Thursday, September 30, 2004

Wanted: One Don't Give a Shit Gene

I don't get it. I really don't. I wish I did, but I don't. How is it possible to not care about the assholes in the world and the stupid blather that they spew from their rotten gaping pieholes? How is it that some people are born with the ability to let stress slide off of their backs like whale shit in an iceflow? How do you turn off the worry switch before it melts your brain like an ice cream cone in Vegas? I do not possess these traits. And it's driving me crazy.

Scientists need to get off of their assess and back-burner something lame like male pattern baldness and check this out. Sorry guys, but a shiny head can be sexy and you can always buy a hat. I think figuring out which chromosonal pair holds the key to the big "fuck you" on a cellular level is much more important. Discovering how to turn off the loop in my head that replays a distressing and rancid situation over and over and over again would be better than finding the perfect pair of jeans.

I truly believe that men, boys, males, for the most part, are born with this gene. This makes me jealous and that's why I must destroy them. But I digress. With the exception of their primal need to kill things and punch each other in the neck on occasion, not much bothers these fellas. Of course, I think both sexes are nutty in their own way, but I cannot express with clarity the seething envy (and in some cases much lurve) I have of those people who can shake off a concern or a nasty exchange with a shrug and a "fuck em". I can do this once-in-awhile, but not on the daily basis that my life requires, and it sucks. Big. Giant. Donkey. Balls.

I worry about everything. I worry about the shape of my eyebrows. I worry about the clerk at the grocery store who didn't understand that I couldn't make eye-contact this morning because I didn't even brush my teeth today and was worried I had a total bat in the cave since I think I caught a cold on a germ-infested flying tube of death last weekend. I worry about the trip to Europe I might take sometime in my life because I don't like to fly and holy crap we'll be over the fucking ocean for hours and hours with no hope if an engine blows and I don't even own a fucking passport!! I worry about the person I haven't spoken to in a few days and have to supress thoughts that I've done something to warrant this non-communication. I can step right into a pile of shit without any effort, so it's not unreasonable to think I might have inadverdently stuck my finger up someone's ass by accident.

I'm extremely sensitive and if you say something the wrong way my temper flares and depending on the gravity of the offense, you'll either get a shiny fang glinting in the sun as a warning or a full-bore ripping of your throat with all my claws. And they are sharp my friends, they are sharp.

And how about text? For a long time I loved the fact that I didn't have to actually speak to the majority of jackfucks inhabiting the earth, and seem to all work for my company, since they could send me an e-mail. But now, I do so much of my communication through written word that the doors for mis-interpretation are way too wide. I was already slightly paranoid. Now I'm the Superintendant of Paranoiaville. Although I will contend that people have brought being passive-aggresive assholes in text to a new art form. Or they have been able to ignore modern culture and still don't get that ALL CAPS IS YELLING YOU RETARDED DIPSHIT.

Sparring is O.K. every now-and-then, you know, batting around a shivering little mouse watching its eyes glaze over with fear then witnessing the realization sink in that they're way out of their league and they should probably start praying for a favorable outcome. Or just kiss their ass goodbye with an "alright, you got me, enjoy the snack". But holy christ on a cracker, this stress-ball shit is ridiculous not to mention boring me to tears.

Granted, I have had an exceptionally bad time in the last year or so, and my stress meter is constantly at 11, but jebus, I either need some Prozac or I need to get laid. Damn.

Monday, September 13, 2004

Next Stop: Freaktown

I'm finally convinced. My town has officially reached its max on freaks. They're all here. And they're breeding. OK, so yes, I live in California, Southern California to be exact, but that's NO reason for a disproportionate amout of carnival acts to be living in my neighborhood. No matter what everyone west of the Mississippi says.


I am not perfect, I'm far from it. I'm carrying around too much junk in my trunk and let's just say Sports Illustrated hasn't been chasing me around for years trying to get me in their swimsuit issue. And I will freely admit I have occasional lapses in judgment paired with useless- information tourettes resulting in some poor unsuspecting sales girl getting to know my current and personal life story while she's ringing up my 90th pair of jeans that I don't really need while desperately trying to get that super-fused hanger separated from my denim so I'll get the feck out of her face and she can finally get stoned in her Subaru on her lunch break. But I only do that once in awhile. And sometimes for sheer shock value. Cuz I'm evil like that.

But christ on a cracker, the shit shows I've run into lately are pushing the envelope for mutants and I'm thinking about developing a raging case of agoraphobia so I don't have to leave my house ever again.

Due to a shit-ass illness I was so lucky to be diagnosed with last summer, I've spent an obnoxious amount of time in doctors offices. In the beginning it wasn't so bad. I'd check in with the receptionist/front office nazi girl, find a magazine with the least amount of DNA on it, and park my sick butt in a chair. There would, in all probability, be another patient waiting and we'd give each other the obligatory glance, each wondering what the other was there for, then look away. Cuz that's what you're supposed to do.

The farther I've gotten into this crap the more it's required me to start seeing a few specialists. I was joyously oblivious and innocently pure to the going's on in a doctors office who is beyond the norm of medical practice. A physician with skills so exclusive that hopefully most of the populous will never need their services. Unfortunately, I have not escaped that bullet and thus, need to see a specialist for some junk going on. And, I've come to learn, so do the freaks.

Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost sympathy and buckets of empathy for anyone dealing with physical pain, limitations, scary and painful procedures, and fucked up diagnoses, but come on people, the waiting room is not a cocktail party. It's not a support group, and it certainly is not your private home.

Last week I had an appointment. No biggie. I arrived a few minutes early and as soon as I cracked open the door I noticed there were wall-to-wall people in there. Ah fuck. This is going to take awhile and someone is going to talk to me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And sure enough. The second I sat down in my chair with my DNAzine I had some old mans baggie-pantsed ass in my face while his geeky girlfriend started telling me about her latest mammogram while grabbing her National Geopraphic boobs. Seriously, he had about 6 feet in front of him but felt the need to have his big old butt practically parked on my nose. Then she started handing out fliers from the office to people at random without saying a word. WTF? This went on, I shit you not, for an hour and a half. I seriously had to fake a hearing impairment.

Then just when I think I'm either going to lose my mind or have to leave, a poor woman is wheeled into the room in her wheelchair and parked, yup, right in front of me. I'd already been chanting the mantra "please don't talk to me" for over an hour but when I looked up to offer a little smile I noticed her gaping trachea apparatus on her neck and she was staring off into space. Thinking I was safe I went back to reading the same page I'd read about 4 times already. Out of the corner of my eye I see her hand move, close over the trach and say something to her husband. Immediately I knew something was askew. It didn't sound right. Way too gurgly. Oh crap, I thought, this can't be good. Sure enough, she picked up a tissue, and as she faced me from 18 inches away, covered her neck and horked the loudest, most bubbly, gag-producing snot rocket I've ever heard. There aren't enough happy places for something like that. Yea, yea, I know she's in a bad way, yea, yea, I know I'm lucky, yea, yea, yea. It was still horrific and I had to force down my puke for a good 10 minutes.

Then, yesterday I'm shopping and it was one geek after another. Big, smelly close-talkers. Pony tails pulled to tight with bright blue eye-shadow streaked across the forehead, big girls in small pants, people walking down an isle and stopping right in front of me with now way around. (Jebus, I hate that). And a giant women with a giant daughter, who seriously looked like Charles Manson's love child, cutting in front of me in line to ask a question. The woman pushing her psycho-grin kid forward yelling at the top of her lungs that "YOU'LL NEVER LEARN HOW TO BE AN ADULT IF YOU CAN'T ASK A QUESTION". Hey, Godzilla, how's about you teach your kid to wait her turn so bitches like me won't run a heel down her shin for getting too close and cutting in line? Eh?

Sometimes I should be kept away from humans.