Waterproof Make Up is Overrated

Folks, waterproof make up is overrated. This past week has put it to the test, and it failed miserably. Alright, now I’ll fess up with how I know this.

Last year was very up and down for me, I had my good days, I had my bad days and towards the end of the year most of my days were good days. So good they were wonderful. I was branching out with different career opportunities, I wasn’t partying nearly as much, Barrie and I were meeting lots of canine friends, and my ‘not’ relationship was finding itself again.

But I don’t know what happened. It was like 2017 smacked the side of my head and said hey there little lady….new year, same you, you sad sack of shit…. (Insert sad/annoyed emoji). Since January, I’ve been nothing but overthinking, and feeling. And ya’ll know I strongly dislike the idea of feeling, having feelings, caring for things etc. And overthinking brings on anxiety, and anxiety brings on thoughts that may or may not be true, which brings on more anxiety because I don’t know whether they are or not, which brings on sadness and utter defeat. I lose.

I’m not keeping track but I’ve probably cried at least 3 to 4 times a day, everyday since the new year. In the morning I cry, on my way to work I cry (sometimes at work I cry), my drive from work I cry and in bed I cry. I cry, I cry, I cry, like a big baby. I can’t control it. I’ve cried so much I am surprised my tear ducts haven’t dried up. Part of me thinks all this waterworks stuff has to do with me not crying or even having actual feelings for years and years. I was ‘dead’ inside then, now I am alive and it is so not worth it. Not even in the least bit.

I don’t want to be awake. Mostly I don’t want to be awake when I am alone. It’s a sad place to be. Don’t be alarmed, this is not to say I don’t want to exist, but I would rather be sleeping, just get lost in some sort of Slumberland, where I am not a depressed individual. Instead, I am Cait The Lovely! Who rides a unicorn and has a cotton candy bed!!! Unfortunately reality doesn’t allow for such pleasures.

sadpandaLately I have been leaving my house early for work. Sometimes 2 to 3 hours before work. I leave early because I don’t want to be home. I then find a place to grab a coffee, which I may or may not drink, and I drive around. Driving used to make me feel better. In some truth it still does. But I cry folks, I cry and cry and cry and before I know it I look like a panda. Mascara and eyeliner down my face, perhaps I look more like a sad mime, a disgruntled Beetlejuice, Morticia Addams, one of the Kardashians. Fuck, I don’t know, what ever I look like, well I am sure there is a meme out there somewhere for it.

I’m losing myself friends, I’m drowning in tears that are surely falling for ridiculous reasons. I’m lost in all this sappy and mushy shit. Emotions are exhausting, feelings are suffocating, and when they are placed inside my used-to-be hollow self… … …well, maybe I just shouldn’t wear make up anymore.

A Love Letter

Hello There,

I am writing a letter to you my love, and yes I know some may consider letters as rather passe, but for what ever the reason, writing is the only way I feel I am able to communicate, fully and completely so. This being said, I’ll start once again.

Hello There,

I am writing this letter to you, to allow you to see me as who I am. To understand where I come from, to see how deeply I feel for you, and in all essence, this letter is me giving you my heart.And you are right, I am not one for all this sappy shit, but today is an exception. Especially, since being hungover, depressed and lonely, makes all the more welcoming of sappy sad sacks of facts of …me.

I love you. You know this. I love you so much so, that I think about you constantly. I wake up and you are my first thought (Side Note: I don’t process thoughts or think until I am sitting on my porcelain throne taking my morning shit). I always want to call you, but rarely do. This is so because I don’t have anything to say, just having you on the other line, present in some sort of moment with me, is all I need. Obviously only crazy, people would seriously call for this reason right? That being said, Hey there stranger, if you ever want to just be on the phone with me just to be, HOLLAR! Fortunately for me, you are always the first one to call, just to tell a story. Which is perfect because I always have so little to say and I like stories.

It’s weird for me. I love you, and you are said to be in love with me. But I am afraid to show affection towards you. I think this is because we did show affection quite early on and although it may have repulsed others by us making out like two young hormonal twats, I loved every minute of it. I feel as though that perhaps I embarrass you if I try to show a little PDA. And maybe so because we are not a couple. You are my not boyfriend and I am your not girlfriend and together we are not a couple that do not couple-ly things.

I remember we would drive around, I would have my hand on your leg or in your hand, and you would hold it or caress it. Sure, it’s something small, but this something small, is hard for me to now. I worry that it won’t be reciprocated.

I have never felt jealousy until I met you. This of course is not counting the time, one of my siblings got a PS3 for Christmas and I was left with a leg lamp (legit, true story). Now let me explain this a little more. I am not the jealous type. The only time I am jelly is when it’s  spread on a peanut butter sandwich (mmmmmm….peanut butter). In the beginning of our liaisons I wasn’t jealous at all. I simply couldn’t be. We were both playing the same game, we both were eating our cake, it was all good. Now it’s different. I think is comes from us being not boyfriend and not girlfriend, it makes me want to hold on to you even more. It makes me paranoid, it makes me sad, because although I don’t ever wish to have ownership over a human being, not really being your girlfriend, well….there is no comfort in that. I met you at time when you had a not girlfriendThis is where I think the jelly creeps in..

I had a really nice time with you the other night. We stayed up way too late, popped some fun stuff, drank, conversed and played video games. It was awesome. It was probably the one time in the last little while that I could see you were enjoying my company and I wasn’t a burden to you. It even ended with sexy time that I didn’t even have to initiate. (#nailedit.)

I love you, you know this. It is extremely hard for me to love you so and just be your friend. I wasn’t ready for a relationship for a very long time, but with you, I love you. Why couldn’t we give it a go so to speak? Everyone always bitches and moans about putting a label on something. I get it, I do. But something like this, why not? Can’t I just be yours and you mine?

When you first told me you loved me, I was sad. Sad because I couldn’t help but be fearful that it wouldn’t last. Sad because I loved you too and for whatever reason I always seem to fuck everything good up. Truly, everything good I have or had just goes to shit. You are part of my good, I don’t want to lose that too.

Yes, I over think things. You know this And perhaps a good portion of this love letter is just over thinking. But I can’t help but feel so deeply, and love so madly that for something to not come of it is…it’s okay. But I simply don’t want to be around it because I hurt. As much as I love you, being around you makes it more painful, because although you are right in front of me, I’ve already lost you.

Alas, my not boyfriend. I would like to say I couldn’t tell you this in person because I have lost the words, but clearly I have more than a few words.

I do love you. You are wonderful.

Love Always,

Cait.

Swipe Left

Alright, folks. I must, MUST tell you all about a date I had recently. As you guys know by now I am single and although I am not quite ready to fla-mingle and get into another relationship, I’ve been hitting up the dating scene. I mean fuck, why not….free dinner, free movie….right?

Now, I am not really one for dates. Perhaps it has to do with never really going on one. My last relationship lasted eight years, and I can’t even remember us going on a date ever. Any who, so ya dating scene, is so not mine, but hey, it’s 2016, gotta stretch out a bit and try new things.

Lets get to the story now.

So I knew this guy, lets call him Bruce. Now, that is so not his name at all, but I always thought he looks like a Bruce. I always pictured Bruce’s as big burly men, slightly toned, but not enough to be a juice head. Bruces should be tall, polite, and mysterious. They generally have big foreheads, short brunette hair and only wears glasses to read.

So Bruce and I have known each other for years. In fact, he was one of the first people I met when I moved out here back in ’05. We went to the same university, and for the first two years in school we were involved in each other’s social circle. Eventually, he left to do a field study across the world. We kept in touch through emails, Facebook and even writing letters. (YASSS, it’s true, I still write letters.) 

When he came back a year later, we didn’t really see too much of each other. We had different majors, I made new friends, and he made new friends. We just drifted apart.Don’t worry friends, it’s not a sad drift. We just didn’t really have much in common anymore.

So flash forward to 2016.

I was getting fitted for a costume for this ‘Masquerade’ scene for a terrible, terrible movie. (Hint: 50 shades of terrible). While the designer was sewing me into a gigantic gown, I noticed a Bruce size man across from me. He was being attended by another lady. This Bruce size man, was wearing a mask and a tuxedo. (OH so mysteri-o-so). Not going to lie, I was slightly turned on.

To my surprise this Bruce size man was having the time of his life. He was smiling, chatting up the costume fitter and then he started to sing. Wait for it……When the moon…..is in the southern sky….and Jupiter aligns with Mars……

I couldn’t help but have a laugh. Just a little. So as he is singing, and as I am watching this Bruce size man do so, I belt out…. Age of Aquarius! Hey, can you blame me. This lady had been sewing me into this gown for what felt like hours, and this Bruce size man was my only form of entertainment. On top of that, I wanted to bang him.

He looked up at me. He smiled. Looked down. Then back up. Then back down. And did this rrepeatedly for a time. What a fucking wierdo…..Then he looks back up one more time….and…..Caitlin Ann! It is you? What the fuck is this man going on about. Of course it’s me, it’s been me since ’87. But who the fuck is this dude? Caitlin Ann, it’s me, Bruce. SFU? Resident buddies? Book club? HOLY FUCKBALLS! Took me a second to realize it was him. It’s the mask, man. Sorry it’s been too long my friend. {Side note: I never belonged to the book club officially, I just went for the food.}

Now I am all for conversation. I am also all for shooting the shit with strangers. But I am also for this lady to stop sewing me in this gown, and for this semi- awkward conversation to be over.Luckily it was. His fitting was done. FUCK MY LIFE! Now, I’m going to be on set with this fucker…Let me just clarify some things here. He’s a nice guy, I like him, but I wasn’t looking forward to making up small talk with an old friend. On top of that, my want to tap his ass, lasted a span of seconds and I was over it.

So yadadada…yadada….get on set…..shit happens…..yadada yadada….asks me on a date…..yada yada yadada….

Flash forward to the date.

Havanas on Commercial (Already, Bruce is getting points.) I LOVE HAVANAS. However, he loses points when I have to meet him there, because he still rides a bicycle.(Yay, for being environmentally friendly, but nay for being a pain in the ass for pedestrians and drivers everywhere).

So I arrived late, which is incredibly unlike me. I am usually the first bitch on the scene, but I wanted Bruce to know, that I have changed. That I am now, a woman, no longer a girl. No longer, Caitlin Ann but, Cait. 

Hes there already. Of course he is.

He greets me. Now, I’ve should have known it in this moment that this wasn’t going to be worthwhile. He walks over, arms wide open, gives me a hug and… wet willies my ear. MY FUCKING EAR. DUH FUCK?! I haven’t been wet willied since Full House fucking ended. I seriously felt violated. On top of his gross nasty ass fingers, being inside my ear, I haven’t cleaned my ears in months. Ugh…..

Moving on.

We get a table. He pulls out a chair as though it is for me and then proceeds to sit on the chair himself. He then laughs. DUH FUCK? Is this kid playing with me. Who the fuck are you? We are damn near thirty and so far you finger banged my ear, and teased me with a chair. So I quickly order myself a scotch (two of them, both doubles). 

So we for the most part we were just catching up. But he was constantly interrupting everything I was saying. LIKE EVERYTHING. I’m all for two sided conversations, ya know. I don’t want to hear my voice all the time, but I also don’t want to hear someone else’s cutting me off. At some point the conversation was becoming one sided. In fact, Bruce compiled all his stories of the last 9 years, we haven’t seen each other. Get this, Bruce pulls out a fucking piece of paper, that had a list of what he wanted to cover. NO JOKE! He opened it up and went down the list. I heard everything, from his time in Austrailia, his threesome in New Orleans, his Masters Degree, the time he stole a gerbil from a pet store and sold it too his coke dealer, toilet papering his ex’s house, the new book club he’s the Chairman of, his Halloween costume of every year since and the list goes on and on and fucking on…..Friends, this was so exhausting. I tried not to listen, but killing kittens would have been easier.

Alas, now we are eating. Maybe with food in his mouth, I can enjoy my meal. Nope! Not even close. He talked about where he is now in his life. How much money he has, all the people he knows, where he lives now…So I ordered myself a couple more scotches (singles this time, I have to drive after all).

By the time the bill came, Mr.Money Bags, has forgotten his wallet. (Mic Drop). I was actually shocked. I grab the bill and just as I am about to grab my card, he orders himself another beer. As much as I wanted to bounce ASAP I wasn’t going to stiff the server. I paid.

Ladies and gentlemen! PRIZE FOR THE DOUCHIEST OF DOUCHE BAGS, GOES TO THIS FUCKWAD RIGHT HERE!

So bills paid, we walk out together, asks me to come over. I decline. I let him know it was ‘interesting’ catching up and I wished him all best and B lined for my car.

How the fuck did I think going on a date with this lad would be fun?I mean we drifted apart years ago, why would I even entertain rekindling an old friendship. Honestly, what the fuck was I thinking. Not a great date. Not by any means.

Definitely swipe left for this fuck, GEEZE!

 

Twice the taste, No Calories

Alrighty friendlies, I’ve been feeling a little deep lately. I know, I know, it’s very unlike me to get all emo and shit, but can you blame, I am a woman nearing her 30’s, with ovaries that cry once  a month. Seriously, if it were up to me I would rather have no feelings and punch my ovaries in the fucking face, but alas, I shall not.

This year, I have been slowly unraveling into one of two things: 1) A Crazy Person 2) An Open Book. Fuck, perhaps both man. I mean for one, my whole family is crazy so it is about time the cray cray bug bites me, and well, I have always been someone who is quite open, but very careful will what I choose to share with others.

So today, I will share a couple things that have been floating around in this big head of mine.

***

In highschool (fuck 11 years ago now?) I was a little more roly poly. In my family I was the ‘fat one’. I would be hounded by my siblings with fat jokes. Now here is the thing, I wasn’t by any means overweight. I was thick sure, but I played tons of sports and was a dancer.

In grade 9, I decided that the only time I’ll eat food was right after school and right after dance class (which usually ended around 10pm). I never, ate breakfast, as it always made me sick in the wee hours of the morning.This practice of mine was painful. I would be starving all through school, and as soon I was home I would eat, and eat and eat, as much as humanly possible and then head to ballet class. Now, to put this in perspective, school started around 8:45, ended around 3pm and my dance classes would start at around 4:15. So stupid Caitlin, would be cramming in any fucking thing she could in the span of 1 hour; Chips, sandwiches, KD, fruit, you name it!

I would go off to class, in a very tight body suite for 4 sometimes 5 hours, with all the shit I just ate swishing around in my stomach. SO.NOT.IDEAL.

Now, at this age I was also turning from a child into a semi-decent-older child. I began having curvy hips, my boobs were blossoming into an uncomfortable C Cup (C is for Caitlin), and stretch marks started to line my thighs and ass. Now, maybe for most females at this time, having titties and hips is exciting. The boys will finally come flocking wanting to catch a  nip slip, or slide in for a finger bang. But for me, a girl who wants to be a ballerina, this was unacceptable.

I already came to terms knowing my body type was not that of an ideal ballerina. I had thick,stocky legs, but I knew they were strong and I could fly off the floor with them, I had small feet, but they were able to endure pain like no other {Side note: I once danced a show with a nail completely stuck in my heel without realizing until the performance was over. #thuglife?}. I wasn’t very tall, but I could lift my legs hire and jump hire than my other fellow ballerinas. I was faced knowing I probably won’t make it as a ballerina based on my body, but if the companies saw passed this and looked at my skill, my technique, then maybe I could. Maybe, just maybe.

In order for me to speed up this process of possibly making it into a company. I decided that all the binge-eating I was doing, was not productive for my life goals, and so to balance it out I discovered……..wait…..for….it……the two-finger diet. (Ahem-bulimia).bulimia

Now, I didn’t start doing this until the last few years or so of high school. But I would go home eat like a fucking piglet, head to the studio, use the washroom to throw all the shit I just ate up and head to class.

Some of the other girls I think knew, but we were all in the same boat. We hated our bodies.

Towards graduation, I stopped. Like turning a light switch on and off. I applied to few universities. The one dance school I applied to I was denied. I wasn’t going to be a dancer. I was angry, I was sad, I was let face it PISSED RIGHT THE FUCK OFF. I couldn’t understand, I knew my body wasn’t that of a ballerina, but I tried to make it so it was. My technique was damn near flawless, my turn out was outstanding, my feet could take me across the floor like no other dancer. My references, were from well-known choreographers and prima ballerina’s. Now, yes I know this seems like I am building myself up way too much, but fuck I was straight up awesome what can I say?

In the letter I received. They regretted to inform me that I was not accepted into the School Of Which Will Not Be Named. They then followed with and now I don’t remember word for word, but it was something along the lines of: What makes a dancer, is not her arabesque. it is not her perfect turn out, nor her feet, but it is her passion. That was my problem, I was so concentrated on trying to make my body perfect, that I completely lost my passion. My eyes were dead in dance, the emotion I tried to convey in dances was forced and noticeably so.

So I stopped. I stopped dancing, I stopped throwing up, I stopped stuffing my face. I was accepted into SFU for Performance Theatre, moved out to BC at the age of 17 and pursued another path.

Now, being a freshman in university I certainly gained weight. I partied every weekend, I was eating unhealthy food, I was an insomniac, I drank coffee until the last drop, I was completely an utterly unhealthy in every possible way. You would have never guess I was a dancer, until I started to move and dance.

I would come home during the summers from university and would be a little bit bigger. I knew my family noticed, not everyone said something, but facial expressions say a lot. I hated myself all over again. However, I didn’t feel the urge to go back into old habits.

At some point during my years in university, I met someone and fell in love. L.O.V.E. Now, being still a young, stupid girl still in the party scene, and when you are working with a bunch of actors shit just gets weird. I made a mistake. We almost broke up. He wouldn’t talk to me for a couple weeks, and although we were ‘working on it’ I felt like I was loosing him. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t even drink. In the span of 2 weeks I went from 145-130, then from there on down to 112.

Went home for the summer to visit the family, and they noticed, not everyone said something, but facial expressions say a lot. My mom noticed right away. I in fact didn’t even realized how much weight I lost until people started making comments. And now looking at older photos, I definitely was skinny as fuck. AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT! My body resembled that of a boy scout or slender man. So not sexy at all.

(Funny how when you gain a little chub chub or lose a lot of weight people will always say rude shit)

When I returned to University (I believe it was my final year), my perspective of people and their bodies changed. Even, the most skinniest of people I saw flaws in their bodies. I didn’t want gain any weight ever again.

So fast forward to now, I am not as skinny as I was then, I am more what I would like to describe as an average thickness. I workout regularly. I eat somewhat healthy. But even now and then that trick I did back in high school creeps up. Sometimes, I get so down about it I won’t even eat in a day, the only thing I seem to binge are laxatives and fucking strangers.

dumb_dumber-e1370035901294What do I have to thank for it? Well, my teeth aren’t as white or as healthy as they could be. That’s from throwing up disgusting acid shit. I have a lot of intestinal issues. I can eat something and it goes through me quite quickly, and sometimes if it doesn’t HELLO LAXATIVES! I also have issues with my ovaries. And it’s not because I punched them in the fucking face. You see, because of my old habit, I have developed cysts on my ovaries, that come and go. Usually, being on birth control keeps them in check, but they are not nice to have. I can sometimes get intense pains, which usually means they have ruptured or just headbanging in my nether regions.GErQCzV

Also another lovely side effect of my old stupid tricks, is the possibility of having children is slim to non. Usually, pregnancy would result in miscarriage or an ectopic pregnancy which is usually resulted into a miscarriage anyways.

So I am at a stage in my life, where I am rather indifferent to the fact. I enjoy being the crazy auntie from out west that spoils all her nieces and nephews.

I am okay with the decisions I have made in my past. I am content with moving forward. And I am still a work in process when old shady habits start creeping up on me.

But hey, every one goes through stuff. And maybe I feel the urge to devulge all this shit because I’m riding the crimson wave right now. but hey I am a bit cray cray, and thought I would share just one chapter of my open book.

Times Are Tough

So here is a little secret friends, or perhaps it’s not a secret but something that has always been spitting up lately. I am going through another tough time, and yet my tough time is nothing compared to the issues that go on in third world countries, it is not as devastating as the fire’s in Fort McMurray, I am not homeless, nor poor, I am (for the most part) in good health, have great friends, and I am not nearly as traumatized as others with the whole HODOR/HOLD THE DOOR phenomenon.

My problem friends, is as social as I can be, I crave my alone time. As happy as I may seem I am very sad. Some days I wake up and just want to go back to sleep, some days I wake up and I am the happiest I can be and sometimes I just want to end it all. I loathe waking up because I’ll never know how I’ll feel. The feelings I like, are ‘notfeelings’, numbness, indifference etc, etc.

I have not been clinically diagnosed with ‘Depression’. In fact, I’ve avoided going to the docs just for this reason. I hate talking to people, I hate showing weakness, I hate crying, and I hate to admit that I am really just a sad, sad sac of shit, stewing in absolute and utter sadness {howmanytimescaniusesadinasentence}. I don’t want to be labelled, I don’t want to be judged, I just want to either be or to either not.

***

Beginning of this year, I received a letter from seventeen year old Caitlin. (True story). The letter said something along the lines of: If you are not rich and famous now YOU ARE A LOSER! You are probably serving tables and being a wait….for….it…..LOSER! Then it was followed by some cheesy song lyrics of a song I don’t even remember. Fack!! I was/am such a bitch to myself. Seriously, who writes a fucking letter to them self only to tear them down! Uncool seventeen year old Caitlin, uncool. Now, the kicker in all this is: I AM WAITING FUCKING TABLES!!!!! I work five nights a week serving!!!! Would you like another beverage,sir? How is the food tasting? Oh, you didn’t enjoy your food and when I went to do a quality check you said everything was tasting okay and now you don’t want to FUCKING TIP!? Another beer, coming right up, or how about a tall glass of SHUT THE FUCK UP AND FUCK OFF! My smile is wearing thing fuckers!!! Now, having said all that, I enjoy my job. It also allows me  the opportunities to work in shitty low budget films and cheap modelling gigs, but hey every little step counts towards something, right?

***

One thing I pride myself on is that I am able to crack wise about myself. I make ‘two-finger diet’ jokes about my history and somewhat present love affair with bulimia, I joke about the days I am driving to work crying my eyes out, I joke about miscarriages and abortions and not being able to have kids. This is what I do, I make jokes. But sometimes it’s hard to have only myself as a scapegoat.

***

So lets get back to the start.

Last year was a rough year for me. Now, I won’t go into too much detail there, but in short, some shit happened, I was sad, I had anxiety, Doc prescribed me a mixture of potions and pills and off I was into the Netherworld. Summer full of nothing, but rainbows, unicorns and David Bowie’s Goblin King’s bulge.1200

At some point, the rainbows and unicorns disappeared and Bowie’s bulge started to resemble Danny DiVito. I realized, fuck this Cait, you are a big girl, pussy up and do this on your own. No drugs.

So in the fall, I went off completely against Docs orders. (I know, I am such a rebel).

It sucked at first, but day by day, I was slowly finding myself.  I socialized more often, I went to the gym (sometimes seven days a week), I made an effort to be a real person. It was actually quite exciting. It’s like when you first masturbate or ‘discover yourself’, you just want to keep doing it over and over and over and over and over….

Sure, I had bad days, but I would cope with walking my dog or watching my daily dosage of Dr.Phil. I found things to do,to occupy myself.

So…..

At some point this year, my progress into becoming a real person again, was retrograding.

  • I was/am drinking quite often (a girl with three years of sobriety),
  • Hated/hate being at home, so usually a drive or a stop at the pub was my go to,
  • The should’ves, would’ves, could’ves started creeping back into my life,
  • My family back home seemed like they were/are growing without me,
  • I am working 24/7,
  • I am homesick
  • I am lonely
  • I am falling back into a sad, sad, place and all I want to see are rainbows and unicorns and David Bowie’s bulge all over again!

New prescription-complete.

Diagnosis-self-diagnosis.

Anywho, there is more I care to say, but this medication are making the little gnomes on my computer angry and I am pretty sure my titties are lactating….whattheactualfuck!

funny-side-effects-to-medication

4 Pills later and….

It’s been awhile friends (and yes I know this is usually how I begin all my blogs, mostly because I feel mildly inspired or because the rail I just did is kicking in). [It’s okay though, I am only an occasional user.]

ANYWAYS… I am here to tell you guys about my glorious trip to The Doctors. And no I am not talking about the sexy phony’s in white coats and scrubs on daytime TV, and no I am not talking about a previous stint of marathon-ing General Hospital either. (Now, why I spent all day watching a day time soap is for another story, but I will tell you it involved Paxil/Viagara/Zoloft and a doob the size of  a super tampon. #notwinningever)

So bright and early on some morning of this week, I am up, UP and at ‘em (such a go getter). Well, now that it’s been roughly a year or so since I have been single I figured I should start being a responsible adult and go to the docs and get the good ol’ Pappy Pap and make sure all my ladies bits are calm, cool, and collected. I can only presume there is nothing worse than a having your very own cave of wonders demolished by an STI, or lets face it a child.  I mean, when you are in a relationship for 7 or so years, the visits are less frequent. I frequented falling down the stairs more often than visiting the freak’n monkey clinic down the street. Seriously I probably spent more time bending coat hangers just to the right point.

Part of me hustling my ass to the clinic is also that fact that it’ll be the most action I have gotten since me and the ex, parted ways. I am serious, one Leo DiCaprio dream and I book my appointment ASAP. Doctor here I come (possibly in more ways than……no, no, I won’t go there.)

So I am at the docs at 8am. Hair not brushed, no bra, crusted drool on my mouth, and a pair of sweats with the largest hole ever. I don’t know how I got the hole, I only noticed it when I was scratching my ass at the damn place, but hey…. easy access, maybe I won’t have to strip down.

***

PUPPY.

MONKEY.

BABY.

Which by the way is the worst song to ever get stuck in one’s head, especially since it’s not a song it’s just some annoying trend that can seriously fuck off. I am telling you, it’s like herpes, once you think you got rid of it, it comes back.

PUPPY.

MONKEY.

BABY.

Yarggh!!!!!

***

Anywho.

They call me in. I am sitting there and the Doctor walks in. OH FUCK, NOT THIS GUY. You see now that I live in BC, I don’t have my very own personal doc to call me own. Instead I have all these strangers since 05’ to now, prodding me and making me feel like less of a person. This fucker, makes me feel like I am incapable of being a person. If I had known I was getting this guy, I would have smeared peanut butter all over my chasm of doom just to see one of the 8 veins protruding from his forehead vibrate.

So as I was saying, the Doctor comes in. And it’s this old dude, who had trouble finding my hymen the last time I visited him years ago. He comes in, asks why I am here. I give the usually spiel about being responsible and safe and wanting a happy life. I also told him I had a dream about Leo DiCaprio and a pap test was the next best thing. Not only did he not get the joke, nor laugh, he had no idea who Leo was and presumed he was someone I was banging. (I FUCKING WISH, BUDDY….I FUCKING WISH!)

So right at it, my bottoms are off, my apron on, lie back with my feet up , legs a part. Ironically, if you know me, spreading my legs a part is easy (because I was a dancer guys….c’mon…) but here at the docs it was the most difficult thing I have ever done. I don’t know, I was either nervous, or tense or something. I tried to imagine me on a fluffy cloud with Leo about to finger blast me, but even that just made me tense more. DOOOO…..NOT…..PASS……GO……

So with the nurses help she presses one leg down, while Doc presses the other one….insert the metal/plastic tongs of GOFUCKYOURSELFTHISISSONOTCOOLORWORTHITWHATISWRONGWITHMETHISISSONOTOKAYINANYWAY

And then…..are you guys ready for this…..and then……..AND THEN…..

The doctor says, I do remember you.you were the one who wanted to be an actress right?

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. This asshole only recognizes me from inspecting my whiskerless biscuit!!! I KID YOU NOT!!

He then proceeded to tell me, that he recalled I had broken up with the ex quite awhile ago, and that the last time I visited him I had a UTI and was not being an honest girl. (whatever the fuck that means…..)

In rebuttal, I told him I haven’t had sex since me and the ex split and that if I ever got pregnant it would be a god damn Christmas miracle. Jesus Junior at your service.

He had a little laugh, which hey is all a girl can ask. I’m cracking wise and he’s crack-a-lacking.

So he said well…we both know that isn’t true, safety first. Always safety first.

I called him a butthead, straight up. He made me feel like a loser and the best I could come up with was…butthead.

DOCTOR=BUTTHEAD

Anywho, long story short, we did all the testing, he sent my cunt swabs away to be tested by other strangers in white coats. Said he’ll call me (I am sure he didn’t mean for dinner and a movie.)

He then gave me a prescription. WTF. I asked for what, he and I quote: Not to worry just a precaution….

Fast forward to taking the drugs I was prescribed: 4 blue pills all to be taking at once. and 1 red pill to be taken at once and the next thing I know, I wake up and it’s today….

#sorryforpartyrocking

Needless to say, I still don’t know what the prescription was for…and whenever I google or askjeeves it points to the matrix or the movie Hair…

Alas, I adulted at some point this week, and got my shit check so now I can slag around or just become a nun.

I Got Answers!

You got questions, folks, well I got answers. No more asking Jeeves, when you can ask, yours truly. Well, okay this little bloggy blog is obviously more about me and not about why pluto isn’t a planet anymore, or why Trump is an asshole(but seriously if you don’t know the answer to that one….stop sniffing paint cans, friends) , AND hey I haven’t written in quite sometime and I feel we need to have another get to know you sesh, by you friendlies getting to know me. Think of it as the touchy feely without the touchy feely.

Lets roll.

What is the best feeling in your world? Letting out a steaming hot pee after drinking Americano’s all day and secretly allowing my sweet anal air whispers to be released after holding them all shift.

What is the first thing you do in the morning? Wake up.

How old are the oldest pair of shoes you own? 11 years folks! I know impressive, right? I got my mukluks from my mom in ’05 and still rock them to this very day. Although they certainly have seen better days and may not have a sole on them, but they are my little lost boy shoes, that I will keep FOR-EV-ER!

What is a weird attribute that you have? I name all my inanimate objects. For example: to grab some food I open  the Mr. Cocoa and for example right now, I am typing this on my Polly whiles sitting on a Ralph. I, however would not describe this as weird as much as I would describe it as unique.

What is/was your favourite Saturday morning cartoon growing up? Gargoyles.

What is your biggest regret? Aside from not taking a whiff of Amy Adams, beautiful locks on set, it would be buying the Backstreet Boys Greatest Hits…CD. Yeah, I don’t want to talk about it…but I will say this. I was depressed, shopping away my problems and in that weak, weak moment I thought they could show me the meaning of being lonely. Instead they should me the meaning of being a loser. Capital L on that too.

What turns you on, spiritually, emotionally, creatively? That’s an intense question. And I have an intense answer. NOTHING! Only joshing, folks. Obi wan-kenobi turns me on, plus he and I are on first name basis now, aren’t we Ben?

Do you have any Phobias? Yes, I do. SMALL ROUND THINGS. They gross me the fuck out. Marbles can die, Maltesers can die, don’t even get me started on peas and cherries. So you are probably thinking…what the fucking, mother fuck, fuck is this girls problem? Its a textile thing really. The feeling of these things in my hands makes me want to cut my hand off and donate it to the Salvation Army. Why? Because nobody fucking wants that shit.

What is one thing you seriously despise? Well, I will give you two. 1) Lines in journals. I absolutely can not toleratethem. Why? Well, I am a creative spirit and although I can colour in the lines on pictures, writing on lines/in between lines/beside lines/or whateverthefuck is not my thing. My writing/the chicken scratch that it is needs to be not restricted. It needs to flow up and down and in circles and spirals and whatever it chooses to do.  Honestly,   my journals look like I had an epileptic seizure trying to spell fu–_@#$%70958h3rck. 2) Would be questions.

What is a word you dislike? Egg. The way it sounds, the muscles in my mouth I have to use to say, how it is spelled. Everything about it really. Did you know all through public school I thought Freddie Mercury died of eggs. Yeah, perhaps that is where my first dislike of the word came from. Eggs, killed a musical, talented, prick. That and Humpty Dumpty is a shit head.

Worst roommate you every had? EV-ER-Y SINGLE ONE! Including my cat, she’s an asshole. (xoxo Olive.)

Is there anything you will not do under any circumstance? RED DRAGONS.

What is the worst pet you ever owned? Caterpillars, fucking caterpillar. What a waste of containers that was.

What is the hardest thing you ever done? MATH! Is that an answer? I am going to use it as one anyways.

What is something you would like to forget? The time I poured my ‘heart; out to my ex  after he pick me up on Halloween. Picture this: Cait, high and druSKhH1Fg1hF-8nk, crying, in a skunk costume, saying to my ex man, You don’t love me anymore.!!! Ugh so gross. I just grossed myself out right there. I hate when I get the feels, and say stupid shit. But my costume was dope and although I lost best costume to the Glitter Fairy Queen, I still had a great night. And he deserved to win anyways.

WELL! There you have it folks, short and sweet just like me! Sure, this one was a quickie but hopefully you left a little more satisfied knowing just a little more about me.

Until next time….