You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you fall asleep naked on your laminate floor.
Okay. Let me back up…
Too much nipple too soon is always too much.
So here we go.
Two Saturday nights ago I was leaning over my laptop [essentially trying to figure out how to legally marry it because it’s awesomesauce.]
Yes, I believe in marriage, just not to people. [I’m just talking about for me, I don’t give a crap if other people get married.] So anyway…
When I sat up – I felt a small snap in my lower back.
I felt fine. Right?
Clearly, I should be able to perform the Herculian task of … oh, you know? SITTING?!!!! – without snapping my not-so-dainty back like a twig.
Not. So frakking not! Initially, I didn’t feel anything but the next day…
I was getting out of bed and I fell to the floor in agony. It was like someone was twisting a dagger dipped in acid into my spine.
And awake on a Sunday?
[Apparently, there was a tear in the time-space continuum because I really never want to be awake that early, unless erect penises are involved. Anyway…]
I couldn’t get up.
Every time I tried … lots of pain, whining, and profanity.
So I fell asleep.
On the cold winter floor.
[Oh, yes I did. Look, I was tired?! Because why the hell am I awake at 9 AM in the first place? It’s just unnatural.]
I woke up at 2 PM.
[Insert humiliating cat nipple-licking shit here.]
Look, I love my 2 fur babies but bizarro-nipple-licking depravity is unacceptable until the end of time.
I don’t even like nipple-licking when some dude does it…
There is always that one moment where a dude is lovingly encircling my nipple with his tongue or sucking it like there is beer in it – and I am looking down at him looking up at me. He is doing the sexy-face thing.
So I feel like the licking should feel sexy.
I mean I should feel like I am on cloud nine [or how I feel when I am at Target.]
You know? Supremely titillated [or how I feel when I get a gift card.]
Um.. not really.
It kinda just feels like a tongue on my tit.
Not a sexy tongue. Just a regular one.
The kind that people should keep in their mouth.
Depending on how much sex
torture is being inflicted, there will be follow-up questions.
Because what’s sex without a real-time quiz? No pressure there.
“Do you like this
weird crap I am doing to your body?” he will say. Honestly, this has to rank as one of the worst top 5 questions of all time.
Please write this down…
Nothing good will come from asking questions while you are naked.
Now, underline it and tape it to your forehead.
I mean it’s hard enough to tell people
that they suck the truth when I am clothed. Can you at least wait until I am properly caffeinated so I can lie believably to have a meaningful discourse?
But I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.
Like lying on the floor.
And because every painful situation is supposed to teach me life lessons that will keep me from being a complete douchebag, I did some learnin’ while I was down there…
1) Always have an area rug next to your bed. I have been debating buying one for months [because I am cheap.] See what happens when I procrastinate? I end up falling asleep on a laminate floor instead of a nice rug. Sure, my cat will puke on it more times than Lindsay Lohan pretends she’s not driving drunk – allegedly. But it’s better than the floor.
2) Put band aids over my nipples at night. Obviously, I can’t sleep in pajamas. [Why is that even a thing? Pajamas drive me bonkers.] So… I see no other option. My nipples must be protected from furry perverts.
3) There is a little town under my bed with a huge population of cat hair. Note to self: Find out who is supposed to clean under the bed? If I have to bend to clean something, it’s probably not gonna happen. Ever.
4) Thank the creator of all things fabulous, RuPaul – that someone had the good sense
to invent prescription drugs. I used to be firmly in the whole “let the body heal it’s self” camp. You know? Drink some herb tea, sleep well and think good thoughts until fairies throw glitter over my healed body.
That was until I learned what real pain was.
Sure, “let the body heal itself” from the common cold. An upset tummy. Maybe a runny nose.
But if your herniated disc is acting like Jack Nicholson in The Shining and you are dragging yourself across your dirty ass floor to the bathroom – because you can’t walk, then by all means, back up a U-Haul filled with drugs and just have them start shoveling shit into your mouth.
That is an
unprofessional insane medical opinion [from a web designer.]
Which is probably as good as the ones you’ll get from some “real” doctors. This is why I switch doctors more than a drag queen switches wigs…
A doctor will inevitably say something stupid to me, which I can’t ignore [because I’m not in a coma.]
I know two separate women who don’t know each other who were having trouble in their marriages. A different psychiatrist told each one to have an affair to fix their marriage.
[Psychiatrists are doctors right? That’s what google says. Anyway…]
Look, I don’t know nothing about babies or marriage or how to get spots out of my couch.
But that could be the dumbest “medical” advice I’ve heard secondhand – twice. [How is twice even possible?]
I find the commitment to the stupidity more troubling than the stupidity itself. It’s like saying to get rid of a headache.
Cut off your head. [Overkill much?]
Weren’t there any other
like ten bazillion solutions to offer?
I can’t even get my general doctor to commit to saying – I have a cold.
If I say, “So do I have a cold?”
My general doctor will say, “There are strong leanings and general evidence that perhaps you may have cold-like symptoms.”
See? No commitment.
That’s why unless I have an actual test to do [mammogram, pap smear, blood] it is more useful for me to consult a doctor with credibility.
At least he rhymes. And rhyming is fun. Everybody know’s that.
But I needed drugs. Real ones. Not Advil [which was a complete waste of 5 bucks!]
Of course, I only figured this out after crawling around my house for 3 days
because I am an idiot. Generally, I want to pay for drugs less than I want to take them.
So I went to a really hot spine doctor. I am not sure why all of my doctors are hot. [I find it slightly disturbing.] But he gave me drugs. Bless his hot little heart.
And I took ’em for a week and half. I haven’t slept that well since Ronald Reagan was President.
And it was good.
Last week, I went back to work. My back was still sore, but I was taking the magic drugs.
And it was still good.
And I could walk again [so that’s always a plus.] Just for the record, going to work on drugs is just so um… excellent. It makes everyone likable.
But something weird happened with my cat.
Not the nipple pervert. [That’s Scout.]
I mean the antisocial one who likes to fart in my face, Dakota.
Dakota likes me – like I like most of my family members.
From a distance.
But he started following me around like a stalker.
Every time I laid down for a drug-induced nap – he bounded through my quiet house like a herd of buffalo just to curl up next to me in bed.
Sweet. Right? [I am pretty sure he was concerned that if died – so does his food source. But still…]
That seems like progress.
And sometimes that’s all you can ask for.
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