get in my pants ›

So I had to go to the box doc today because they like to check once a year or so to make sure my box is still hollow and has not fallen out or something. I don't know. But it's something all women have to go through, so apparently, there was a period of time that boxes were just falling the fuck out or something. Pussies everywhere. Oh wait--that's just my dating history. So anyway. Yeah. It's not the most fun thing, and frankly, I'm not gonna tell you men to shield your eyes because you should know what we have to go through to prove our boxes are hollow so you can shove your dumb sticks up in 'em and go "oooh."

So they put me on the scale first off, and I step up backwards because I don't want to see the neon sign blink "FATTY FATASS" over my head and I very nearly fell off the damn thing because I am so graceful. Luckily, I have a funny nurse type person who laughs when I say "just write fatty fatass instead of a number--she'll get the point." And we go into a room and she asks why I'm here and I say "to make sure my box is still in proper working condition" but not really and I say "annual" and she says we have to go to the room next door. Apparently, the room I was in didn't have the table with the goodie drawer. You know what? I LIKE THE NON-GOODIE DRAWER HAVIN' TABLE, THANKYOUVERYMUCH. So we go next door into that room and it's fucking 10 degrees colder. I'm like, "Dude, why is it colder in the room I have to get naked in?! What the hell? Can I have a nice afghan? Do I have to really just rely on this extra large sheet of Brawney to keep me warm?" She goes to take my blood pressure, but apparently, a child of 4 was in there having her box checked on the goodie table or something because the pressure cuff was a child's cuff and so tiny it was weird. So she says, " I have to get the bigger cuff" and I whisper back, "Fatty fatass" and she laughs and by now, I'm sure everyone in the clinic thinks I'm on crack instead of about to show my crack because she's laughing, and I'm laughing a lot for a girl who's about to have intimate knowledge with an oversized mascara wand. But my blood pressure was low and she was cute and said, "That's the first sign of not being a Fatty Fatass." I didn't realise she was blind like America's Next Top Model Blind Can't See Legally Blind She Can't See Can't You See No She Can't! (Her scrubs said "Allison" but dude, maybe she picked up the wrong pair--blind and all.)

She gives me a questionaire and tells me to get naked and the doctor will come in. (I love my doctor.) So ba nuh nuh nuh nuh tch tch. I get naked and put on the weirdo gown which isn't really anything but some ugly tent that opens in front anyway and serves no purpose and I put the Brawny Extra Brawn over my lap like a good girl and start answering the questions. Cancer, no. Heart problems, no. Tourettes--maybe. Drink: definitely. On the smoking question, they didn't have a "rarely" option. It was NO I AM NOT A SMOKER HOW HORRID AND GROSS COUGH COUGH or YES, I AM A SMOKER AND DON'T DENY ME THE RIGHT TO SUCK ON THE DEATH STICK MOFO. I like an occasional death stick. So I made my own box and checked it. Boxes are the theme of the day, you see.

And then there are two questions at the bottom: How many sexual partners have you had in the last year? Fair enough--that's an easy one and I answer it because I'm not ashamed of it (well, not of the numerical quality anyway--but the actual sex itself, that was a damn shame, dude). And then the next question is: How many sexual partners have you had in your lifetime? Now. Why I gotta answer that? I mean, I did, but I hesitated. I wanted to write "I went to a party school, dude." But I didn't.

So Box Doc comes in and we do the general chitchat, I'm not peeing green, have I grown any extra parts--no, yar yar yar. So I bring up the subject of the partner question. Told her I didn't like that last one. She said she has women who get livid at that question and refuse to answer it. She made sure to tell me they were 50 year old women for some reason. She said she wanted to put a box there that said "optional" because she apparently knew that "box" is the theme of the day. So I laughed and said--actually said: "I had a lot of fun in college, man!" And apparently, the Box Doc office turns me into a total fucking moron, because in addition to that piece of brilliance, I actually said out loud:

"Oops, the sheet fell and I'm flashing you. And I have no idea why I'm concerned about that."

"Nope, no lumps. Same big old titties as always."

"Why a mascara wand anyway? Why not an eyeshadow thing?"

"Sorry about the jumpiness. I haven't had anyone down there in a while."

That last one is my favourite. Jesus McFuck.

After the poking and prodding, which sadly is the most action I've had in a while, they sent me over to the blood lab to make sure I still have blood instead of cold black oil pumping through my veins. After the last few weeks, I was surprised that it wasn't the latter. But I got Marty McNewGuy there to do my blood thing and he actually asked me which arm and which vein they usually take it from. I've got big veins in my arms that cheer POKE ME POKE ME POKE ME (wonder where they learned that?) and are primely located in the crooks of my elbows, where most of the best pokemon veins are. He was slapping the shit out of my arm, trying to make the vein Macy's Day Parade size or some shit, and then put the rubber band around my arm and started to go for it. IN MY FUCKING FOREARM. Three inches below the poke me place! (Typical. Fucking typical.) And he actually tells me it's going to hurt. Which it does because he MISSED THE VEIN and decided to keep the needle in and play submarine instead and try to catch it by moving the needle that was pointing to the left part of my arm ALL THE WAY TO THE RIGHT like it was a fucking laugh-o-meter! I'm laughing, dude. Really. Because I'm about to kick you in the NUTS! He withdraws the blood and takes the needle out and I notice that my arm already has bruised and it looks like the vein is spurting blood all the fuck over the place inside my arm and oh, isn't that nice, now I look like smackheid Spud with trainspotting trackmarks. This'll prove I'm hardcore. Except. "Water. Or I'll vomit all over you." I went sweaty hot, the room closed in, and I was thisclose to projectile vomiting instant chai tea all over this mofo. Which I wish I would have. So I sat there for a while, trying to not vomit, drinknig water from a cup that says right on it: THIS IS WHAT WE USE TO GIVE PEOPLE BARIUM and now I'm trying not to vomit and thinking of people with glow in the dark assholes and I just really hate this day.

And the other chick in the office, who grunted when I said hi to her? Her name on her jacket: Lacharmer. La Fucking Charm Fucking Er. Oh, what the FUCK? She was not charming, La or not, and her jacket should have read LaSniffingOnionsFaceGruntGirl but that was probably too long to fit into that rectangle.

So to sum up: my box is still hollow, but now I've got the fucking Tivoli Fountain going on in my arm because I think Marty McSadist ripped my vein into 90 pieces, the fuck and now I'm going to die. And the last thing I had anywhere near my cunt that involved another person was a goddamn 10 foot mascara wand and metal duck lips.

I HATE TODAY!
‹ out, damn spot!