I’m incredibly angry.
I’m angry whenever I think of my obligations. I’m upset that I feel constantly burdened.
I’m upset that I don’t have a partner to share those burdens with. I’m enraged when I think about having to make bricks without straw. I’m terrified because I’m always building houses without bricks.
I’m stifled because I can’t express myself. I can’t express myself because I’m jammed with emotions that I can’t explain and that I actually don’t want to talk to anyone about.
I want to break things when I think about how I’ve been robbed. You don’t ever want your friends to steal from you. Especially something that no one can replace. Someone stole all of the joy, which is ridiculous because I have such a small area of joy to begin with.
I’m pissed when I think about how everyone else can sleep at night without drugging themselves.
I’m upset when I hear about other people having sex. I used to enjoy sex, now I have no desire for it. I suppose it was dwindling, and someone stole the last bit of desire I have left.
He took it from me.
Now I’m this unattractive angry thing that can’t sleep. He’s sleeping. But I’m not.
I’m angry that I feel like it’s my fault. I’m pissed because I feel like all I’m doing internally is whining about something that I can’t change.
I’m sad because I don’t have a job.
My hair looks like a fucking disaster.
I feel like crying is a waste of water. I wish I had mended from the theft before I got fired.
I didn’t mend. Now the roof is caving in.
I want all the hugs. But I don’t want anyone to touch me. I feel completely powerless.
I feel worthless.
I wrote a poem about it but I can’t finish it. I make jokes that are inappropriate.
Everything is a big secret that I can’t tell anyone about. The kicker is that the thief was someone that I always confided in. Who am I supposed to talk to now? I guess I’m supposed to write abstract blogs.
I saw the person responsible for the death of my cat the other day. I can’t really be angry with her because she’s a nutcase.
So I just have all of this angry that just sits on me.
We’d recently gotten a new cat, but it’s like I couldn’t bond with it. I couldn’t give it any love. I’m just all dried up. It was a cute kitten. I just couldn’t bond with it. I’m not sure I can make any kind of bond.
I’m working a small job on the side for a friend for extra cash. I dread doing the work, because I really don’t’ want to do anything.
My friend told me that I should write about the theft, so I am. I’m not feeling any better. I’m just being vague.
You can run around for an entire night making me feel awful about things that I can’t control, like my general appearance, and then hours later steal from me. Because maybe theft isn’t about attraction. Theft is just about power.
When I was a little girl, I used to cry often.
Most little girls cry, but I was always burdened because I didn’t feel that I was good enough. I was burdened that unlike with math, or science that there was no way to prove that I had value.
The great thing about being a minority, is that even thought you’ve talk in political philosophy that you have inherent human worth, your upbringing forces you to drop that premise. Worth isn’t giving to everyone. In fact, as a thinking individual you not only have to consistently prove your worth, but you also have to vouch for every other person in your entire race.
“Apryl, I saw little Timmy stealing on the news the other day. Do you know him? Do you know why black people steal? Is it a systematic problem? Is that what you think.” I’m just kidding. It wouldn’t be Timmy, it would be Dontavious.
I wonder why I have to know all the people in the US that are black. I grant that we’re only 13 percent of the population, but I’m not that much of a social butterfly, and it’s hard for me to mingle with all of the other black people in America when I’m trying so vigorously to impact crime in a way that makes the media’s representation of criminals accurate– since I’m only on piece of 13 percent. Being black in America is completely time consuming. I don’t even know why I’m writing right now, I should be getting pregnant and then getting on welfare to support my non existent crack habit or stealing something.
Sometimes I get to be the exception. This is also a burden. I can feel some what okay about winning over the admiration of a modern racist. How do I protect all of the other millions of people who are just like me? Should I send them a t shirt that says “I know Apryl. She is the exception for black people. Much like her I don’t break the law, so you don’t have to lock your car doors when you seem me crossing the street. But do watch out for that white guy with the crow bar behind me. That’s Apryl’s ex, and she knows for a fact he is trying to steal from you.”
I can’t do that. I don’t have that kind of production system in place. That is also too long to put on a t shirt.
So, this rant with racism has always been present. I feel compelled to write today for two reasons. First take a look at this article:
A good friend of mine posted it on the internet. This was my original response after skimming the article.
“I think it’s really awful. I like white people. Socially I’m often told, “this is not a safe place for you.” Or “These people don’t know you and they don’t typically like black people.” If no one has every told you something like that or said “I’m sure it’s okay for you to be here because you’re not one of ‘those’ black people” then you wouldn’t understand the idea that maybe there could be safe haven anywhere. On the other hand, I can’t possibly thinks that excluding other people so that they can feel a tiny amount of what I feel all the time would be okay. I like my friends. I don’t think it’s okay to exclude other people. I’ve decided already though, that even though everyone is evolving to try to conquer a problem that shouldn’t exist, that if I’d like to be a human wherever I go, If I’d like to be in a place where we don’t have to make fucked up non nonsensical solutions in order to feel safe by exclusions, if I’d not like to have people refer to me and my offspring as pretty for black people or well behaved monkeys…I should book it to another country. The fact that this article exist is retarded”
This is my honest solution. Immigrate. I took it a step further.
“The other day in the car, a really good friend of mine told me that it took a long time for her to be happy with being white. I looked at her with a smirk, she is possibly one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen in person. She told me that she used to wish she was anything else: Japanese, Brazilian, black.” and I cut her off. “Anything but black!” I exclaimed. No one wants to walk into a room and automatically be stupid and ugly. What a terrible thing for me to say! I’m fairly educated. I’m pretty quick on the draw, but consistently when I read comments on Facebook, I realize that none of those things matter. I don’t have my degree tattooed on my shoulder, so to the majority of the population, my race which represents a little over 13 percent of the American population is completed and utter trash. I realize that articles like that are alarming. I just hope that all the smart folks that realize there’s something wrong with reverse racism won’t take such offense to the fact that the solution is wrong that you turn your back against the problem. Honestly, intelligent readers and people who follow logic are the only parts of this country that give me hope. Don’t take offense and say “Yup, they think all white people are racists”, why not say, I read a bullshit article, and the solution presented was bullshit. Because if I didn’t tell myself that with all the crap I see on Facebook, I would run into traffic to kill myself and disrupt society as the illiterate hoodlum that the articles claim I am”
The people on the tread were pretty understanding. I’m excited about this experience. Now I’d like to show you what made me cry BEFORE I got my eyebrows threaded.
. Now we all know that facebook is not the end all by all of historical accuracy. Most historians agree that though there is accuracy to the story as one of the first displays, there is debate about it being the first. Let’s all be honest, if most racist white people found out celebrating something that was started by a group of black people they would have to all gather and drink poisonous kool-aid. It can’t be true, because all black people know how to do is riot and complain in their humble opinions. This is NOT what upset me.
All of the folks on there couldn’t just say it wasn’t true. I was totally necessary to through around racial slurs and completely degrade any idea of black history. It was so weird. I saw their thumbnail pictures and what not, they looked like completely normal people. I didn’t see any triple K hoods in the back ground. Why are we using the N word? It’s just a debate about history or whatever. I really thought Memorial Day was about honoring the soldiers who sacrificed their lives. We don’t need to take away from that to talk about how crappy black people are…it feels like those folks do that every day.
Sweet. Here’s another one I really like by white people:
I can’t say all police officers fit the mold, but I can tell you that when I’ve been in custody for traffic violations that I couldn’t pay, the cops kinda treating me like the lawless piece of trash America taught them that I was.
I am scared all the time.
I am scared that I won’t have time to convince the police that I have human worth in an everyday altercation about something dumb like speeding or not having my insurance card on hand (the insurance thing is pretty obsolete with smart phone.
I religiously keep receipts because I’m afraid people will think I’m stealing. If you know me, have you ever looked in my purse.
I’m afraid that jobs won’t call me for interviews because of the way my first name is spelled.
I’m afraid because I have to fight the poverty war, the class war, and the race war–and if I fail at either, my children will suffer.
I’m afraid that if I have a children, their mother’s American disgrace will rub off on them and they won’t have a fair shot.
I’m terrified that I won’t have time to explain to others that I have human worth. So, I kinda understand what the article is saying.
In closing, I went to the deli to buy meat and cheese. You know, normal people stuff. There were three older white ladies working behind the deli and a small group of about 4 people waiting. There was no ticketing system. The computer to drop your order and come back was broken. There was a gentleman, white lad who walked up right behind me. The deli ladies served everyone but me. When I asked a question about writing down my order, they all ignored me. The gentleman’s face startled to crinkle, he made small talk. He told me they were probably just really busy and thought that the other had taken the order. I told him he was probably right. After he left, three more people were served in front of me. The third woman, a blonde perky last told the deli person that I was next. The deli lady ignored her, and asked what she needed. The blonde said “She was here first and I’m not giving you my order until you take care of her.” All white people are not racist.The blonde lady was awesome and I thanked her.
Everyone should realize that I should never get to tell stories like this.
I believe so thoroughly and completely in the American dream, that I’m perfectly willing to immigrate to another country to see it come to fruition.
I’ve been watching Netflix for weeks now. I know everything there is to know about Meredith Grey, but I’m not sure what they guy I’m interested in likes to do or what his favorite color is. There’s something fundamentally wrong with this idea.
So I got to about season 5, and realized that I didn’t really care about what was happening at this pretend hospital, and then I started talking to real people that I know. These people may or may not be less stimulating than staring at my ceiling.
The reason why I can’t find another series to pay attention to on Netflix is the same reason why I don’t like going to the movies anymore. I’m spoiled rotten. It’s what’s wrong with all of us. Remember when you had to go to a picture show to see a film and you could only listen to shows in your own personal homes? Of course not. I don’t have to go anywhere to do anything. I have to many choices at my finger tips and the end result is that I literally do nothing.
Well not nothing always…sometimes I spend time on Facebook. That is another epic waste of my time. Often I get distracted from whatever it is that I’m supposed to be doing, and I read an article or two. When I say article what I really mean is a blog without any factual content that everyone is passing around like news. By the way, why don’t you guys share my blog like it’s news. We can share pictures of cats, but we can’t share my funny blog with other pessimists? Pretend like this is a picture of a cat if you’re a normal female. Pretend like it’s some random stuff that boasts about proving God doesn’t exist so that optimists can be just as unhappy as you are–well if you’re an annoying atheist. And if you’re a dude pretend like this blog is about sports or video games. The point is….share the blog. Here’s a picture of a super cute cat.
I got sidetracked while trying to make a point about facebook. That’s funny.
The same spoiled nature that makes it impossible for me to pick a movie is the reason why I am not finding the connections and communications from the men that I know thrilling. Well that and the fact that I like emotionally inadequate men with nothing to say unless they are jacked up.
In the days of our forefathers, romance was different. There was no internet. You couldn’t send a text to the person of your choosing whenever you wanted to express your boredom. You had to write a letter. When you sit down and take the time to write a letter, as a desk by candle light, I’m pretty sure you’re dedicated to communicate with that person. Not to mention that you would actually have to pay postage to talk to that person.
No one sent a letter saying things like “Sup?” Letters started with phrases like “my dearest Caroline.” And dates were important. People weren’t just hanging out. In some cultures you actually had to ask someone’s parents to be able to take them on a date with a chaperon. Old fashioned, but I bet that would eliminate all the dates that we go on today because we are bored.
Oh, and I bet when you went to the ball, or the fiesta, or the tribal drum jam that dudes actually knew how to dance. You had one shot to attract the girl of your dreams so that you had to communicate with her through costly correspondence. Guys were dressed well and competitive. Or they were along and trolling for brothels. I think if you’re sloppy and awful you should know that you need to pay for sex. Normal ladies should not have to tolerate your lack of dancing, writing and slovenly manners. Normal men shouldn’t either.
But now we have text messaging. We have an internet that provides us with instant gratification. We know through access to millions of pictures that we could always do better. We could always have more. This makes us never content with what we have or the love we could possess. Oddly enough, though we have the internet, we are not constantly looking for other pets…but somehow we are unsatisfied with people.
I bet if you thought that at any moment the love of your life could die from malaria or the black plague you’d stop dragging your feet. Maybe we’d have more to say to each other besides “Hey Girl, what’s up?”
Anyway, I’ve gotta get back to Netflix. It’s been an hour since I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy.
I have this serious weakness for Grey’s Anatomy. When I lost my job shortly before Christmas, I started watching from the first episode. I think I’m on Season 4 now, but I’m not sure.
I always like watching shows where I have no actual knowledge of what the work is, with the exception of House of Cards. There’s something about people doing things that I have trouble dreaming up that really interests me. This is also the reason why I watch cooking shows, but still can’t cook. I like food. It’s just the measuring, the patience, and following instructions that I have a problem with. In the same way, even though all of my friends ask me about medical advice for reasons I never understand, and even though I do have a knack for combining over the counter medicines so that I can attend crappy jobs where I’m undervalued and misused, I still know that I could never be any type of medical worker. I would probably even weep over insurance claims.
I like the interpersonal stories that are told in this giant soap opera about a hospital. Here in my little room it is finally safe to share all of my emotions. I cry when sad things happen, and I have the freedom to be genuinely shocked whenever something shocking happens. There is no sarcastic boyfriend or friend laughing and pointing and saying things like “Seriously? You didn’t see that coming?”
Of course I didn’t see something coming if I look surprised. Connect the flipping dots.
Here in my haven I am safe to have all of the feelings. I remember how growing up my grandmother was always so strict. She insisted on hiding emotions.The foundations of control were simple:
1.Sadness is weakness, You should never let anyone see you cry.
2. Appearance is everything. People will always thing you’re less because you’re black and a woman. You have to be twice as quick and three times as smart for anyone to take notice.
3. Never let a man know that you love him. (I’m not sure why she told me about the third principle, but it might be the reason why she never remarried and I’m having a terrible time dating)
Just kidding about the after math of Grandma’s third foundation of truth. I am 99 percent sure that I can’t form bonds with men because of my abandonment issues from my father.
When I fell down with her, it was imperative that I got back up on my own. No hugs. Just yelling. I am great at salvaging painful situations. I am excellent in a crisis for other people. I have little experience as a child with expressing any sort of emotion really.
I grew up super poor. We just didn’t have the extra money for emotions.
That last sentence was a joke, in case you’re wondering. In real life poor people are allowed to feel many things. Hunger. Being tired. Those feelings are completely free. Rich people don’t like seeing them though because it makes them feel icky, and in America they pay to avoid those feelings through taxes that really don’t hurt them financially.
As of late, I feel like my job has been part of a social clean up crew. I’ve been doing my best to be there for my friends. I don’t want to be depressed or sad. I’ve been so busy doing this that I couldn’t really process my panic about losing my job. Instead I tried to find someone to take care of me. I was unsuccessful in such a search.
I really seem to like emotionally stunted people. I can’t find anyone who I’m into that wants to listen to me complain and then hang out for all the food that I don’t know how to make. Sometimes I tell them they can complain, too. Some can’t wait their turn. Others are not sure what it is that I’m complaining about because with all of the drug use they have the comprehension of a third grader.
By dating Netflix, I’ve found a partner that really connects with my likes and dislikes. My computer stays with me through the night. It doesn’t care how much I weigh, and I don’t feel pressured to have sex with it.
We have a good relationship.
Drake mentions in several of his complex works of art that we call rap songs, that there are no awards for trying to take care of our people. I’m not really sure that people with lots of money deserve more trophies, but sometimes I’d like to know that I’ll eventually get a vacation. A spa day from worrying about my family unwinding into mad chaos. I was hoping my reward for caring about things so deeply would be that I got a partner who would give me all those hugs I was missing from childhood.
That’s all he’d have to do. Hug me and tell me I’m pretty.
And the coolest.
He also needs to smell great, be well educated. That’s it.
And have a sense of humor, and be slightly taller than I am.
Also, a work ethic would be nice.
I’d settle for the hugs though. Hugs are free and effortless.
So, there’s really no segue into racism. Let’s just make a sharp turn.
I’m thirty one years old, and I still don’t understand how someone could look at anyone I know and dislike them because of a color.
I was trying to explain to my five year old niece why it was that we didn’t see the sun all of the time. It’s such an easy explanation, but breaking things down so that she could digest it was so hard.
One of the only things I’m glad about in this world so far, is that I don’t have to tell my adorable niece, or adorable little ones of my own, that there are some people who are just going to hate you because of color.
I always understood how people cold not like me. I mean I wasn’t always aesthetically pleasing. As I get older I can add a laundry list of bad things to my tab of reasons why people might dislike me on face. I couldn’t see a reason for anyone wishing any type of ill on our little darling Arianna.
Recently a date asked me why I wasn’t like the rest of “my people”? I was offended, but I just let it roll off of my shoulders. The man is a moron.
The bottom line is that I wish I could go back in time and convince my younger self to start smoking pot. Then I could do things like waking and baking. I could probably forget some of the emotions that I was masking, and I’d have a whole community of renegades that would smoke with me whether they actually really liked me or not.
I’d have a refuge from racism and thinking too much
I could never get on that train.
So I’m going to get back to watching Grey’s Anatomy.
I’m also going to look for a man for mutual emotional support and free hugs.
I can never tell what it is that triggers these little fits of mine. It’s not always a love affair. Sometimes it’s a lack of one. It think what makes me the most depressed and helpless is the silence.
The room seems smaller, and somehow looking at my lack of possessions makes me ashamed of my existence. I’m not sure that it’s a coincidence that everyone seems to forget about me at the same time. Everyone just decides not to follow through with their tentative plans. I understand that everyone has a life, husbands and wives and fiances and children. I suppose that the honest truth is that in the times that I feel the lowest I realize that I have none of that, and my prospects of obtaining anything seem so minuscule.
There is no love in my life. I dislike my job. I dislike my tiny room.
On the upside, Americans spend hundreds of hours each year in their cars. I like my I can’t breathe and I have no energy. I start dreading going back to work hours in advance.
I can’t wait for someone to email me or send a text about logical steps to change one’s profession. Guess what, folks? I’m already doing all of those things. Nothing happens overnight.
I think what is getting at me the most lately, is that people like to talk to me about their problems, but they don’t realize that when I’m having issues that they aren’t available to me. Why should they be, they are already in other relationships and have issues of their own. But whatever it is my fellow friends and family finds to bitch about–a solution typically exists.
I’m working on a resume. I am losing weight. I try to wear make up when I can. I’ve prepared a budget.
When I go to sleep at night no one says “Goodnight.” Because no one is there. There’s no one next to me when I wake up in the morning.
And despite my dating history, I feel like no one has ever been there. I’ve never really been close to anyone I was dating. It’s like I was just passing the time and waiting for them to leave.
I’m never looking back on the past to things that I once possessed. I’m on the outside looking into a room that I’ve never been in, and I apparently don’t belong in.
I’m not the first lonely person to exist in America. My problems are non unique. More than likely I’ll have an alcohol binge at the end of the week and I won’t feel quite so lonely anymore.
It’s just that nagging knowledge that couples hang out with other couples. It’s a realization that people don’t want to include a sad lonely person in their gatherings. People with children typically don’t hang out with people who don’t have children.
And all the lonely people out there are floating around, punishing each other with the only tool of punishment that they have available–withdrawal and absence. We give love just to take it away. The only tool of power that we really have is the choice to disdain.
You can trick someone with smoke and mirrors, but at the end of the day each person chooses who they’d like to spend time with. You can’t punish people for not choosing you. You can push them away, but more than likely you just suffer in the cold, and you end up punishing yourself doubly because you’re actually not in control. I really hate being sad, almost more than I miss moments of being happy.
I’ll get another job.
I’ll lose more weight.
I’ll handle the details of my life.
I’ll meet someone else to date, inevitable.
I have no idea about how long it will be before I don’t feel incredibly lonely.
There is this awesome lady at work that told me that if I wanted to start to sleep at night again like a normal person that I needed to create a routine.
Here’s what I’ve got going so far.
I wake up in just enough time to get dressed and run out of the door.
I hop into my car. Sometimes I listen to music, and sometimes I just drive in silence. All of my thoughts are in overdrive. I have to think about something. I have to think about everything. Why? Because in twenty minutes I’m going to have to completely shut off my brain in order to survive the torture that is my job. It’s like taking the big breath before you go underwater, except for I get paid really poorly for it and it lasts for over eight hours.
Now once I get to work I have a cup of yogurt and then I start to think of things to do so that I don’t look at the clock on the computer. I just right into my work, because I have absolutely no control over anything that happens at my job.
The first couple of calls are a little mellow sometimes. Sometimes my first call is someone telling me to go he-double hockey sticks, or some douche that is calling me some other sort of name. It’s really okay though. My boyfriends almost never have pet names for me, so it’s actually interesting to have someone call me a name with some sort of emotion behind it.
I know some of the people reading this just felt bad for me…please don’t. Lots of people love me oodles…that was a failed joke and I’m just too lazy to edit.
So after I have my yogurt, I usually start in on whatever book I’m reading at the moment. The latest book that I was reading is the Awakening by Kate Chopin. How I feel about this book is a completely different issue, and I will definitely share my feelings in another blog.
I get a couple of breaks. I make tea. Sometimes I make small talk with some people who sit around me. It’s hard. There’s only one girl that doesn’t think I’m the weirdest person on the planet that sits near me. Everyone else is really far away.
At lunch time I usually start sending texts to all of my friends, as literally a cry for help. Some answer, some don’t. No matter what I can guarantee that the guy that I want to text me back is ignoring me. Typically I have tons of things to say, but since I’ve literally had my personality on hold for about five hours at this point, I have nothing relevant to say. I stop sending dumb ass texts to everyone. Lunch time is now over.
The last half of work, it just me totally trying to zone out until I leave. The worst part about it is that I’m peddling crap that I totally don’t believe in. Hello! Would you also like to purchase the smelliest cheese on the face of the planet that you would not like? No? Great, My salary totally depends on that.
After work I try to call one of my friends. There are only like 5 people that will answer. The good news is that I’m completely entertaining. Unfortunately talking to anyone about anything with substance I am like a small puppy that has been in a kennel for weeks whose owner just got home. I’m surprised that I don’t bark. On the way home I have a zillion thoughts. I think about my weekend, and my friends.
Sometimes I think about traffic.
I get home, I make dinner. Usually eggs and toast. Then I have a sweet potato.
Then I turn on the TV and watch socially awkward comedies. They are my favorite. Sometimes I do a little writing.
Do you know what I don’t have worked into my routine? Sleeping at night. Damn it. I misunderstood the assignment of creating a routine for sleeping.
Since I’ve totally failed at my mission and assignment, I’ve made some resolutions.
I’m going to try very hard to knock a couple of things off of my bucket list.
First off I’m going to dedicate more of my free time to my writing. Music and otherwise.
Second, until I cross at least one thing off of my bucket list I’m not going to be distracted by any man. I need to spend time firing up the passion in my own life. I can’t always run from it. Music and writing are my passions. I have to commit.
I’m going to continue to try to eat healthy and keep up with my physical appearance. I’m always in the doldrums but it’s important for me not to look like a homeless person that doesn’t know what a comb is.
I’m also going to try to only give effort into the friendships where I feel like we’re equal folks. I’m only going to go out under the best conditions, I’m not going to try to force anything.
I’m also going to try harder to do things that make me happy. People I know may say that I’m the most selfish ever, but I’m not. Even if I am, I’m unsuccessfully selfish.
I’d like to learn to swing dance. I would like to leave the country. I’d like a mani pedi. I would like to read more. I would like to start exercising in a way that is manageable for me. Unique programming for a unique person. I’d like to sing somewhere else besides karaoke.
I want to make the best of the time that I have. There are so many signs letting me know that each day is a gift. Even those eight hours of agony are a part of a gift.
I had a fantastic weekend. Last weekend was awesome. I know from my last post it probably didn’t seem like I’d had something fantastic happen as a precedent, but I take the good with the bad–and sometimes the good parts make me sound like a crazy pants lunatic, so I try not to harp on the good stuff. Terrible logic. I know it.
I firmly believe in balance. How does one deal with her fears of opposite sex rejection? By overcoming other non related fears. I wanted to write about this because it was something that I knew was absolutely silly, but I couldn’t quite get over.
I’m thirty years old, and before today I’d never been seen by a gynecologist.
I made the appointment in a last minute effort to make a day off necessary. Yes. I would rather have a stranger poke around in my innards than spend the day at my job at this point.
I thought about cancelling twice, and by the time I got to the office I was nervous. My original blood pressure was through the roof. I kept telling myself that I was thirty years old and that I should not be so jittery. I realized that most people don’t have legitimate fears. Fear is a limitation of a mental variety, and so I’d just have to suck it up.
After my blood pressure came down a bit, we did something else that I didn’t like. I got on a scale. Though I don’t know when to stop reading garbage on Facebook, I was totally aware that reading the scale would ruin my day. The nurse laughed at me. I politely asked her to not let me see the number. She seemed to understand how I felt even though she was 5’5″ latino woman who couldn’t weigh more than a buck ten. Why do we have this connection as women, I wondered. She had nothing to worry about, unlike the 300 pound black woman who was in her care.
She asked me about my sexual history. It was odd to answer those questions out loud to a stranger. She asked when I got my first period, and when the first time I’d had intercourse was. When I answer the second question she paused a bit and asked again quite calmly. Yes, I was 24. No, I’m not making it up. No, I was not taking it up the back door for the sake of Catholicism. Besides the fact that I do everything super late and I’m terrified of simple tasks that people complete on an annual basis.
The next step was undressing and putting on some sort of paper gown thing. The doctor came in and introduced herself by her first name. She was kind and soft spoken. She asked how my last exam had been. I couldn’t explain to her that the last person who poked around said everything looked fine but he was not a medical professional. Actually he didn’t say things looked alright–He was much more enthusiastic, in fact. I explained that I had not been before instead of replying with awkward comedic outbursts.
Seeing a gyno for the first time is like having bad awkward sex. You don’t know what they are looking for or really what their end goal might be. You don’t know how long it is going to last, but you hope the are finished soon. There is a lot of poking, and you’re not sure whether or not someone is trying to split you in half. Guys are always trying to stretch women out–Well guys who suck at sex.
When it was over I breathed a sigh of relief. The doctor said that everything seemed fine and asked if I wanted all the tests.
Of course I wanted all the tests! I don’t wanna go out with Nietzsche with syphilis and a horse kick to the head, do I?
I got dressed quickly, because I’m puritan and I hate nudity. Hours later I found out that I’d put my underwear on backwards.
Oh, so fear number two–I hate the idea of having my blood taken. I don’t donate blood because I’m contaminated by mad cow disease.
Actually I was in Europe in the 80’s so just in case banks prefer that I not donate. I think having mad cow disease sounds way more interesting.
So the originally nurse comes back in, and I told her that I was squeamish. She asked another nurse to come in to contain me. You know, just incase I fucking hulked out.
Despite the fact that I have hard veins according to the nurse, she managed to take a sample after some minor bruising.
2 fears, one day.
Now, I need to figure out how to talk to guys I like.