Posts tagged as:

UTI

The internet is a graveyard for all of the worst things possible. Like feelings.

2
December 16, 2009

The other day, I googled myself. Yeah I do that.

Since someone like me only really has a chance of being indexed through high school accomplishments, I usually come up with nothing. Mostly because my high school was the kind that felt it was acceptable to appropriate the Anheuser-Busch logo and somehow make it about ‘meeting new challenges every day’ instead of…beer. Which, oddly enough, the only challenge my high school faced was teenage alcoholism so I guess in retrospect, they were pulling off one fucking poignant piece of performance art.

Failed public education aside, my query is usually fruitless. But yesterday, when I searched for myself hoping to ensure that I can’t be contacted in any way by family members who should’ve been committed years ago, I found a public profile claiming I live in Nigeria. After confirming that my credit cards hadn’t been used to buy twelve XBox 360s, I noticed a link on the page, relevant of course because it was one of the few that included my name. I cringed when I saw it, but was sadistically delighted to know that it still existed. It was something my boyfriend at the time had written about me – proof that someone, somewhere loved me long enough to manufacture a few thoughts into functioning sentences:

I am with a woman so smart that she makes Annie Dillard seem like a fruit tart, so beautiful she grounds Poe’s Helen into dust, and so wonderful she makes grown men weep in her presence and women take their own lives in a fit of pure jealousy. I’m talking about CHEETOS*, the one who has single handedly has made my life more meaningful than the past 20 years combined. She’s trilingual, has amazing taste in music, and seems to be able to make me laugh no matter what. Even in an emergency room for 9 hours where we had fun playing “I Spy” and laughing at a guy with a c-cup. She’s wonderful and I just want to let you know that.

*name has been changed

A few things come to mind here – most glaring of which is that I can’t believe my pussy has put me in so much peril as to require a nine-hour emergency room visit for a urinary tract infection. Also, yes I’m an asshole for making fun of the guy with moobs. Sorry. I’m (kind of) different now. Oh, and the trilingual thing? My German and French language skills would land me in an assisted living facility for the developmentally disabled because my vocabulary boils down to, ‘Bathroom please and then we’ll see about ham.’ But, if I may brag for a moment, my grasp of English could definitely land me a position cleaning bed pans. While I’m at it, I’ll debunk the music thing too because well, come on.

I can’t vouch for the rest because it was based solely on an opinion that wasn’t mine and has since expired. But, for the sake of the authenticity of the twelve minutes taken to write it, I’ll assume that these feelings weren’t devised under false pretenses. Years ago, I would’ve tried to find a way to salt the earth and bury the page in order to dispel the idea that I am incompetent because I demolished the relationship in which these feelings existed. Because, after all, it is better to be loved without dilution than admit to everyone that you fucked it all up by not realizing that you were even loved in the first place.

Now I celebrate it. Not because the message has changed – the subtext of failure is still very present. But now, the failure is no longer the swelling tide that buries me beneath a carpet of sand and is instead the 7-11 from which I can safely eat my Funyuns while I carefully map out every ripple and finally realize what went wrong. I misdiagnosed the failure. My inability to adequately love this person was merely a symptom of the reality that I knew there was no good reason to, other than the fact that we both escaped from Budweiser High.

I still fail, and have no doubt that I always will. But I am learning how to be better at it – starting with skipping the Funyuns because they’re…just really gross.

I had a dream I came up with a good title for this post but I forgot it

2
May 19, 2009

In this installment of “reasons why I should emancipate myself from my vagina”, I just found out I have a yeast infection. My pap results came back, and it was a good news, bad news situation. Good news–I don’t have cancer. Bad news–I have a fucking yeast infection. I was instructed to cure it with an over the counter 3-day treatment, but I resisted since I didn’t think I had any symptoms relating to a yeast infection, and as was implied by my doctor based on the scant amount of yeast found, I figured it would go away on its own. Of course that wasn’t the case, and I’m clearly missing a few chromosomes for thinking that my doctor was just chewing the fat when she was on the phone with me, you know–trying to fill the awkward silence with a real conversation starter like, “you have a yeast infection.”

picture-4

I resisted treating myself because I was convinced that my UTI was, as usual, still loitering. I stand by what I said a few months ago about legitimately having a UTI, because my urinalysis came back with a +3 reading of blood, which is apparently as high as it gets aside from “dead.” I was given a week long course of antibiotics, and even though I still experienced a very slight burning sensation when I peed, I shrugged and thought, “Can’t win them all.” I think what happened (and I DID pass Biology with a C so try to stay with me), is that my UTI and subsequent antibiotic treatment seamlessly transitioned into a yeast infection, which just convinced me that I still had a residual UTI. Since I’ve dealt with UTI symptoms for all of my adult life, I got used to it and started popping Macrobid , which considering that I actually had a yeast infection the whole time, was kind of like treating a heart attack with pizza.

It’s my first one (that I know of), and I’m surprised because I always thought having a yeast infection was kind of like having crabs but less taboo. Sure, everyone experiences the symptoms differently, but the Monistat commercials would have you believe that having a yeast infection is the modern way to have a child out of wedlock. This usually means that you’re required to wear cashmere lounge-wear, stare out of the rain soaked window pane of your beach house as you cozy up to a Danielle Steele novel and ride it out with a scarlet “Y” firmly affixed to the front of your Burberry Nova Check robe. Fortunately, I haven’t experienced any clumpy discharge (goodbye forever, appetite), and surprisingly, I haven’t even been afflicted with the meth-addict level itching. I admit to using the vulvar cream that came with my 3-day pack, because there was some itching, but (in keeping with the general theme here of “I’m a dumb ass”), I attributed it to the fact that a week of Spinning had my vagina making babies with a bike seat.

Anyway, I cheaped out and bought the generic drug store brand pack, because when I saw that Monistat was $25 I was like, “What the fuck, I’m not dying.” I really didn’t know what to expect, and when I got home to study the directions for 2 hours, I had flashbacks to the first time I put a tampon in or used a pregnancy test. It was just another one of those things that falls into the sickeningly labeled feminine care category where the commercials are put through a Disney filter and are therefore, so sterile that they could be selling car insurance or Mentos. I know there’s a fine line between selling feminine care products and…porn, but showing the box from 13 different angles and repeating words like “Fresh”, “Carefree” and “Gentle” is doing it wrong. Do you know how I know this? Because when I found out that the ovule had to be pushed into the vagina as far as it will go with a plunger that resembled E.T.’s finger, I felt supremely cheated, wondering why I had to lie on my back with my knees up near my ears to prevent leakage while it seemed that all of the other women who used this got to giggle and take their Yorkie to the dog park while they engineered a way to exercise their new found vaginal freedom by chatting up the cute guy with the Great Dane because of course he has to have a Great Dane since the size difference between the Yorkie and the Great Dane is charming and makes you really root for these two.

It’s the last time I buy generic, that’s for sure.

Sorry I Ragged on Your Mom, Melissa

5
April 23, 2009

My time is really important to me, and while you’re probably like “no shit”, I take this seriously because if I don’t set out to eat a bag of chocolate chips while watching back to back episodes of Extreme Home Makeover, who will? So, since Ty Pennington needs his down time so he can get to earning those DUIs, I need to find things to do with my own down time, which means I volunteer. Now, I’m not going to put on my “I’m better than you” hat and talk about how the world can be a better place if everyone just put on an orange vest, went out to the streets, and started picking up used condoms and Kevin Costner’s acting career. The last thing I would ever do is guilt trip someone because, unlike myself, they are actually qualified for paid work. 

My impersonation of a parole officer’s wet dream began at a county library, where I stocked VHS tapes and DVDs while assisting the occasional customer. Although, I really only remember one particular customer, who would come in every day without fail and ask if we had any new Star Trek tapes. I never turned him away, and instead wondered why he assumed this library, where in 2002 boasted Never Been Kissed as its newest “Stellar Seller”, somehow housed Gene Roddenberry’s private stash. Each time, he would follow me to the  Tandy 1000 TX, watch as I typed in “S-t-a-r  T-r-e-k”, and peer at the screen until he inevitably confirmed that he had seen them all. Can’t say that I miss that.

From there I moved on to the SPCA. It wasn’t quite the Snow White image I initially conjured for myself, where I would teach rabbits how to read while a team of sparrows french braid my hair. Instead, I cleaned up dog shit and emptied litter boxes. Frankly, it was depressing more than it was enriching, so now I just donate money.

After that, it was the American Center for Polish Culture (nothing notable here, I was an errand boy who was not a practicing Roman Catholic fluent in Polish aka Satan), then tutoring at a private Catholic school and from there, continuing on as a counselor at Bible camp. Bible camp was an…eye opening experience and, in the interest of maintaining my agnostic street cred, was done as a favor for a friend. An average day at Bible camp started and ended with inspirational songs set to the tune of “Eye of the Tiger” with lyrics like “Jesus is Lord, He will never stop…Risin’ up to the challenge of the De-vil” and throughout the afternoon, there were lots of costumes, glitter paint, and…hot dogs that somehow related to the teachings of Jesus Christ. I know it sounds more like a drag show, but really, if you think about it, the differences are minimal.

My last and most recent gig (if you can even call whoring yourself out for free a gig), was at Dress For Success. I’ve debated talking about this, because of all the places I’ve given time to, it’s the one I hold in the highest regard because their mission is something I feel strongly about. However, the director was a mondo-cunt, so I’m justified-ish.

Basically, I dressed low-income women in professional clothing. It wasn’t always easy to do, because not only was I dealing with donated clothes (meaning, lots of shoulder pads and sequins), but I was dealing with people who understandably had opinions when it came to wearing…shoulder pads and sequins.  Usually, the director, Tracy, would make comments about the clients (after they had left), referring to them as “these people” and making catty remarks about their appearance.

I ignored it for the most part (yeah I know, I’m like a modern day Sophie Scholl). I thought she was phony in every sense of the word, and clearly in possession of some Joan Rivers-brand toxicity, but all I could do was carry on my usual “she’s such a chode” monologue once I got inside the car and locked the doors.

One week, I had to call out because of a UTI that had me rethinking the alliance I have with my vagina. I wasn’t scheduled for any other sessions, and I used that as an opportunity to never go back. I had already prepared my story about how I needed to leave in order to pursue my dream of owning and operating a year-round Christmas tree farm in upstate New York, but no one ever called so I will have to file my fake dream under “Believable Excuses” and hope that it will come in handy one day. What a burn though, right? I can’t even give away my time.

The thing is–as much as I enjoyed Dress For Success, I would rather roll around in urine soaked newspapers and assemble 1000 carrot crucifix snacks if it meant that somehow I knew that my time was appreciated at the end of the day. I wasn’t appreciated at Dress For Success, and I knew it, so I left. I don’t know what gave me this conviction to finally start respecting myself, because I couldn’t even walk out of From Justin to Kelly…in an empty theater. I just sat there for 2 hours, thinking, When are they going to stop singing?

Part of me would like to be all “Live and let live” because I am probably the last person who needs to call someone out for being a Grade-A (albeit underpaid) bitch. But whatever. If a Bible camp taking place in a small rural town where teen pregnancies outnumber library books can’t help me, I don’t know what can.

Pissing the Night Away

2
March 20, 2009

I recently woke up in the middle of the night with an all too familiar “I’m fucked” feeling. After peeing, I confirmed my status while thinking about how I needed to delete the porn off of my computer before hanging myself with the shower curtain. Burning during urination is fairly routine for me, but I could tell immediately that this was definitely not a routine burn. It was more like the kind of burn Michael Jackson went through when his Jheri curl went up in flames while he was filming that Pepsi commercial. Only this time, my vagina was the Jheri curl.

I tried to remain calm and forge on by myself, but when I realized I was out of AZO, I broke down harder than Dawson did that one time Joey…well, who the fuck knows.

dawson_crying

So there I am at 3am, naked and crying in the hallway when my boyfriend comes out, wondering why I look like I just gave myself an abortion. I try to explain myself, but luckily his deductive skills are better than most, so he was able to translate “it h-h-huurts to p-p-aaaaay” into “I need some AZO now.”

Unfortunately, AZO couldn’t help me this time. After two days of wishful thinking I went to the doctor and once again, explained how my pussy had betrayed me.

Which brings me to my point: I’ve been sucking a lot of dick lately. My boyfriend refuses to touch my vagina in fear that he will anger the tyrant who controls the army of bacteria in my urethra. I even tried bargaining with him, asking if I could use my magic wand while I suck him off. No deal. Ultimately, I knew he was right but part of me hoped that he would be really irresponsible and fuck me, then let me eat ice cream for dinner. So, this means that I have been sucking his dick, because at least it will result in one hell of a deposit for the ole spank bank.

I hope this never happens to me again, but if it does, I now know to cry silently to myself.