I usually look good in blue

Well, I've managed to get through the first 9 days of this new year in a haze of short-term memory issues and non-alcohol induced hangovers. I'm still waiting for the life-changing epiphany that will burst forth and rush over me creating an influx of energy and goal achieving but I ordered it from Amazon.com and you know how fucked up the shipping gets during the holidays.

As my previous post implicated, I'm so damn distracted. I'm not necessarily depressed, but I sure am stressed. Well, alright, I am a little blue, but you don't have to hide the sharp stuff right now. I have so much to think about. To take care of. To do. I can't seem to keep a thought in my head longer than it takes a wild bear to eat a self-indulgent crazy white boy from Malibu. (Guess who watched Grizzly Man last weekend?) I'm not doing a head in the sand thing but more of an I drank the bong water slow glazed scan of the room numbness and oh look, something shiny.

Wheneve I get this stressed out I have nightmares. This morning was no exception. I had a bad dream that lasted about 9 hours and has shaken me for the day. I dreamt that I'd just received a hefty dose of radiation and was supposed to be quarantined and all of these people kept coming around bugging me and not listening to my warnings. Then I got all freaked out that I was going to cause everyone who'd come in contact with me cancer and be the reason for their deaths, including my cats. It was fucked up.

Then I woke up with Boo between my knees pinning me to the sheets, because that poor anorexic feline somehow weighs 100 pounds at night, and I launched her off the bed thinking I was going to give her cancer too because I was still sort of in the dream so I feel kind of bad about that, but god dammit, don't sleep between my legs kitty cat, I fucking hate that.

One good thing though, I saw yet another new doctor last week and this one I liked. In fact, I got the best vibe from him than any other endocrinologist I've seen. I remain cautiously optimistic, but hopefully he won't be a monumental asshole wrapped in a condescending egotistical mother fucker. Wouldn't that be refreshing. His office was stuffed with toys so I thought that was a good sign. We ran more blood tests (thanks to both of the inept vampire girls, I got poked 3 fucking times with little result) and those should be in by today.

He also saw no reason to wait until March for another scan, thank the baby jesus. I'm going to lose my shit for good if I have to wait any more to take care of this crap. I've already accepted the fact I'm probably going to have more radiation so now I just want the fucker over with. The scans and especially the radiation sucks so fucking hard I can't tell you, but the waiting is killing me. It's been more than 9 months since that bad scan and I'm stupidly insane over it. This new doc suspects the "clean" scan in 2004 was a false negative and whoever read it didn't know what they were doing. Fabulous.

At least I didn't cry this time. Which is a bane to my current existence since I hate crying and especially hate crying in front of anyone else. Catharsis my arsis. But my emotions continue to be so fucking raw and sneak up on me at the dumbest times that I actually cried watching those gay nuns sing for the Pope in Sister Act last weekend. Yes. I know. Shaddup. I also cried at King Kong but you'd have to be a robot not to, and a preview for some new movie where 8 huskies get left in Anarctica, and The Chronicles of Narnia, and Michelle Kwan: Friends & Family ice skating special. I said, I KNOW. SHAD. UP. It's so pathetic.

I was really happy about this new guy and hopefully didn't scare him off when I lunged at him for a hug like a cheetah on a gazelle. I just couldn't help it. He was so cool it required bodily contact. (This good feeling lasted about 2 hours until work turned into a whore again. Man, I hate this job so hard I could punch an orphan).

Other than that, my head continues to swim like a turd circling the bowl with all of this continuing drama and some other stuff I'm just not ready to talk about. Life-changing decisions that make my asshole itch and sweat to pour from my chubby face. Eesh. Can't do it. Therefore I shall leave you with this:

Dear woman who sat in front of me at the movies yesterday,

Your perfume smelled like a mixture of weed killer and Summer's Eve vinegar douche with a hint of Glade industrial strength floral air freshener. I don't know what discount dollar store you bought your gallon of pee-yellow, cheap, offensive, knock-off fragrance in the bottle entitled Eau de Dawgsheet but you'd have been better off if you bathed in a vat of hair perm solution then lathered fermenting whale carcass behind your ears.

Your assault on my olfactory nerves was worse than the rampaging stink of nursing home I had to endure in another movie the weekend before. Is it not bad enough I had to go out in public and fraternize with all of you fucking freaks, dealing with whining toddlers and fat men with flatulence, but do I also have to try and enjoy a rare afternoon at the theater by inhaling the steaming stench coming from your clammy skin through the whole fucking film? I really think it's too much to ask. Even for a reasonable person like me.

So the next time you're going out with your high-water pants member's only jacket wearing mate, do us all a favor. Instead of pouring the liquid equivalent of a Shamu fucking stadium of your nasty, bargain-basement imposter perfume down your droopy cleavage, don't. Instead, slap a little unscented deodorant on your armpits and leave the poisonous cropdusting to the professionals. Then maybe next time you won't find yourself picking my popcorn out of your hair. Thank you and have a nice day.