My boob is hurting something fierce at this very moment. (I said “fierce.” Clearly, America’s Next Top Model is taking over my brain.)
I’m actually starting to get worried about it.
Thank GOD I have peroxide. I have been dousing my nipple in the stuff, hoping to kill off what is obviously some sort of an infection.
Maybe sticking a needle inside of my boob wasn’t the “smartest” decision.
I’m trying not to panic, but I’m THIS CLOSE to losing it. If hourly peroxide swabbings of the nip do not work, I’m going to be forced to see a doctor about the issue.
I don’t like going to the doctors to talk about my boobs. And I HATE the doctors touching my boobs.
I’d rather give birth and poop on the doctor.
The few times I’ve had to see the doctor about my boobs, I’ve always resorted to making stupid jokes while being groped.
“How old are you,again?” My doctor, who happens to be a man, once asked whilst looking at my unclothed boobs.
Convinced he was asking because he was SHOCKED at the saggage of my twenty seven year old breasts, I said all hilarious like “I’m 27, but you’d think I was 80 by the look of those things, huh?”
But seriously, folks, self depricating humor is how I deal.
I’m not sure how long I should continue to bathe my boobs in the ‘xide before putting down the q-tip and calling the doctor. I guess that’s my dilema. I am willing to put up with the pain and pray that the peroxide works, but I am NOT willing to have to have my nipple chopped off because the infection has raged beyond the point of no return.
What’s a girl to do?
Tony says I just need to take a hot shower and let the water hit the boob.
But that’s Tony’s cure for everything.
“My back is KILLING ME!” I say.
“TAKE A HOT SHOWER! Tony replies.
“I have a horrible headache.” I say.
“Take a hot shower!” Tony replies.
“I have cramps!” I say
“Take a hot shower!” Tony replies.
God forbid he offer to rub my back, or massage my temples or go get me some flippin’ chocolate.
“Take a hot shower!” He says. But who am I to get mad at him? He’s totally a doctor. No, really, he is. He may not have went to “medical school” but, in his mind, that doesn’t matter. From now on, you will address him as Dr.Takeahotshower.
Let’s get back to the boobs and the little white pocket that’s forming on my left nipple.
It hurts.
I’m scared.
And I wish Gabby would take a bottle so she wouldn’t have to suck on it and make me cry.

“Man, it would really suck if John Heder got murdered.”

The whole “I need to see your I.D, whoops, I was looking at your ass and not your face and now that I see your face… DAMN YOU LOOK OLD! nevermind!” incident really effed me up.
I’m feeling uglier then I normally do.
I spent all morning examining the wrinkles all over my face and my neck. How did I miss the fact that I am chock full o’ wrinkles? Everywhere!! GROSS!
It didn’t help matters that during the wrinkle examination, I found another gray hair all up in my scalp.
Oh! And did you know I have VERICOSE VIENS on the back of my calves?
WHY COULDN’T TONY HAVE BOUGHT HIS OWN DAMN BEER?

As I was standing in line at Starbucks, I overheard 2 women, (who I am tempted to refer to as “bitches” simply because they, unlike me, did not smell like puke) talking about their jobs.
“I’m so important at my job.blahblahblah. I made a big sale last week blahblahblahfuckingblah.”
It took everything in me to not turn around and interrupt their conversation with the following.
“Oh yeah? Well, 30 minutes ago, I fixed the dishwasher all by myself! WITH A BUTTERKNIFE! UP YOURS!”

When one stays home with her children, one learns valuable lessons that one would never have learned out in the workplace. For instance, today I learned that spinach + ham + applesauce = shit that smells like a perm.

The smell of a perm arising from the poop of Gabby’s butt has brought back a flood of memories.
Permenant wave, memories.
I was only 12 years old the first time I was allowed the honor of having my hair wrapped up in rows of curlers and doused with horrific smelling chemicals with the promise of “permanently wavy” hair.
It took hours, but when it was finished, OH MY GOD, I looked so HOT. At least I thought I did. I remember that day in vivid detail. Lucky for you, I’ll spare you most of those details, but let’s just say, when my cousin was done administering The Perm, my shit no longer stank.
I left that mobile home park thinking I was the most beautiful girl that ever lived and I could not fucking WAIT to get home and show off my perm to the neighborhood gang (A.K.A Joe the mentally retarded boy, Brandy the girl with the mole on her lip, Rhonda the slut and Jimmy the boy who made me feel funny down there.)
The minute we arrived back home, I went running to find The Gang so I could brag about how hot I looked and brag.I.Did. I was a total bitch about it. “Look at my beautiful hair, Brandy! I bet you wish your hair looked this beautiful! Too bad it doesn’t!” And so on, and so forth.
This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy. All I remember is one minute I’m bragging to Brandy about my perm, the next minute… STRAWBERRY FUCKING MILK IS ALL UP IN MY FRESHLY PERMED HAIR!!
I started screaming and crying because, you’re not supposed to wash your hair for 48 hours! I ran home to my mom, washed my hair and watched my dreams of PERMANENTLY WAVED HAIR go down the drain.
Ah, the memories a little baby shit can stir up.
God, I LOVED that perm, all two hours of it.