Monday Fcukery

Ever have one of those days where you make the mistake of waking up and crawling out of your nice, warm cozy bed only to discover the the universe clearly has it out for you and decides that it’s OK for you to be fucked up the ass without your permission and then proceeds to blow it’s load all over your face?  Which then in turn makes you want to throw yourself in front of a really fast moving bus?

Yeah, that’s known as Monday Fuckery.

For real.

Since  Bob Geldof asked in a song tell me why I don’t like Monday’s?  I’ll tell you.  Not as crazy as the inspiration behind the song mind you, clearly Barbara Ann Spencer had some serious issues or something.

Shit happens when I don’t get enough sleep/

No really. It does.

So technically this is Sunday night antics leads to Monday Fuckery.  But whatever.

Point being I stayed up too late on Sunday night get all uber excited about my new smart phone and spent farrrrrrrr too much time playing angry birds   (speaking of angry birds & smart phones, it’s FREE for Android and NOT for iphone HA!) anyway moving along…

So wake up at 5:30 am after going to bed at almost midnight (yeah I know smooth move there Steph) and it was FREEZING in my room.  Glass cutter needed?  Just give me a call, I’m there!  I guess this is what I get for sleeping naked?  Hellooooooooo it’s AUGUST FFS!  Jammies should not be required in what is considered the ‘summer months’ seriously.  My bed, so cozy & so very awesome.  I LOVE my bed.  Perhaps a little too much?

My sexy ass bed

 Seriously.  Look at that!  Doesn’t it just make you want to crawl in it and have the most crazy sex you have ever had  epic sleep ever!?!

Of course it does.

Memory foam everything FTW!

So yeah, dragging my naked self out of bed at the butt crack of dawn, freezing my ass off (literally) wondering where in the hell my fuzzy robe was while having to pee really bad.  I really should just leave it on the floor instead of hanging up all nice and proper like.

Because that would make sense.

Anyway get myself mostly put together and then I can’t find my damn jeans.  You know the one’s I had in my hand and put down briefly to go do something and then for the life of my couldn’t find again.  I mean seriously, WTF is that?  So there I am, trolling around my apartment mostly dressed sans pants while muttering where in the fuck are my jeans to myself whilst looking for said jeans.  Thankfully I had a clean pair on my ‘chair-drobe’ because lord knows, I hate doing laundry and the 5 foot pile of it in my room is testament to that very fact.  So after wasting loads of time getting ready and missing the bus that I wanted to take, I finally got my ass en route to work.

Staggered into the dep at the metro because this guy has some killer croissants and he also has coffee.  AKA the breakfast of champions.  It was insanely windy outside and all I wanted was to suck back some of my awesome coffee delicious-ness and get through my day.  Anyway, mission accomplished.  Cafe was consumed, as was the awesome croissant AND Can-Am not only arrived on time but they also didn’t fuck up my produce order.  The best part, my banana’s were actually fit for immediate consumption (they’re the easiest to prepare) unlike the previous order where all 20lbs yes TWENTY POUNDS of my banana’s were a hideous shade of day glow green!  Something very much like number 1

when really, ideally they’d be closer to 5 seeing as how I order  then half & half.  So in theory they should be 2-3 & 4-5.  Took almost 2 weeks for those bastards to ripen!  Anyway, I had hope.  Hope that maybe today wouldn’t turn out to be such a craptacular day!

I was wrong. 

Walking by Angela’s desk, she commented that Jack Layton had lost his battle to cancer.  Figures that one of the few rare gems in politics, that most people liked died of some hideous disease.  Which hardly seems fair.  I pay scant attention to politics because well that always starts up a heated debate of some sort doesn’t it?  That’s why I’d rather talk about food.  Everyone likes food.  The kitchen is usually the hub of anyone’s home and it’s comforting.  When people get into heated debates about food it’s usually happy one’s.  Amiright?

So yeah that sucked, more then a little.  Can’t wait for the next election.  o.0

So my afternoon progressed without too much hassle.  Save for the odd incident here and there, but whatever.  By now, the caffeine high is winding down and I go from being tired to bitchy and tired.  Then I had to do laundry, at work no less.  Which generally isn’t an issue, except that the settings on the machine are totally and utterly fubar’ed to the point that I waste FAR too much time doing laundry, more then I should.  Of course, there’s a fuck ton of it too.  YAY!

Then one of my co-workers pops her head in there to let me know that she had to leave her bowls on the counter because the dishwasher was full.  I’m muttering (mostly to myself) how in the hell can the dishwasher be full?  We had almost no kids, ergo not that many dishes.

You know why the dishwasher was full?


Nothing and I do mean nothing irritates me more, than having to re-arrange the damn dishwasher like it’s my fucking living room.  Seriously!   So because of that, I now have to construct an instruction sheet (with pictures) to show exactly how one fills the dishwasher.  You know, like I would have to for say my 3 year old’s.  Because you know, lying an empty yogurt container on it’s SIDE on top of a bunch of other dishes is the most effective way to get it clean.

This is why I don’t like Monday’s, even though you didn’t ask.

I told you anyway.  You’re welcome.

Let’s see you write a song about that Geldof.

Dear wolf crying, drama Queens.

The one thing I truly dislike about social media is the blatant abuse of it.  I get constant invites to bullshit “causes” such as tell Zynga to do what-the-fuck-ever with my farm/mafia/game show/ kid brother/ my pet monster, whatever.


Causes was created so that people who have legitimate charities/NFP organizations and  such to raise money and awareness about things that are important, you know like cancer?!? Your farm? Not so much.

I don’t say that to be insensitive or mean, I play the odd game here and there on FB to procrastinate from doing things that I should be doing pass the time.  There’s nothing wrong with that, although abusing such things like that are.  So. Very. Wrong.  So yeah, I report those. 

Yeah I totally am one of those people.

Anyway, another thing I dislike about social media in general is the need for it to be a popularity contest for some, an audience for others.  Whatever the reason, some people abuse it to a whole other level.  Such as a need to churn up constant drama!  Especially when I see things like this:



(enter dramatic sigh/sob here)

You know what I say to that?

PLEASE DO!  Because then I don’t have to:

  • A. block you from my news-feed anymore and/or kick you off my friends list for being a drama queen douche.
  • B. Wonder if this time you’re actually being fucking serious or not.
  • C. Waste my precious time and training trying to help you help yourself when really you just have a low self esteem and need some fucking redemption of yourself!

Suicide is serious, so stop fucking around about it and making it into some personal fucking game for your attention seeking ways!

It’s not to say that I don’t care.  Because clearly I DO otherwise I wouldn’t bother with this, nor this.  Suicide is no stranger to my life and out of all the people I lost, not one of them went ahead and broadcasted it all over the fucking internet.  The signs were there (they always are) however they’re so subtle that you might not notice them if you’re not paying attention.  The key to communication is to not only listen, but to hear what’s NOT being said.  So when you scream suicide online like some fucking drama Queen idiot, the only thing you’re saying to me is this: I need help, I need someone to love me.  NOT :I want to die.

So you think about this the next time you want to say shit like that, think about the people’s heads you’re fucking with, simply because you need attention.

Think long and fucking hard.



Penis envy, health regulations and tattoos

*Fair warning TMI post to follow in some area’s.  Can’t say I didn’t warn you!*

One hot button topic that seems to be forever in the minds of the most dedicated modification artists and connoisseur’s (I am talking about the die hard collectors and enthusiasts, not the kid who has one or two to “look cool”) is regulation of the industry.  Because you know what?

There isn’t one.

Yeah that’s right.  Modification artists pretty much set their own “rules” when it comes to age and so forth and all the one’s that I know personally follow the golden unwritten rule of being at least 16 for some piercings and 18+ for those of a sexual nature.  They practice the most sterile techniques, keep themselves up to date on what’s what and stay informed.  This is one aspect what makes them so damn good at what they do: They treat your health and well being with the utmost respect and have your well being in mind and you also get a kick ass accessory to boot, so hey why not right?  I love me some shiny new tattoos!

So what does this have to do with my penis envy and regulations as a whole?

Everything! (This is where the TMI comes in)

I had to buckle down and see my OBGYN yesterday (YAY ME o_O) as in your know my Dr. for my girly bits.  I HATE and I do mean hate going there.  Now don’t get me wrong Dr. G overall is pretty cool.  Except for yesterday, he was being a bit of a huge ass douche.  My appointment ran later then anticipated, not my fault of course.  *I* was there on time and got to cool my heels for almost an hour.  Not an excuse to act like a total dick.  I don’t give a flying fuck how many vagina’s your hands been up that day buddy, I don’t like lying on this fucking table trussed up like a damn turkey either but hey YOU had the choice to go into OBGYN, I however had NO say in my gender.

If I did, I would much prefer to be a man.  Men don’t have gynecologists that invade their space every 6 months.

So I’m sitting there, waiting for him to come in sans pants wearing socks and my hoodie.  Straight out of a scene of bad 80’s porn right there!  So I was taking a deeper look at my surroundings since I had nothing else to do.  Big ass bag of these awesome, disposable speculum (non sterile of course) and a big ass box of cervical scrapers (sounds pleasant doesn’t it?) also NON sterile and a pile of culture catchers as in glass slides, ALSO NON sterile.  Along with a big ass tube of generic medical lube which my Dr. is a little too generous with and always makes my vag itch (thanks Dr. G).  Anyway, he walks in throws on some gloves without washing his hands first (WTF?) until I pointed out that he wasn’t touching me until he had done so.  I seen the 4 vag woman that walked out before me and it makes me wonder if he didn’t wash his hands with them either?  I mean seriously?  Fucking nasty!


Reminds me of this post that Shannon wrote and the picture he snapped in the hospital!  (Oh if your wondering what a hyfrecator is, read up on it here. (which makes that image 100 times more nasty) also this entry (second picture in) makes my skin crawl.
And I got to thinking that these instruments and the like are going to be introduced to the most intimate place on my body.  All of which are just sitting out there, in the open with countless people walking in and out of that office day after day after day.  Crawling with God knows what type of germs and bacteria!  Oh but yes, please do use those on my girly bits with your UN-washed hands!

The health industry is clearly not as regulated as one would think and as Shannon said:”I mentioned in the previous entry that when I was at the hospital last I was disturbed that the hyfrecator tool was covered in blood. The doctor blamed this on the residents who do a poor job (it’s not the first time I’ve seen stray blood at this particular hospital), but I wanted to mention that it bothered me that their clean tools are kept in a bin that pretty much overlaps with their overflowing container of dirty tools. It’s my feeling that the two — contaminated tools and clean/sterile tools — need to be kept completely separate and everything possible should be done to minimize the risk of cross contamination…
Is this going to cause a problem? Probably not, but it easily could, and really, it just reeks of low standards and a sloppy thought process. It bothers me to no end that tattoo studios and to a lesser extent estheticians’ studios are beaten to death with high standards in these areas, but that hospitals, doctors, and dentists — who should know better by virtue of their educations — don’t seem to give a damn.”

So when I headed over to Ania’s blog and read one of her latest finds that involve the modification industry I got to thinking about my Dr’s appointments vs my tattoo appointments and whose hands I feel safer touching my body.

My conclusion?

My modification artists win hands down.  Not ONCE, have I EVER felt “UN-safe” with anyone who’s done work on me.  Both shops that I frequent have separate area’s for hand washing, sterilization and sterilized equipment.  Not ONCE have I ever had to request that they wash their hands, or noticed anything that would question or concern my overall health and well being.  It’s sad for me to think that they know more about proper health practices and  sanitation then my gyno does.  Which is pretty disturbing.  Sadly, getting a new Dr. isn’t as simple as finding a good tattoo artist.  Which isn’t always as easy either but I digress.

What also get’s me is that if I was to forget my medicare card it would cost me $100.00 for about 10 mins of his precious time where I felt dehumanized at this last visit (usually he’s pretty chill) whereas that same amount of money would buy me an hour of my artists time and not only do I feel at home, 100% comfortable and like the fucking person I am, I first and foremost feel safe.  I also feel as if I am being heard.  My gyno? Not so much.  Selective hearing much?  I think so.  Douche.    I trust my artists with my life and have complete faith that they’ll take care of me and do what they can to ensure that everything is as clean and sterile as it can be.  Whereas that same clinic that a person I know also goes there for her annual exam found out over a year later from a previous smear that she had cervical cancer and had to have a hysterectomy before she was 40.  WTF?

Now you tell me, who’s more on the ball here?  Modification artists or Doctors?

Yes there are some horrendously shady modification artists out there, no doubt.  Yet there is a continual witch hunt in the modification industry that the government has yet to step in and regulate, even when tattoo artists are begging for it at this point and yet we’re supposed to respect the people who are supposed to take care of us because they have medical degree’s.  Having a fancy piece of paper don’t mean a damn thing if your not doing what your supposed to be doing, let alone doing it right.

Now due to an undiagnosed problem that’s related to my lady parts, I have to get a pelvic and vaginal ultrasound.  I’ll save how I feel about that later.  Although I will say this much: I will be riding that technicians ass like no one’s business because a damn condom DOES NOT replace proper cleaning procedures and I am shuddering in disgust already just thinking about how many woman have had that shoved up their crotch.

In fact, I’ll bring my own antibacterial wipes and hospital grade germicide just to satisfy my germaphobia.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!  Seriously.  Did I mention EW? Because the thought… Oh God…  If it wasn’t so important, I wouldn’t bother.

PS: In my next life, I would like to be male.  That would be awesome!  Why?  Because boys don’t need to deal with this shit!  I have penis envy really bad right now.