Category Archives: Not Rocket Science


I have driven to every corner of this country. No lie. Upstate New York, Charleston, Seattle, Bakersfield. All across the northern states, and down through the Southwest and into the Deep South. I am proud to say in all those thousands of miles, I have only been pulled over once. And it was epic.

Let me start with the caveat that I actually truly respect Officers of the Law. The Po-Pos. In fact, despite their heavy-handed use of pepper spray, they are who I would call in an emergency. That is why I hate when I get pulled over for speeding or some other bullshit offense. Shouldn’t cops be arresting vagrants or solving complex murder-rape cases? Exactly, so get off my bumper and save some lives.

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Craigslist Mattress Killer

Apparently, the only thing people do not search Craigslist for is a mattress. If you want to bang a stranger, find a used iPod or buy all the contents of a random storage unit: Craigslist will have people beating down the digital doors — but my mattress? Nope.

Allow me to explain.

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Lady Nazi

I love to order from because every time a package arrives, it feels like Christmas. Because of my impulse buying, half the time, I do not remember what I ordered, so each box is a little surprise.

One of the few reasons I like my apartment is that the office will sign for packages and store them for you. They do not deliver them to your door (which, considering the random hours the office is open, should totally be a thing), but instead you go down to the office and sign out your packages. Well, shit, office…the reason I buy my crap online and have it delivered is because I don’t have to talk to another person. I hate most people, they are weird and make eye contact and want to small talk with me. It sucks.

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Professionalism or Please Shut Your Goddamn Mouth

Is it ever appropriate to just tell someone to shut up? I often wished I lived in a sitcom where I could have a team of writers tell me the perfect thing to say without any consequences, but alas. I am a nurse, a professional. And looking a coworker in their dead little eyes and telling them to just stop talking is frowned upon.

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Dive Right In

One of the hidden benefits of apartment-living dog ownership is getting up at all ungodly hours so your pooch can poop. Come rain, snow or 2am, if the dog needs to go, you go out and let it go.

Around 5am every morning, you can find me wandering the dark streets around my apartment with my dog Zoe. I am usually very jittery and nervous because I am sure that at any moment I will be murdered by a serial killer. I constantly look for any suspicious people or activity or noise and then, the instant my dog is done pinching off, I bag it, throw it into the nearest trash receptacle and then run/jog back to the apartment and thank the gods I was not raped.

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No Class

I love flying. Now that I have a dog, I do much less of it, but when I fly in 1st class, each time I fly is a drunken, spacious, speedy power trip.

Aside from the access to booze and the sweet buzz of superiority, the real reason I like to be all up in the air with strangers is that I get to make up a back story and be someone else entirely for the whole trip. What do I care…I will never see these tools again?

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Chair Monster

Dog ownership is hard. I mean, sure you get the face-licking and snuggles, but you also have the soul-crushing despair that comes when you realize that your dog is completely dependent on you for all things.

This weekend I decided to take my tent out of the box it has been in for 3 years and gather up all the new camping equipment I purchased off Amazon and get my ass out to the woods. Some new friends had booked a beautiful group campsite at Lake Kachess where friendly dogs are always welcome.

If there is one thing Zoe (my dog) is, it is friendly. Too friendly. Shy really. A total bottom. When other dogs show up, she assumes a position that says “chase me around, and then share my treat later, and then I will lick you as we form a dog-pile.” It is adorable.

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Anyone that has read/seen/met/listened to me for a few minutes knows two things.

1. I am hilarious.

2. I am so pretentious and snobbish that sometimes I want to punch myself in the face.

Thanks to a friend I had years ago, my ability to one-up anyone in any conversation about anything was brought to my attention. During a discussion on study abroad, I quickly mentioned my stint at Oxford (mentioning, of course, how it is the #1 University in the World…however that is determined). Next we were talking about Chinese food, so of course I interrupted to mention how I lived in Hong Kong and that I have the amazing peanut sauce that I can buy in only Canada. I thought I was simply shining a light on my brilliance…showing these new people that I was someone of value and interesting experiences. But no. Afterwards, my friend pulled me aside and called me a stuck-up bitch right to my face. And by the hammer of Thor, he was right.

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Juice It

So, if I was to pick one reason I hate being a nurse, you might think I would choose “exposure to blood-borne pathogens” or “seeing dirty genitals” or simply “smells.” You would be wrong. The main thing I hate about nursing is that it is a field that is dominated by women. Catty, fat, angry, underpaid women.

I cannot sit down to lunch without entering a conversation about calories or gluten. Usually it is a fat nurse eating fried food from the cafeteria lamenting about how she cannot seem to loose the weight. Sometimes it is a fat nurse eating a salad covered in a cup of ranch dressing ranting about how she is so hungry. Occasionally there is a fat nurse eating a huge portion of only meat or swearing off all cheese or refusing to eat anything white. It is exhausting eating lunch.

I usually take out my phone, and even though I do not get a signal, I pretend to search the internets or read email or old texts. If there are coupons on the table, I read them. Old medical journals. Sweetener packets. You get the idea?

Well, I was without material this time, as I sat down to a new and strange scenario. I started to unpack my lunch and the nurse next to me did the same. Out of her abnormally large lunch duffel, she removed 3 container jugs of bright colored liquids. Deep greens, dirty orange, a dirty deep orange-green. She was juicing. And she told me all about it.

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How does it end?

Oh, dear readers, I must apologize for my absence. Only now do I realize that I have been remiss in posting to you the crazy events of my life.

I was standing in my apartment, desperately waiting for the Comcast man to finish installing my Internet, and a series of unequivocally ‘funnynurse’ situations happened. And I thought of you. And so here I am.

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Fear of Flying

Ugh. It seems no matter where I work, every hospital/office/cubicle arrangement has crazy people in it- ones who are socially incompetent, strange, ugly and just weird.

I was asked by a coworker how much longer I would be staying in Seattle. She then asked me- what did i like least about the city?

I replied that the airport was one of the worst- the parking is crazy expensive with no good alternative and the light rail only runs during certain hours from certain places. I also mentioned that the flights for my airline (AA) out of there often are not direct and always go through DFW which is a huge and ugly airport. Maybe it is because I am in travel mode, but that was the answer that was truthful
She then decides to tell me that it is one of the best for traveling “to the Orient”..yeah, the Orient, as if I am looking for a spice road or easy access to silk. I mean, really lady?
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Hit and Run Your Mouth

I am lucky enough to have a parking deck under my apartment building- one of the small pleasures that comes from living in a city and not having to scramble over street parking. The one thing that always worries me is my proximity to a huge concrete support pole, but thankfully it has never been a problem because the spot next to me is empty.

It has never been a problem, she says….until today.
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Okay. I am going to go ahead and say that though family mostly annoys and perplexes me, I really really enjoy hanging out at family events. Between being able to look my aunt in the eye and say “wow, you are a drunk” or tell my cousin “I don’t want to feed your kid, he is all sticky”, I know that there is a kind of….judgey freedom…that happens when around family.

Knowing that I will only be on this coast for a few more months, I thought, what the hell, it would be awesome to celebrate a good old Traditional Canadian Thanksgiving with my relatives. Side Note- Canadian Thanksgiving is pretty much the exact same thing as US Thanksgiving- turkey, trimmings, the giving of thanks, pumpkin pie, firewater, small pox blankets etc.
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Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged

How dare you judge me, Seattle? Who the hell do you think you are.

So, dear reader, since moving to this rainy city I have started to feel…uncool. While in NYC, I lived a cosmopolitan life with nice lunches, late nights and occasionally throwing up out the side of a cab. It was very Sex and the City. And yet here I am, in a city where everyone smells like weed and dirt and people find it acceptable to go to the grocery store in their pajamas, and I feel like I am being judge. NO SEATTLE!! It is I who will judge you.

I realized all these emotions rather early in the morning as I attended a staff meeting. As I walked through a side door into the hall, every eye turned to me. Their faces read “who is this girl and why should I care”.
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And the band played on…

Mexican food is by far, my favorite and least favorite food of all time. Yeah, the blend of meat and cheese and spice is magic in my mouth, but at the same time, it means I have to be around Mexicans.

Every Sunday, La Hacienda decides to kick the Mexican experience up a notch and bring in a bunch of musicians to form a ragtag Mariachi band. These dudes seldom wear the same outfit, often look like meth addicts and always play their music as loud and as close to your face as possible. I do not understand a culture the likes three horns, one accordion, two guitars and a singer all playing at full volume in 2400 square feet. Yeah Mexicans, you tamales are fantastic, but I can’t afford them if I have to have a tympanoplasty. Look it up, nerds.
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Vocal Stylings

Some times a girl just wants to sing. So, I gathered some friends, donned my favorite wig and headed out for a night of Karaoke.

I was unprepared for the events that were about to unfold.
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Liar Liar

The Central Nervous System is a complex and intricate thing. It controls every aspect of my body- pooping, walking, yawning,dreams, my sense of humor and even personality disorders like compulsive lying.

I do lie, friends, everyone does, but never has my compulsion made its way into my subconscious.

This morning, my alarm went off and I was not ready to go to work. I mean, for god’s sake, it was only 9am. I decided that I would rest for a little bit longer, and that is when you can have some crazy good dreams. For me, these dreams I usually vivid and often have familiar people and places and situations- when I wake up from one, I sometimes think that conversations in these dreams ACTUALLY HAPPENED. More than once I have mistakenly referenced a dream situation with a friend/lover/parent that has led to confusion or anger.
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What the World Needs Now…

So, on a rainy Sunday evening, my roommate and I decided to actually leave the house and go to a bar for drinks. WE decided upon an Irish Pub we had frequented before, only because the bartender is superhero handsome. OH, and he gives us free drinks. So yeah.

Imagine our shock, as we sit down at the bar and hear some kind of up-beat, old timey piano music coming from the back room accompanied by a shrill, opera-esque woman. Curious, we asked what the hell was going on, to which The Bartender replied “every Sunday at around 4pm, this man comes to play old show-tunes and an Access-A-Ride van pulls up and these old women pile out to sing and they don’t leave until closing”.
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Bra Size

Well, now that I haves someone to once again see me naked, I have made the decision to upgrade my panty drawer. While there is nothing wrong with hanes six-pack underwear or my extensive collection of sports bras, I feel that they do not scream “sexy”- hence my recent visit to Victoria’s Secret.

And no, dear reader, this visit was not in person. It was done as almost all my shopping is done- online. There is something so powerful about online shopping, no idiot sales people, no babies, no leaving the house in the rain. Then, a few days later after it has slipped your mind that you engaged in AND for the masochist in me, there is the fact that what you order never really fits or is the wrong color.

So yeah, ordering a bra online is probably the stupidest thing a person could do- everyone’s boobs are different and blah blah blah common sense blah don’t buy online blah. The bras arrive. They do not fit. But not for the reasons you might expect…
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What the WHAT?

Dear Two readers,

As I searched around my site today, doing some minor editing of posts, I cam across a comment on my Pitcairn Island post (henceforth called “Rape Post”). Apparently, my meager blog is read by people who do not directly know me (SHOCK!!). My surprise was instantly lost when I realized that the post was pro-island rape…or at the very least not anti-island rape?
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Big Bertha

Subway tales

I love the subway if only because I can walk on in full pageant makeup, ski boots with flowers in my hair and no one gives me a second look. I can just sit and listen to the same Sufjan Stevens song over and over while avoiding eye contact and looking sullen until the train pulls into Borough Hall.

Sadly, this trip, I did not have the luxury of anonymity. Nope, this trip, a morbidly-obese, slightly-dirty, possible-hoboish woman entered the train.
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To Do List

I know that I have issues with sex that are too numerous and strange to mention, especially here…this is my blog not my livejournal…but still, as I read through the postings on Craig’s List personal ads, I could not but feel that I have been doing this sex thing all wrong.

I seldom look someone in the face and proclaim my need for intimate relations and the thought that someone can ask for sex through a Internet-based want ad confuses me. I mean, I want sex, but I feel that it is implied in a date or with drinks or at a movie theater or whenever a hot tub is present. Why would any skip all the fun of dating just to get naked, grind it, and then cry alone in the shower later? Yeah, I don’t get it…
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No Man is an Island

I am a shameless know it all. I admit it and I am not ashamed of it. I love to spend my days knowing worthless facts and random tidbits because who knows, it might be the one thing that wins pub trivia. I do not learn these things to shove knowledge in anyone’s face, but I often find myself as a resource to those who question if Mongolia is a real country or wonder if a cat’s purr comes from the

As i start each day, I never know where my internet hunting will take me, what links I will follow and what clarifying terms i will google. Indeed, this is a great era, where answers are only keystrokes away. I should not be surprised then, when throughout a series of mundane circumstances, I should happen upon an article accusing a small island with a population of 47 people, of massive counts of child rape.

Please, let me explain.
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Up in the air

Ah, the joy of flying. To be quite honest, I actually do not mind it. I do fly a lot and have it down to a relatively uncomplicated and smooth-ish system. I say this with reservation because there are so many factors to take into consideration (mainly other people- other travelers, babies, security guards, unhelpful asshole airline employees etc).

So, today I a flying off to Chicago for an annual Cianci related experience. I get to the kiosk and there is an old woman who is tapping away at the screen at the station next to me. I effortlessly complete my transaction in about 2 minutes (it would have been shorter, but I spent a few seconds seriously considering the offer to upgrade to 1st class, a decision I will deeply regret later). As I finish, the woman, turns to me. She has two large bags to check and her wallet is hemorrhaging papers/cards/money as she tries desperately yo slide her credit card through a slot clearly marked for passports. She politely says “Can you please help me with this?”. I am not wearing a fancy American Airlines vest and I do not have an foreign accent. Clearly I do not work at the airport, so no dice, grandma, but nice try. I do not make eye contact and instead continue on my way to the security checkpoint.
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Guilty Pleasures

I know that I do not have spectacular taste in music, but I also well aware that it is not awful. It is a happy medium between the latest Justin Timberlake release without having any N*SYNC.

Now, I will say that there is an abundance of Tori Amos- and her particular brand of overly-emotive, piano-heavy tragically nonsensical music is not for everyone. Indeed, when I am with friends and the music is on random and a Tori song starts, I have the sense to apologize profusely and quickly change it before they hear the such wonderful Tori phrases as “star-fucker, just like my daddy”, “Colonel Dirty-fishy-dishcloth”, or one of my favorites “give me peace love and a hard cock”.

In other words- I get it. I get the social convention that I should be embarrassed when something is embarrassing. I was raised in a normal Catholic household that encouraged/bred a feeling of guilt when appropriate. And it is always appropriate.

How than, can others not feel this. I am sitting in the Operating Room now, working on a ladies new breasts, and the surgeon is listening to God awful music and IS NOT EMBARRASSED. What the eff??
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Doo Rag

Today I was asked out by the Janitor. The black Janitor.

Let me explain.

I “accidentally” threw my patient’s doo-rag in the trash. So, I went to go looking for it in the heap of garbage bags that had accumulated throughout the day. I did this not to actually find the rag, but to make it look like I had made an effort to find the rag. I did not find the rag

But I did have to ask the housekeeper, henceforth called the Janitor, where the trash was kept.

Now, I do not know the Janitor’s name, but I do make an effort to thank him for the job that he does. He comes in and has to clean up blood and trash and is at the bottom of the OR food chain. I try to be friendly in my own way, you know, by saying thanks, but not actually helping him. He always smiles and asks me where I am from and tries to make conversation with me. I act very busy and sometimes try to ignore, but politely.
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Last minute deals

I am a procrastinator. Indeed, i believe that much of my life decisions have been put off and made at the last minute where there are few options. That said, I am not doing too bad.

Anyway, I was invited to a babyshower for a friend/co-worker in North Carolina and I very much wanted to attend. Alas, it would have been do difficult to fly down etc., so I RSVPed ASAP with a “cannot attend”.

Then I forgot all about it.
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We are ODST

Every time Hulu plays the advertisement for Halo ODST (see it here) I not only kind of want to join the military, but I want to buy this game AND I want them to make this into some kind of movie that I get to watch. Everything about it is the best thing I have seen in weeks. I need more of it. I kind of have to go buy an Xbox now and play this game. Stupid advertisements working effectively.

Mind Freak

I just realized that none of the hospitals in which I have worked has had an OR #13. That is six. Six hospitals, that is, who choose to cower before the almighty, all powerful THIRTEEN. Hospitals filled with medical professionals, scientists, scholars- persons I would not necessarily think would believe in magic and twilight zones. No, I would expect a healthy assortment of zealot religious types mixed with the cynical and the rational.

Then I met him. A doctor of urology, 55 years old, Indian (from India). He shall henceforth be called Dr. He sat down next to me at the front desk and began to watch YouTube. He insisted that I cease answering phone calls from the Emergency Room and watch this amazing video he was sent. He smelled quite strongly of BO and clearly had an erection, so my first instinct was naturally to flee, but alas, he had me cornered. Quite literally, he was blocking me into a tiny corner and invading my personal space and air supply.
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Dear Dad

Dear Dad-

I know that you are kind of an insane person. Indeed, you have a twisty-handle bar mustache, a severe case of OCD coupled with a sick desire to hoard random objects in large, spooky trailers in the back yard.

You have an odd sense of humor- a mix of wit, baseness and loudness that can be hilarious or soul-damaging. Like calling the place where your son meets men “McFisty’s” or buying me an action figure called “The Crazy Cat Lady” complete with a list of criteria for being a cat lady (with the ones I had accomplished checked off- like 1)never having a boyfriend 2)being covered in cat hair 3)living alone).

Do not get me wrong, dad, you are fantastic. You are, for the most part loving and creative. Up until now, you had used your powerful crazy for good (or against my brother-which is similar to good). I was alarmed, then, when you turned against me- your youngest child, your baby girl.
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Joke Time

I am done saving lives for the night. One great thing about working in the evenings, I get some down time to peruse the Internet and post on my blog. This blog.

Well, since I do not know these people here and some of my posts are rather base, I decided that instead of typing in my blog address (which would then forever be in thedrop down screen if someone were to peruse), I tried searching forfunnynurse.blogspot.

This time, a funny nurse joke from another blog was the #1 hit.*
Here it is, for your enjoyment.
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Trader Noir

Everynight, as I walk from the hospital to the subway, I happen to pass a Trader Joe’s. In the light of day, it is nothing more than a trendy and cheap-ish place to shop. But by night, it turns into something so much more.

Much of what I will speak of is shrouded in mystery and fantasy. And some of it will be entirely fictional. I invite you to come with me on a journey of dumpsters, darkness and orchids.

Date: 2/29/2009
Location :Trader Joe’s, Corner of Atlantic and Court, Brooklyn NY
Time: 11:13pm

The night was cold. There was a chill in the air that I should have expected at the end of September. Foolishly, I had left the house without a coat and therefore, held myself tight as I walked quickly to my train.
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Ah, the drug test. For those druggies who do drugs often, it can be a scary and shameful experience. But for me, someone who has abstained for such a long time, the drug test is a beacon of hope. The hope that after all this time, I still have my dealer’s number somewhere in my phone.

The sweet release of weed/moderate opiates have been calling to me for months, so when I finally got a job offer, I knew that the drug test request would soon be on its way. Sure enough, not moments after accepting the job offer, a woman called to give me the instructions on where to get my urination on. I knew that gods were smiling down on me, for this woman slowly said “we need you to take this as soon as possible…is there anyway you can go today?” Yes. Yes there was.
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Murder Most Foul

Do you think you could get away with murder? I mean, I am pretty sure that the only thing keeping me from murdering someone….well…anyone…is the fear of getting caught.

Last night, as I drove home at around midnight, a rather fat-assed woman of African-American descent decided to cross the road. I was coming down Franklin, reached the bottom (near the ABC store and Whole Foods) and I had a light of the purest and brightest green. The jade ember of that streetlight burned bright in the evening sky,beckoning me froward into the night.

Then, barely visible, wearing a delightful array of grey/black/brown, i barely saw the silhouette of a booty-licious woman back lit by the same that gave me the right of way.
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Drink it up

I can count on two fingers how many free drinks have been sent my way. I am not ashamed of these low numbers because I do not go through life on hand outs…or something…

Last night, I had the pleasure of competing in some awesome pub trivia with friends. I was rather disappointed that we did not win (especially considering most of the patrons were students at NC State), but the highlight had nothing to do with trivia.

The trivia-master decided to dedicate an entire round on alcohol. And yes, my friends, I was excited about the round. I felt that finally the stars were aligned and the universe was working for me- all so I could win a $25 gift certificate! With the help of my veryknowledgeable and alcoholic friends, we flawlessly answered every question- and they were not as easy as one might think- no no.
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An otherwise pretty face…

Something has been bothering me.

Well, lots of things bother me at all times in every way, but this one, well, this I just don’t understand.

Why does Christian Bale have some weird growth near his right eye?
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Tooth Fairy

I ate my tooth.
well…part of my tooth.

Okay, so I think the story starts with Harry Potter. It may have more to do with the liquor i drank at the midnight showing. While some pseudo-adults planned by constructing a beak for their Hedwig costume or buying a toilet seat to accent their Moaning Myrtle- I mixed the perfect blend of Ketel One and Crystal Light to smuggle in.
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I like it raw…

I am not a mean person. While in my youth, I may have used my talent for comic observation for evil instead of good, I am not that person anymore. This is why, when faced with the opportunity to save some one’s feelings by lying to their face…I usually do it.

Example time
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Hair Cut

So, this morning, I went to get a haircut at a well known and respectable establishment (Mina’s Studio in Chapel Hill- I went there to have my cooch waxed last year). So, I made this appointment on Monday, and since it was a last minute situation, the likely-hood of me getting their #1 was stylist was a statistical improbability.

So, at 9am sharp (and by sharp, I mean the bitch was 5 minutes late), this haggard-looking tranny-mess comes out and calls my name. She was not ugly, though she was young and had the look of a hard life…platinum hair, tattoos, no bra, heavy makeup. She complained instantly that she was not in top form, she had a tooth removed on Monday (and this, after a brief discussion, I learned was not a wisdom tooth…but a permanent tooth. You all know my feelings about this).

She wound that black cape around my neck and then began accidentally dropping scissors and hair clips from her little stylist fanny pack. We made small talk and she told me that her mom was the owner of the studio. Suddenly it became clear to me why I could get an appointment with her so easily.

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Dear Meat

Dear Meat,

I know this is hard for you, but I have some things I need to say to you. I miss you, Meat. And with all the loss I have had in my life, I not only miss you, but I miss the things we used to do together and how every things reminds me of you. Allow me to explain.

Getting drunk and eating a Wendy’s Spicy Chicken Sandwich- well, how I am supposed to have drunk food now that you are gone. Where am I going to drunk drive, now, Meat? Subway? Are they open late?

I have BBQ sauce in my fridge and not a single thing to put it on- oh, and I have tried to be creative about this. Can I dip vegetables in BBQ Sauce? NO- celery, broccoli, carrots, peppers, cauliflower- all seem as equally tragic and horrible to my refined meat palate. Dare I save the BBQ sauce in case you come back into my life- would that seem pathetic? Wishful?

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