for an acupuncturist that was doing 6 sessions for only $68 dollars and although becoming a living voodoo doll is not appealing to me whatsoever, I hear amazing things about the benefits from being stabbed with needles.  

                My first session I was nerve racked and by nerve racked I mean I was in full-fledged panic mode. I am not kidding either. I have a death fear of needles so after nervously ranting for ten minutes to the acupuncturist and feeling like my heart was going to explode from my chest, I finally was able to calm down enough to get out of the fetal position and allow the stabbing to commence. After the first needle went in, I realized that I had pretty much freaked out for a mere tiny pinch and I felt silly for even going into this fright. On the other hand, it’s mother freaking needles and those little shits are scary.

Once the acupuncturist was done making me his pin cushion, he turned off the lights and left me with the words, “Just relax.” At that point I looked like I was reverse planking, with every muscle in my body stiff as a board. How anyone can relax with a zillion needles in their flesh is beyond me but I kept reminding myself that I was doing this for my health.

I admit, I didn’t feel any difference after my first session, so when I came back for my second session, I let the professional needle stabber know that I didn’t think it worked. A few days after my second session, I realized that I noticed not only was I sleeping through the night without a problem, but my blood sugar was starting to stabilize. I just finished my third session today and I admit, I am pretty excited to see my health on the “up and up.” To anyone out there that is thinking about getting this done, you should give it a try—and by a try I mean a few tries.

*definition of Gabillion- pretty much a made up word that means a hell ton

Adulting When Sick

             

                The other day I woke up not feeling quite myself--and by that I mean, I felt like a Gorilla had played wack-a-mole with a two-by-four on my body, mainly concentrating on my head. As I opened my eyes, I realized that despite being sick as a dog, I still needed to go to work so that I can afford my Trader Joe’s addiction and if you have been keeping up with my blogs you will know exactly how bad that addiction is. Groaning, I looked hatefully at the sunlight pouring through my windows, while silently cussing out God for making the sun so friggen bright.

The day went by slower than a slug race and every minute that passed by seemed like an endless eternity of my body finding different ways to express its disdain for me. The end of my shift couldn’t come fast enough and by the time that I left work waddling to my car like a pill popping zombie, a thunderstorm had come, so I had the delightful time of strolling through the pouring rain like some dramatic movie about someone’s bad day. After an endless amount of bumper to bumper traffic and a mastiff that wanted to take his ever loving time to take a shit, I finally crawled into bed and came to the conclusion that I was dying. I wasn’t sure what I was dying from, but between my lack of hunger, my body feeling like I was jumping between a frozen tundra and Satan’s asshole- due to running a fever, and my aching body, I was convinced that I was going to die.

After napping and having terrifying nightmares of Donald trump chasing me, I finally wake up to a missed call from my best friend, of which I hesitantly return the call of. (Apparently I am not very social when dying.) Picking up the phone she greeted me with the usual tone of sunshine and flowers exploding from her vocal chords, neither of which were appealing to my miserable ogre mind. Gruffly I expressed to her that I felt like death and after listening to my symptoms and lamentations, she cheerfully told me that I might have limes disease or the flu. Neither of those sounded appealing to me but both required rest so I took the remaining part of the day and watched cartoons and the Home and Garden channel.

This is where life take a crazy twist and one of the 500 reasons why I shouldn’t watch the Home and Garden channel. After watching around 3 episodes of flea market flip, I came to the realization that I too wanted to flip things and try to sell them. Though I don’t have much vision when it comes to refurbishing anything and my carpentry skills consist of watching someone saw and hammer for me, I have decided that life is all about experiences and this is an experience that I want to have. So today is the day that I become an amateur carpenter entrepreneur and as Effie Trinket said in The Hunger Games, “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

Oh no...

The gym and I are pretty much mortal enemies and the one place that I dread as much as a Doctor’s office. There is something so unappealing to me about hard mats and workout gear that reminds me of a bad BDSM movie, while people sweat and grunt while lifting weights and staring at themselves in the mirror and getting small erections. But lately I have been realizing that my thighs are high-fiving each other a bit more than they normally do, so since I have been thinking about going to the gym that I joined 6 months ago, for the last six months, I have decided it was time to drop the procrastination and force myself into the torture chamber ruled by meat-heads.

                Today I got up in the early morning and got dressed for work. But just to make sure that I actually went through with going to the gym, instead of coming up with yet another pathetic excuse, I wore my work out clothes under my work clothes. Now let me explain to you by what I mean “work out” clothes. I dressed up in tight yoga pants, a spaghetti string shirt, and threw on a comfy bra, forgetting entirely that something called a sports bra exists.

After a long day at work, I banned myself from going home until I have at least spent an hour at the gym and arrived at the gym feeling kind of bad ass until I realized that my comfy bra was actually a push up bra and my shirt made my tits look like two muffins on display at a bakery. Considering that I was half asleep when I put on my workout clothes this morning before work, it didn’t come to a shock to me that I had accidentally made myself look like a twenty-something year old horny club girl without meaning to. So in order to regain a morsel of my dignity back, I tried to pull my shirt a bit higher over my “breasticals,” hoping that I in some way I can cover the fact that Victoria is no longer a Secret.

                Walking into the gym was a bit overwhelming and it was packed full of people that shot up steroids like a heroin addict shoots up their liquid version of “fun.” As expected they were grunting and grinding their teeth, while staring at themselves in the mirrors, switching from one torture device to the next and I am pretty sure that I had more fat on my butt cheek than all of their bodies combined.

After walking through a maze of clanking metal devices-- half of which look like they could throw out my back--I finally sighed in relief when I came across a treadmill. I began the treadmill at a steady walk listening to dubstep and trying to keep my steps with the beat of the music just to make things more entertaining.  Finally I took things to a steady jog and looked up, getting a glance of myself at the mirror. It was then that I realized my boobs were not only bouncing around like an exciting episode of Bay Watch, but they were bouncing to the beat of my music. This immediately caused me to start laughing hysterically which caused me to get a few dirty glances from my fellow “treadmillers.”

“Okay it’s time to call it quits on this sucker,” I thought as I began to notice that I was drawing some unwanted attention and climbed off of the treadmill, trying to come up with an idea of what to do next.

I began to roam around this twisted metal labyrinth, looking at the photos of little men with different sections of their muscles colored in red and even gained up the courage to try a few of these devices, only to realize that I looked more ridiculous than ever. After several failed attempts, pulled muscles, and the feeling of outright confusion, I realized that weights and metal are just not my thing.  

Not wanting to quit just yet, I walked over to an area where no one was at, in the corner, on some very uncomfortable fake grass and began to do some yoga stretching exercises. I figured that since my muscles were all warmed up, this was the time to do some stretches and I since I was in a corner coated in green plastic stabby thingies, that I could be left alone to work out in peace. Shortly after I began my stretching exercises I noticed that middle aged men began to gather around me and work out, glancing at me the way that seagulls look at food. I tried to ignore it and continued to stretch until I looked over and saw a bald man with his mouth gaping open, staring at me with serial killer eyes. Now I am not just saying that he was doing push-ups or whatever people do at a gym. I am saying he was just standing there, with his fly trap wide open, and eyes burning holes into my body. It was then that I began to think of Hannibal and immediately decided that my time at the gym was done for the day.

Shortly after I got home I threw off my shoes and gave my dog a bucket full of water, watching him greedily lap it down. A light knock occurred on my door and when I opened it was face to face with two police officers, one male in his 40’s and a woman with a scowl on her face so great it seemed as though I was looking right into her dead sex life. At first I thought that someone had been murdered in my apartment complex but when they began to ask me if I knew about the recent cemetery vandalism, I realized that the only dead people they were talking about, were the ones in my backyard.

For all of those that don’t know, yes, my back yard is a cemetery and no it is not as creepy as you would think that it would be. It’s actually a pretty nice place and has really old tombstones dating all the way back into the 1800’s.  

As these officers were asking me questions my 192 pound English mastiff walks up behind me and vomits water all over the kitchen floor. I am not talking about a little burp of water-vomit that can be cleaned up with a napkin. I am talking about the pacific fucking ocean version of a projectile vomit out of my dog’s mouth and rushing towards and over my feet like a freaking tsunami. Immediately the female officer’s eyes got incredibly large as she stared down in horror at this natural disaster on my kitchen floor. I of course, knew what was happening as soon as I heard the burping sound behind me, but it happened so fast that I didn’t have time to react. So I just acted like nothing happened, while standing in the vomit, before politely excusing myself so that I can disinfect everything like a plague just broke out on my floor. 

Societal Oppression

Society and media instills in our minds that if we are socially accepted then we will find happiness. Media tell us the rules to go by through the “latest trends” and then society is expected to follow these rules without protest or question. If we do not follow them, we are emotionally and verbally beaten until we do by the peers around us that blindly follow these rules. If you don’t believe me, look at the posts that you see online by women and men who choose to not follow the rules of society. In this alone, you will find people that have gone out of their way to degrade the person that they don’t even know, trying to convince them that because they are different, they are “less than” and putting it under the false label of constructive criticism.

                These rules were put in place by opinionated individuals in influential positions, then followed by the masses who at times will go out of their way to enforce these rules, even if that means causing emotional and even at times physical harm to an innocent person.

An example of a common “rule” set by society is the separation of clothing, according to gender. Women’s clothing is normally sexualized to society’s standards and cut in a certain way to better display the shape of her breasts, childbearing hips and back end. Patterns in female clothing are typically limited to what society claims is feminine which is usually flowers, butterflies, and containing shapes and designs that are softly curved or contoured to a shape simulating the curves of a female body, in addition to emphasizing on the preferred body shape that is currently in style. Occasionally you see shirts with memes containing quotes that are considered to be “cute” and containing witty comments or ones based on a pop band. Male clothing is cut looser and normally contains bold colors and shapes that are seen to be masculine. The memes that are found on shirts are either crude, alcohol based, about a rock band, sexually suggestive, humorously sarcastic, in addition to the typical cartoons which are normally based off of popular shows that are violent in nature. Male shorts tend to be longer while female shorts are sometimes cut so short that the bottom of our butt sticks out, like reverse cleavage.

                When it comes to gender, the view point of today’s society is so limited that if we see a female with a short haircut wearing the labeled “male” clothing, we automatically associate her physical appearance with her sexuality and we are shocked when they do not always correlate. If a male is seen in women’s clothing with long hair, he is automatically degraded and shamed beyond reason, to a cruel extent.  

Society tells us what is masculine and feminine and demands that we submit to them. They force everyone into these categorized boxes and demands that everyone must fit in these boxes with a smile on their face, even if that means denying themselves of expressing what they truly like. Though society parades the fantasy of individualism, unfortunately most people are too afraid of the back lash they will receive, whether large or small, for truly being themselves. So they unknowingly submit for the fear of being reprimanded.

One of the first steps to finding real happiness, is to strip away the fear of rejection and dive into your soul, figuring out who you truly are and what you truly like. Be true to yourself. Not to put a morbid twist on things, but we have a 100% mortality rate. Do you really want to be on your death bed and realize that you were never truly yourself? So if you want to dress up in a tutu wearing an umbrella on your head, do it. Fucking do it. In the end the most beautiful part of you isn’t what you show others, but who you truly are on the inside. If you are true to yourself and openly show that, you will become a beacon of light for others, inspiring them to do the same.

My Addiction

So I have officially banned myself from Trader Joe’s, at least until I eat all of the food that I bought. Trader Joe’s, much like crack is to crack heads, has become my addiction. Between the deliciously odd and local foods that they display so proudly in their refrigerated and freezer section, and their inexpensive organic fruits, I have come to the realization that Trader Joe’s is my kryptonite.

This addiction is not helped by the fact that I pass by this hypnotic grocery store with large red letters, every day and every time I pass by this blasted store, I am left wondering if there is an excuse for me to go in to get something—which unfortunately there usually is and it usually has to do with flowers, fruit, and cheese.

Now before you tell me that I am being dramatic and telling me that I am sure this addiction is not that bad, let me tell you this… I somehow beyond me, have been spending around $300 a week on groceries for one person. My cabinets are loaded with so much food that I had to rearrange my entire kitchen to make more room for the “food I haven’t tried yet” section and even had to give some of my stuff away for “cabinet space.” I have so much food in my house right now, that if an asteroid hit this planet right now and I had to survive off of what I had, I would have no worries whatsoever. I probably could feed a few friends too!

My problem with Trader Joe’s isn’t so much sales, because quite frankly I really don’t think I ever see them. My problem is that everything is so cheap that it feels like everything is on sale. So naturally, I feel like I have to buy it all, especially the things that you know you shouldn’t eat but you want to eat… like cake and cookie dough—God yes.

Hello There Doctor

                So today I woke up to rain pattering on my window, while the question lingered in my head, “Why the hell am I up so early?” Slowly the horrific realization sank into my head that today is V-day-- the day that my vagina goes to battle with the gynecologist. This is the one day a year that I dread more than spring cleaning my disaster house with a hangover.

                When I finally pull up to the office, I look at the ominous windows trying to figure out why anyone would choose to have this job.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad there are doctors that specialize in my “Vag-health,” but it is definitely not a job that I would want to have. I can’t imagine the horrors they have seen, which is probably the reason why most of the gynecologists I have come across seem to have no sense of humor.  

                After walking through the dreary rain, I step into a bright office and walk up to the woman behind the counter. She seemed awfully happy to be working the front desk and quickly asked me if I had my insurance card and my ID on me. I quickly pulled it out of my dinosaur green purse and as I was doing so, was asked if I had an emergency contact. For some reason I find this to be a nerve racking thought as I wonder to myself, “why I would need an emergency contact? Is there the possibility that I might go into shock during this yearly pap-smear?”

                As soon as I hand her the cards, I rush into the bathroom to pee because for some reason the random fear of accidentally pissing myself when prongs are shoved in me, came into my mind. What I didn’t realize is that #1 the lady was asking me though the door for me to pee in a cup and #2 apparently I am really good at locking myself in bathrooms but not very good at getting back out.

                Five minutes and two nurses later I am finally freed from solitary confinement. As I stumble out of the bathroom while trying to maintain some sort of dignity, the nurse then asks me in front of a room full of waiting women, “Did you happen to pee in a cup?”

                “No, but I promise I’m not pregnant!” I said as cheerfully as possible with the realization that I just released the specimen they needed in the porcelain throne. “Is that what you’re checking for?”

                The nurse’s face became flat as she said, “no.” She then quickly turned around and walked away, going back to whatever vaginal duty she had.

                “I might be able to make some more,” I wearily called after her while patting my stomach. She didn’t respond and instead disappeared behind the wooden door.

                I am finally called to the back by a petite woman with a thick Ukrainian accent. She takes me to a room and tells me to go stand on the scale. With hesitation I look at the scale, knowing that I won’t like whatever number they throw out to me-- which is why I refuse to have a scale in my bathroom. I prefer just eyeing my weight. Do I look healthy? Yes. No number needed.

                “Do I have to?” I ask the tiny woman standing in front of me.

                “Yes it is needed,” she responds with a look of annoyance.

I immediately begin to take off every piece of crystal I had on my body, including multiple rings and bracelets because there is no way that I am getting on this satanic machine with anything unnecessary that might add onto the number. I then tell her, “My underwear and my bra weigh too much, please take off an additional ten pounds in consideration for that.” Yes, I do admit that I was sporting a good old pair of granny panties because cute panties are only worn when someone other than my dog can see them.

Once I step on the machine and she measures my numbers, I ask her if this is even accurate. She tells me it is, so I then insist that I go to another one because, “This one is lying to us.” She agrees to do this and takes me to another scale which I’m pretty sure lied to me also. Once this is done, I step into the gynecology interrogation room where I am sat in front of a grumpy lady with a scowl on her face, the gynecologist. She then begins to ask me numerous questions, some of which I am still not sure why she asked. For example, “Have you ever had an eating disorder?” In all my years of doctors spelunking in my cave, I have never had someone feel the need to ask me about what I do or do not put in my mouth. I admitted that I had in the past had an eating disorder and she asked me if I still had an eating disorder and if I saw a therapist. I told her that yes I used to see a therapist for it and no I currently am not barfing up my food.  She then asked me why I am there to see her and I told her that I was there for my yearly and some good old birth control. She asked me if I was sexually active, on which note I laughed and I said, “No you would be the most action I’ve seen in months! I need the birth control because I want to rip my uterus out if I don’t, because my period cramps feels like I’m exorcising a demon.”

After that, she takes me into another room where she tells me to get naked and put on a paper sheet which was folded on the table. She then stepped out of the room. I never understood why gynecologists do that. This woman is about to be all up in my junk and see me butt naked but has to step out of the room to give me privacy so that I can get naked.

I shrug my shoulders and take off my clothes before beginning to attempt to unfold the paper sheet. As I am unfolding the sheet, I realize that this paper has sections that are glued together and I can’t figure out what goes where. Three rips later, I try to stick my head through what I believe is the hole where my head goes through. That rips the sheet so badly that two sections drop to the ground. So I give up and sit naked on the table until she comes back.

A few seconds later I hear a knock on the door and the woman steps in the explosion of confetti that I accidentally created. Rolling her eyes she takes another sheet out and points to the holes saying, “These are for your arms and it’s open in the front.”

“What is the point in wearing a paper sheet dress that is entirely open in the front? How does this make any sense?” I wonder to myself as I lean back and put my legs in the stirrups.  As soon as the doctor comes around, I immediate say, “I did a courtesy shave. Let me know if there are any problems down there.”

Although quick, I still hated the procedure that she did. I always do. Every time I get a pap smear done, I always wonder if this is what it feels like to get probed by an alien and then I begin to wonder if all of those alien abduction stories are based off of what happens in the gynecology appointments.

Well as you see, I have survived the appointment and the final message that I was told by the doctor was that everything looked normal down there and by that I’m assuming that she meant my junk did not mutate into some other organ over the span that I was there. I guess I won’t be using my emergency contact. 

Global Suicide

We are creating a planet buried in our own filth, simultaneously committing global suicide, genocide, biocide, and ecocide. The more that we advance, the more that we destroy, like an unstoppable virus that has taken over our once-healthy host planet. Walk into any major city and look at the horizon; you can see the pollution weighing heavily like a massive beige cloud. That cloud is a poison that we breathe into our fragile bodies while we live amidst the trash that litters our streets, our parks, and our beaches.

That plastic bottle you saw on the side of the road will take between 450 to 1,000 years to decompose because the person that threw it out of their window decided that this planet- our home- is their trash can. Videos of sea turtles screaming out in pain as trash is being pulled from their bleeding nostrils has surfaced all over the internet, while other photographs and videos show corpses of animals and birds with guts full of the trash that we discarded and they accidentally consumed. While we may not like to admit responsibility for these actions, every piece of trash that slices open an animal is the result of our species’ irresponsibly and carelessness. We are at fault and almost every species on this planet is suffering in some way or form.

Lush, beautiful rainforests used to cover 14% of the planet’s surface yet to this day only 6% remains and that percentage is rapidly shrinking at the rate of 1 acre per second. We tear down the homes of millions of different animals because we believe that our agenda has more worth than their life; yet by doing this we are shooting ourselves in the foot by polluting our largest fresh water source and destroying the trees that filter the air that we breathe. The runoff from the agricultural fields that replace the rainforest are polluting our largest fresh water sources, making the water undrinkable. Only 1% of our water sources are accessible and available for human consumption. These water sources are depleting at an alarming rate while our population is ever increasing. What exactly is humanity going to drink when it is all gone? Why are we destroying what helps us survive?

Due to poaching and rainforest destruction amongst many other human activities, scientists have now informed the public that we are bordering the next mass extinction. According to the World Wildlife Foundation, “The rapid loss of species we are seeing today is estimated by experts to be between 1,000 and 10,000 times higher than the natural extinction rate,” and this is due almost exclusively to human activity. Soon our grandchildren will be viewing tigers and mountain gorillas among thousands of other species the way that we view dinosaurs; creatures only to be found alive within the pages of a book, but never to be seen with the naked eye.

                Here we are as consumers, standing in the middle of a consumer-based society, arguing over whether or not climate change is actually happening and no matter what evidence is shown the argument is an endless one. This isn’t a zombie apocalypse, y2k, or some other scare tactic for those that love a good dose of drama. This is the result of human activity as a collective whole impacting the planet that we live on to a detrimental point. Climate change is serious enough of an issue for global leaders to hold a conference in Paris, inviting officials from nearly 200 countries to meet and come to an agreement to reduce climate change. Global warming is not a conspiracy to alarm people and it isn’t a concept made up by Al Gore. This is real and it is happening. Change starts with the individual and needs to happen for the sake of humanity’s collective future. Procrastination is our biggest enemy; the actions need to happen now. One doesn’t have to go to extremes, wearing burlap in the woods while deodorant becomes more of a memory than a hygienic effort. There are little things that you can do to help that won’t take much effort and these little things you do will make a big impact. Remember a single pebble can stir an entire pond.