I went to my Botox appointment yesterday during my menial lunch hour, and of course the Botox lady was running late so I knew I’d be getting back to work late, further irritating my already irritable boss. It also meant she didn’t have enough time to numb my face properly, so when she came at me with the syringe, it felt like bees were stinging my face. I wanted to slap her but it was all for a good cause, so I really couldn’t.
Yes, yes, yes… I get Botox and I’m not afraid to admit it. I don’t want that frown line that was developing between my eyes to deepen, which, by the way, was brought on by people… and their… habits. It’s an expensive process wiping away all emotion from one’s face using Botox, but there’s no better alternative; I’ve tried apathy, disdain and cynicism but none of those work as well.
You don’t get charged per visit for this treatment either, the way they charge you is per “unit”. A unit is basically a measurement the developers of Botox came up with of how much they should inject into your face. A unit sounds so reasonable, until you get the bill and see you needed a lot of fucking units.
There’s gotta be varying levels of freshness of this product too. This is only the second time I’ve had it administered, and the first time it took about three days to fully freeze my face, but this time, it only took a day and feels much stronger. I noticed my Botox lady opened up a brand new package of the stuff this time, so maybe they kind of ease you into it your first time and that way, you don’t get scared off because your face no longer moves the way it normally does. Anyway, no one even noticed I had anything done or that the upper portion of my face was no longer moving, which tells me that cynicism has been my go-to expression for longer than I thought.
It’s slightly ironic that I spent so much money getting this procedure done and I’m not even getting any action or have any prospects… but maybe that’s the whole idea; have your face frozen, get a guy! I’m not entirely convinced men would be as concerned about a woman’s facial features as they are about her other features though… like, for instance, her tits. Have you ever timed how long it took for a man you just met to move his eyes from looking directly into yours, downwards to your tits?
No, I won’t be doing any procedures to my tits. The thought of an icy steel blade cutting into that delicate flesh, severing nerves, and being adjusted into an unnatural position, just so I can live up to someone else’s idea of what they should look like… is not gonna happen. Not that I resemble a grandma or anything, sheesh! It’s just that they’re not as… well, let’s just say I’m not twenty anymore.
Why am I even justifying myself?
Jesus, when I think about this shit, I just get irritated and wonder why I want a man anyway if they’re so friggin’ shallow and rude. Then something happens, like the plumbing gets backed up, or no one’s around to take the trash out, or I need air in my tires… all things I am perfectly capable of doing on my own, but is so much better to have a man around to do them, and I go back to wanting one again. I guess men are good for some things. Plus, you know, the sex!
I wonder if the guy would even know I’m having a good time though, since my face always just reads “Cynic”?
That word is so meaningful and profound. I love how it feels as it forms in my mouth. It’s like having an icy piece of peppermint candy dancing on my tongue, with all the sweetness of a love affair, but none of the bitterness. That’s because once you utter the word, any bitterness is immediately ejected out of you and onto the person with whom you’ve placed judgement.
I don’t know if there’s an idiot scale measuring how much of an idiot someone can be, but if there is, it’s irrelevant; just the word alone denotes how much of an idiot an idiot is, that’s the beauty of it! Sure, you could say “What a fucking idiot!” or “What a stupid idiot!” and it may feel good adding in those adjectives, but it’s not necessary. Idiot can stand alone and be completely effective.
I like to use it as much as possible, especially when I’m driving. But I’m not sure I want to hear someone else using it. I don’t know… I think it’s because calling someone an idiot should be a private exchange between you and the person you’ve deemed as such, like for instance, while driving. So when I hear someone else using it to describe someone, it almost feels like I caught them doing something dirty or illegal.
Like the other day: My landlady was telling me how much her electric bill was, in what I can only describe as complaining and hinting, and she went on to say one of her tenants (clearly not me), who has been away on vacation (clearly not me), had inadvertently left their freezer door ajar, so the constant running jacked up her bill. She said “I just happened to go into her unit and noticed she didn’t close the freezer door all the way, so it was running for over a week… the idiot!” (again, clearly not me) and I felt sort of, um… yucky, after she said it.
I happen to like my landlady and we get along really well, so after hearing that, all I could think was “Wow, I wonder what she says about me?” and immediately after that “Wow, I wonder how many times she’s let herself into my place when I wasn’t there?” Then I started to think about whether this person deserved to be called an idiot. It wasn’t like they’d left the freezer door open on purpose, it was an accident anyone could make. I’ve done it a couple times myself. How many people do you know slowly close the refrigerator door and make sure it’s closed all the way every single time they use it… I mean, besides those weirdos with OCD?
People with OCD: DO NOT EMAIL ME
That is a rhetorical question by the way. I’m sure you’re not sitting there trying to think of someone you know who’d do that, right? ‘Cause that would make you an idiot. No one would. You’d open the fridge or freezer, grab what you needed and slam the door shut behind you with your foot or elbow like a normal person. You wouldn’t turn back to make sure it closed all the way, you’d be too busy with food on your mind!
I’m getting hungry just thinking about this whole fridge thing.
Now, would I be irritated as a landlady if this happened to me? Yeah, but I’d think of a more constructive way to deal with my frustration, like unplug their air conditioner during a heat wave and say it’s broken and going to take a couple days to fix… or something like that. I wouldn’t name-call if it wasn’t necessary.
I don’t know if people have referred to me as an idiot or not (probably) but I don’t wanna know. The only thing I want to concern myself with is: When I use that term to describe someone, and how much they deserved it. Everything else is just… idiotic.
Well I woke up with a friggin’ cold sore on the cupid’s bow of my upper lip this morning. I hate these things; they’re painful, they’re ugly, and they go through a terrible metamorphosis over a period of ten days or so: First, it starts out as a red bump, then it doubles in diameter and gets a head on it, then it pops, leaving a raw, open wound that scabs over, sheds, and scabs over again, two or three… or four times. Plus they’re itchy. I can already tell… this one’s gonna get so big, it’ll have its own heartbeat.
Wanna kiss me?
Jesus Christ, I already feel undesirable as it is… now this. I was planning on calling a male prostitute for a date tonight too, now that’s out the window. No, no, no… not to have sex or anything… I just want the companionship. Really, I swear. I know it sounds hard to believe… listen, I know my male readers will totally get it; they’d understand because they’d say the exact same thing… if they got caught doing it. At least I’m being honest from the get-go.
It doesn’t really matter that I look like I’ve been punched in the mouth, I don’t have the money to hire a male prostitute anyway. I’ve been spending it on a totally different kind of therapy; the kind where you pay someone to listen to you talk about your problems. Doesn’t seem like such a great deal now that I’m comparing it with hiring a hot male prostitute to essentially do the same thing. Maybe I need to rethink my priorities.
I haven’t had a date in Idunnoknowhowlong (I do, but I’m not telling), and I haven’t been able to subject myself again to the humiliating online dating experience because I’m not a sucker for punishment.
“Hey there, you don’t know me, but since you’re shopping for a partner, here’s my picture for your consideration. It’s not an accurate representation of me in everyday life, that would be too fucking unacceptable because I wouldn’t be able to use filters or the right lighting or the best angle to try to disguise my true age every single fucking moment of the rest of our lives together. By the way, how old did you lie about on your profile?”
No thanks cowboy. I’d rather have spurs stuck in my eyeballs.
So my dating life this past week consisted of me going to the movies with a good guy friend of mine, and we ended up talking about aging and everything that’s going wrong with our slowly failing bodies. This is the topic du jour for the 50+ set, for those of you who are still wasting your youth.
Anyway, I’m not much of a moviegoer. I think I go maybe three or four times a year, mostly because it’s completely overpriced for what you get. Hollywood just re-hashes and repackages the same old scripts and story lines and most of it is done poorly and not something I’d wanna spend almost twenty bucks doing. Hmm, I wonder how much time I could get with that male prostitute for twenty bucks?
We went to see Mission Impossible (sounds like my love life), and I’m really glad I went because I got to drool over Tom Cruise. I don’t care what kind of twisted life he leads over at the Church of Scientology with all those other wack jobs, he’s still hot at fifty-something and does his own stunts! When we sat in our seats I made sure to put my arm on the armrest of the empty seat next to me to establish my dominance in case someone came and sat down. The seats in the theater were the best part though; they reclined and the footrest came up. I was praying I wouldn’t inadvertently take a nap as I sat/lay in my chair. I didn’t have to worry, the movie was pure action-packed from the moment it started.
When I realized I had to go pee halfway through, I was fraught with the decision to either hold it, or miss a few minutes of the movie. I decided not to take any chances, made a run for the bathroom and gave myself 90 seconds to get back to my seat before I would self-destruct. That’s a Mission Impossible reference for those of you who’ve never seen the movie franchise or television series, which would be ludicrous.
Hmm, I wonder how much Tom Cruise charges per hour?
I don’t like the fact that people tend to associate you with something they remember you doing once before. It’s like you do one little thing and that’s it, that’s all they remember you by, and it’s associated with you for the rest of your life. Like my neighbor always referring to me as the crazy naked woman he found in his pool that one night. It was hot, I thought he was out of town… I mean, Jeez, let it go already! There’s so much more to me than that anyway, like I know how to pick fruit from other neighbors’ trees without getting caught, for instance.
Listen, I used to wait tables a long time ago but does that still make me a server? No. I accidentally spilled a shit load of beers on a group of off-duty cops during happy hour one night but does that make me a klutz? No, it makes me a friggin’ genius… I can’t stand cops.
The other day, I got an unsolicited email offering me a job as a dishwasher. A dishwasher?! Are you serious? Like I don’t do enough dishes as it is, being a woman with no automatic dishwasher. Please. What’s really ironic is it came from a company called Compass Group Talent Acquisition (apparently it takes talent to do the dishes now). I nearly spit out my coffee when I read it! That’s just an expression by the way, I don’t drink coffee, it doesn’t agree with me. Neither does chocolate, which is truly, truly awful. I’ve had to eliminate two of the best tasting things on this planet out of my diet. I can still eat dick though. Actually, I wouldn’t characterize dick as best tasting… or even good tasting, for that matter. I’d rather have a chocolate bar, put it that way.
When I realized I could no longer eat chocolate, I contemplated my existence on this earth; what’s the point of living if you can’t eat chocolate?! Well, I can eat chocolate, but I’ll pay for it later with the Hershey squirts. Sorry, I didn’t mean to gross you out, but that’s what happens. I must have the weakest digestive system in the world: I can’t eat dairy or chocolate, I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol, and I don’t eat meat, it’s pathetic. Being vegetarian’s by choice though because one, I live near Los Angeles, and two, I truly believe it elevates me as a human being. You know, there are a lot of guys out there who think their beards and hair buns elevate them as more evolved, but that’s just appearance; I truly am more evolved.
A man bun is slightly repulsive.
Anyway, how do I survive this meager existence? I live my life vicariously through watching other people eat. No, I don’t peek through my neighbor’s kitchen window during dinner, I watch videos on YouTube of people eating copious amounts of food, like any other normal human being. It’s a thing. People film themselves porking out on large amounts of food for their online audience; they call it Mukbang. That’s Korean for “I don’t, know what the fuck?” I’m kidding. This phenomenon did start in Korea though. Look it up online, there’s a great definition on Wikipedia.
I can only dream of being half as piggish as these people are! It’s incredible the variety and amount of food they put away and I watch in fascination as they slurp, chomp and devour some delicious, and not so delicious looking food. Some of them are understandably chubby, but others are really petite, slender even, which tells me they’re barfing up their food afterwards… duh, no-brainer! It doesn’t matter to me though, it seriously gets me through the tough times, which is like, every single fucking day.
I may not watch Mukbang every day, but I know it’s always there for me, like a chocolate bar would be there for me when I was younger and could eat it with impunity.
You know what I love about summer? The lemons. Cheery, bright, yellow, juicy, sweet-sour, mouth-puckering lemons! It could be the quintessential fruit of the season if it weren’t for the friggin’ watermelon; that big, heavy round thing that resembles my belly at the moment. Nope, I’m not preggers… that, my friends, would be an immaculate conception… and terrible! Kids? Yuk. Rather, I’m experiencing a painful bout of IBS. I’ll spare you any details, just know that it’s really fucking uncomfortable… not to mention awkward being a slightly older woman who looks pregnant.
Bright yellow lemons remind me more of summer fun than a red watermelon, and having fun is what summer’s all about. One of my favorite fun things to do on a hot summer day is stop at some kid’s lemonade stand and have a refreshing beverage. I happen to like lemonade, okay? Besides, I once read that if you see a kid’s lemonade stand, stop and buy a lemonade from them to make them feel good, even if you’re not thirsty. That’s every altruistic, isn’t it? I totally agree, everyone should stop to buy a lemonade from the cute kids that went to the trouble of putting up a lemonade stand. They’re like young entrepreneurs.
Which is why I gave two of them some business advice this past week.
I went to a lemonade stand down the street from my house. It was being run by two very enthusiastic, slightly obnoxious little girls who were selling their lemonade for fifty cents, so I bought one. Then I went two streets over to another lemonade stand, which was being run by two smelly older boys, and bought their lemonade, which was seventy five cents. Both were awful, frankly.
So I went back to the first lemonade stand and said to the girls “Listen, there’s another lemonade stand a couple blocks over that are bad mouthing you guys and your product.” the little girls gasped. I went on: “Yeah, they’re getting passing cars to blow off your stand and come to theirs. Not only that, they’re selling their lemonade for more money, and, to be honest, it tasted much better. If I were you, I’d add more sugar to your product and raise the price by seventy five cents. The added sugar will bring repeated business, trust me. Plus, they’ll bring their friends.”
The girls listened intently and nodded their heads. I told them they should thank me for the free advice, then I promptly went back to the other lemonade stand the boys were running. I said to them “Look, there’s another lemonade stand two blocks over that are bad mouthing you guys and your product.” The boys looked at me with disbelief. I continued: “Yep, they told me their lemonade was better than yours and they’re getting passing cars to blow off your stand and come to theirs, and to be honest, I thought theirs tasted better. If I were you, I’d make your product better and raise your price by fifty cents.” They asked me how and I suggested they add food coloring to make it pink because everybody loves pink lemonade since the yellow lemonade looks like pee.
Last time I drove by, one was selling theirs for two fifty and the other, two seventy five and they both looked like they weren’t doing a lot of business, which wasn’t surprising; who the hell wants to pay that much for a goddamn lemonade?
Someone left a bean in the microwave; a single bean. It was sitting right on top of the glass dish, the one that spins around when the microwave is on. I left it in there and just watched it spin around, and as I did, I thought of my last narcissist, uh… boyfriend, and the last time I had sex, which was with him, and I realized the bean was serving as a metaphor for my lonely, pathetic life.
Picture a dried up, single bean. That’s me right now. I really wanted the bean to represent that asshole, not me, but I’ve tried every single angle and believe me, I just can’t get it to work any other way. I’m wondering if I’ll ever have sex again, because it’s bean a while, get it… bean/been? *snort, snicker* and I’m not meeting any new dudes. I’m worried that the last sexual encounter I will ever have is with that asshole and it will be my final memory of that God-given act of pleasure.
That would suck.
It’s not that the sex was bad, but you know how it is when you break up with someone; you know you’d never want to go back, so thinking about having sex with them grosses you out. I mean, if you’re normal, it grosses you out. Okay, maybe there are some of you who would go back and wanna have sex with your ex and it wouldn’t gross you out, even if you were disgusted with them as a person.
Which, in all honesty, should make you disgusted with yourself.
Speaking of disgusting, a massive heat wave is in the forecast for the next three days and I’m really not looking forward to it… just in case I have to qualify that. Who the hell ever says they can’t wait for it to be 110 degrees? Well, maybe the same person that would have sex with their ex…
I dread hot weather because the air conditioner in my car only works for about 5 minutes, then poops out, and I live in Freeway Hell-Angeles (that’s Angeles, as in Los Angeles, not Hell’s Angels, just in case you read it too fast), and it would cost more to fix the air conditioner than the car is worth, so I was trying to figure out a way to solve this problem. So I did what every other fucking great American in this country would do if they were in my shoes: An internet search.
Happy Independence Day!
No, I didn’t mean for the Fourth of July, so you can put out your sparkler, Tonto. What I mean is my independence should be celebrated since figured it out on my own. So in true American fashion, I made myself a White Trash Air Conditioner! What is that, you ask? Well first, ask yourself “What would MacGyver do?” but instead of MacGuyver, it would be MacGirlver. Then go watch a YouTube video and Bam!… you got yourself a way to cool down your mobile oven.
I got a styrofoam cooler, a mini car fan with an a/c plug, and a pvc pipe elbow joint. I proceeded to cut two holes in the cooler, one for the fan and one for the elbow joint. I stuffed a bunch of ice packs inside the cooler, stuck the fan through the side hole of the cooler and the elbow joint in the top, then turned the fan on.
It worked! But only if I kept the fan on low and the car stationary, otherwise, the lid would pop off from all the blowing air. So I just need to strap that puppy down (probably with some bungee cords) and it should be golden.
If not, I’ll be a disgusting, sweaty ex.
There are several indicators that show someone is high maintenance. To be helpful, I’ve created a list of those indicators for people to refer to:
1. They are a woman
2. They are needy
3. They require constant attention
4. They are a pain in the ass
4. They are a woman
Hmmm, I feel like there may have been a duplication in there somewhere… oh well. Anyway, I know I’m not gonna win any “Feminist of the Year” awards for this one, but maybe I’ll win an “I Don’t Give a Shit of the Year” award for speaking the truth… or uh, writing the truth… so yeah, maybe I’ll get an award for that. I know, I’m a woman, too! I know how to spot someone high maintenance specifically for that reason. We women have strong tendencies of becoming high maintenance and it’s all because of one person: Cinder-fucking-rella!
A fictional cartoon character from a fairytale influenced an entire nation of young minds which helped to create the High Maintenance Woman, can you believe that?
Cinderella was portrayed as this helpless victim who had something missing from her life (supposedly, a man) and she would not be whole until she found it (one). She had a mean family, she was poor, she only knew how to sweep a floor. She had style she had grace, Cinderella gave good face! Then one day she heard about a ball, and a man, dark, handsome and tall. She…
Okay, that’s enough of that.
Then she was brought into wealth by a prince and she was beautiful all of a sudden.
Walt Disney created this ideal of what he thought women should be: Helpless and unwanted until marriage saved us. That lead to further victimization of women by society and the media, and a lot of women didn’t fight back. We were fed this image as children and took it into our adulthood. We bought into the whole “One day my prince will come and save me and then I’ll live happily ever after!” What a crock! Disney was an asshole. Sure, he delighted millions of children around the world, but he was a misogynist, nazi-sympathizer… AND, portrayed women as slovenly ash-sweepers until a man comes into their lives, rendering them beautiful and loved.
Please. This is the guy who manifested his homosexual tendencies in a gay rodent called Mickey Mouse.
No, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a gay rodent.
The Cinderella fairytale has created an entire social strata of high maintenance women that has perpetuated through the decades. We can’t do anything ourselves, we constantly need reassurance, attention and assistance… and when I say “we”, I mean the “royal we”. I, personally, am not high maintenance. I’m an independent, free-thinking, do-it-yourself woman!
Until it comes to plumbing.
I recently had an experience with one: This lady I don’t even know wanted to participate in an event a bunch of us were doing, but she wanted to make sure we knew she had limitations; she wouldn’t be able to participate in all aspects of the activity and wanted us to know how much of a problem it was going to be, which begs the question, why do you want to do it then? That’s what I mean about high maintenance. She didn’t really want to do the activity, she just wanted to draw attention to herself.
Please do us all a favor and go play on the freeway, as my mother used to say.
I’ve found the best way to handle high maintenance types is to ignore them and they’ll go away. They’ll soon find someone else they can suck into their drama and they’ll never bother you again. Now, if you’re already married to one, that presents a slightly trickier situation. You probably already do try to ignore her, but it doesn’t work, huh? She keeps yapping and yammering away, driving you crazy. I’m sorry Prince Charming, but you can’t complain about her now, you were the one who picked up the crystal shoe! Oh right, it’s called the glass slipper, isn’t it? Whatever… you’re the one who pursued this nightmare now you gotta deal with it.
Yeah, I know Prince Charming was in Sleeping Beauty, another stupid movie! Seems like men have fallen for the same trap us women were lured into. If you’re “royalty” with lots of assets and you married a beautiful woman solely based on her looks and how it would make you look, lured her into a life of leisure and wealth, and now you can barely keep up with her demands, you get what you deserve. If you’re really unlucky, you got married in one of the nine states that has community property. Actually, bad luck has nothing to do with it, I mean, let’s just call a spade, a spade: You were stupid and not thinking properly… or property *snicker* Be careful in the divorce, your assets might get “Frozen” *snort, snicker, snort*
I love happy endings!
I wanted to get rid of some pesky annoyances, but it didn’t work because I failed to put on the proper man boots.
I had an ant problem. They got in everywhere they possibly could, even in my pants, where they definitely don’t belong… kinda like sand, or Republicans. I’ve been avoiding calling pest control because I don’t like poison and care about the environment… to a certain extent. I mean, don’t ask me to give up my plastic shopping bags, take-out containers, and fossil fuel or anything.
So I’ve been trying to keep them at bay, unsuccessfully. It got to the point where I finally couldn’t take it anymore and had to dig in deep and fight the bastards with everything I could (which is probably how Planned Parenthood and women’s rights groups felt this past year), so I called The Exterminator to get an estimate. I envisioned a giant, robotic beast of a man resembling Arnold Schwarzenegger showing up wearing khakis and big, black boots with a fire-thrower slung over his shoulder, but all I got was a millennial, aka “home-dweller”, with a beard, sunglasses, and inked-up, scrawny body (look up millennial in the dictionary, that’s the exact description). I guess it’s fine, it is just ants, after all, we’re not dealing with Armageddon or anything.
Anyway, he talked me into it, which really wasn’t that hard considering I was at the end of my soap-on-a-rope, so he said he’d come back the following day and spray the perimeter of my house. Now this is where it gets weird: I gave explicit instructions on where not to spray, because of my two cats, so when I got home, I could smell the stuff he used right away, and it was where I instructed him not to spray. Okay, I was very clear in my instruction when I texted him a reminder in the morning… or so I thought. But I guess there’s a discrepancy in the way a bright, attractive, young(ish) woman and a millennial communicate through texting; I use all my vowels, punctuation and emojis, and he… doesn’t.
im sry i dnt mk mysf clr a*hole 😠
I was dumbfounded that he couldn’t even follow simple directions! As I was texting where he was to avoid spraying, I thought to myself, “Okay, he’s a man, so you gotta keep it really simple, don’t complicate things and it’ll be just fine.” You see, when you need to explain a job to a man, you have to put on your man boots; you have to think like a man would. That means you have to pare down any extraneous information, don’t make the language too flowery or cute, and allude to the possibility of sex afterwards if the work is done properly.
Anyway, apparently this reasoning was not enough, because you have to figure in visuals too. Why do you think all those stupid manuals have pictures in them? Because they’re designed by men, and men like pictures… Playboy, Sports Illustrated, Cereal boxes… I had completely forgotten to draw a schematic, silly me!
Plus, if I were really thinking like a man, I would realize the first thing he would’ve noticed as he approached my gate would be the bungee cord I use to hold the gate closed, because his thought process would go something like this:
See bungee cord… *grunt*
Bungee cord good… mmmm….
Me go to bungee cord… unga bunga!
What? Why do I use a bungee cord to hold the gate closed? Does that question really add any value to this one-sided conversation? I don’t think so. Please, let’s move on…
The only place I didn’t want him to spray was my patio area, which is a garden, really, and I instructed him not to spray in the “garden”. But then the damn bungee cord fucked it all up! A man sees a bungee cord and immediately thinks of strapping something down, consequently getting excited. The section of his brain that controls reason goes offline and the amygdala, or “serpent brain” kicks in (really, that’s what it’s called, I didn’t make that shit up). That’s the section of the brain that is the most primitive, in case you didn’t know, and there is a direct correlation between the word serpent and a bungee cord producing excitement in humans, like ants in the pants. I’m even getting kinda hot writing those words together!
So instead of putting up signs with giant lettering and arrows pointing the guy in the right direction, which I seriously considered, I failed by leaving the bungee cord where it was, assuming he would figure it out by the instructions alone. I can’t even promise you that the large signs would’ve been sufficient, I probably would’ve needed to completely remove the bungee cord from view; you don’t want to leave any temptation or distractions for the simple mind to get swayed.
Well, I guess most of the time, I fail to fully think like a man, which is totally natural considering I do not have a serpent in my pants.
So I’ve got a tooth that’s gotta come out. A root canal was done on it years ago and now it’s gotta get replaced. Thank God it’s in the back where no one would actually notice that it’s missing, but I still want to replace it with an implant… which is kind of exciting actually, I’ve never had anything implanted in my body before!
Unless you count the time that hairy bastard I’d picked up at a bar put his…
Anyway, it costs a small fortune to get a tooth implant, did you know that? Supposedly, it’s a whole process: They have to harvest tissue from a cadaver and stick it in the hole where the tooth once was, then wait a few months for it to take. After that, they do some drilling, stick in a steel post, and top it off by screwing on a new tooth. You know, this sounds disgusting. Well, I’ve done disgusting things before so what’s one more, right hairy bastard?
All told, it comes out to about $5,000, and that’s if you want a competent dentist. If you don’t care, well then, you could probably find someone for about half that and take your chances, but that’s still $2500 bucks… for one tooth! Now I can just get the tooth extracted and leave the hole, but besides the fact that I’d be feeling like a damn hillbilly from the hills of Tennessee, they charge for that too!
People from Tennessee: DO NOT EMAIL ME.
So yeah, the dentist actually charges you to take a tooth out, which I think is ludicrous! I mean, they’re taking the damn tooth and leaving me with nothing, that’s hardly something they should charge me for. They’re taking the goddamn tooth, don’t you think they should pay me?
Jesus, I hope they wouldn’t reuse it on someone.
On top of all that, the dentist doesn’t even take payments, I’d have to pay all at once since I don’t have insurance. So I asked him if his office ever does any charity work, you know, like Doctors Without Borders, except maybe it’s called Dentists with Toothless Patients Against Corporate American Healthcare. The answer was no, in case you actually needed me to qualify it.
The insurance companies essentially say, “Well yeah, looks like you have to have this tooth taken out but we’re not going to pay to replace it because you have, like, 31 other teeth already, so you have plenty. Even if you only had 16 teeth we still wouldn’t pay to replace any missing ones because it’s considered cosmetic.”
Cosmetic… uh huh.
Never mind the fact that no one would want to hire a toothless person for… well, just about anything. Unless they wanted you to work someplace you wouldn’t be seen, like in a morgue. I guess I could make extra money harvesting cadaver gums…
But I would be completely undateable, no one wants someone with no teeth! Well, unless I wanted to go out with another toothless sucker… and I’d have to call him my Gummy Bear! Never mind the fact that humans need teeth to chew food to stay alive unless you wanna suck your dinner through a goddamn straw! In fact, the only good thing about the possibility of being toothless, is that I would never have to deal with another moron dentist again! Well, that and the blow job thing with my new honey, Gummy Bear.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have something stuck between my teeth.
You wanna know how to create a frenzy over something? Make it scarce.
Limit its accessibility to the public and create the illusion of scarcity, which in turn, creates the illusion that the thing is more valuable than it really is, that there’ll be a shortage of that particular thing, and if people don’t act right away and go out and get it, they’ll lose out. All of a sudden that thing becomes a highly valuable commodity, because it’s human nature to want something that others don’t have, and… to be able to get it first.
FOMO, basically (Fear Of Missing Out).
We want to own something others don’t, we want to have the first edition, we want to say we bought something first, and we want to make sure we have that thing, whatever it is, before it falls off the “Most Wanted” list.
Why? So we feel superior to others. We want bragging rights because otherwise we’ll be losers, and let’s face it, nobody likes losers. I certainly don’t.
Remember the Cabbage Patch Dolls from the Eighties? There was a buying frenzy for those things, it was a complete phenomenon! Those dolls were hideous too; the ugliest things I’ve ever seen… well, next to our President. Now that I think about it, there’s quite a resemblance *snicker, snort*
Anyway, I couldn’t understand why a child would even want that thing in his/her bedroom; it looked like a mushroom grew a face… and it was fat! Nooo… there’s nothing wrong with being fat, it’s just that… well… it’s just that… fat isn’t really in style, is it?
Fatso. Fatty. Porko.
ahem… sorry. It’s a compulsion.
Anyway, the company that sold these hideous things created a tremendous feeding frenzy by limiting distribution. They created the illusion of lack, and people just went nuts trying to get one. Toy stores were bombarded and there was complete mayhem; people were crying, hair was pulled, punches were thrown! Personally, I never wanted one but I couldn’t resist getting in on the action.
God, I miss those days…
I’m sure the asswipe who invented ‘em made a fortune. He probably took a dump and that’s where he got the design idea, ‘cause they looked like crap. They did, they looked like a do-do.
Now that I think about it, that’s how people must’ve felt when I took myself off the dating market for a little while. NO, not that I looked like do-do, that there was an illusion of lack! No, no, no… that doesn’t sound right either; that they were going to miss out (that’s better). I can only imagine what frenzy ensued. No, I don’t have any actual data, but I would bet money… pennies, I would bet pennies… that it left a resounding void in the entire, um… block…
When I got back on the market, I strategically put myself on a couple of the online dating things simultaneously, just to give everyone the most opportunity to get with me. One was an app where you had to swipe either left or right depending on prospects or rejects. That one’s loads of fun because you could spend the entire day just thumbing through all these idiots without a care in the world!
In the whole online dating process, I discovered a few rules I didn’t know about beforehand. For instance, when trying to catch a man, I’m only supposed to post pictures that least represent how I actually look in real life, they should be from around 5 to 7 years ago, and only during times I was skinnier… because, ya know, the “fat” thing.
Also, I’m not supposed to tell a guy how much I weigh. I had no idea! Supposedly, women lie about their weight all the time, usually taking off anywhere from 15 to 20 lbs. That’s a lot, my friends! So when this one guy sent me a message with his stats… you know, how tall he was, his weight, etc., I felt compelled to send mine. I told him that I weighed… uhhh… well, I’m not gonna tell you because I don’t want to astound you… but anyway, he must’ve added on the 20 lbs. women normally subtract because he deleted me right away… the nerve! I must have seemed like some giant cow to this idiot. He didn’t even give me the chance to show how amazing I actually am.
The guy, not me.
Of course, two can play that game because it seems men like to add a few inches here and there too; to their height, their biceps, their… well anyway, after months of swiping, I finally met someone face to face, which is apparently comparable to scoring a big win in Vegas or winning the lottery. We decided to meet for an afternoon coffee for a quick look-see, and of course, I was disappointed, even though I’m sure he felt like the cat’s dinner. We really didn’t have much in common other than the fact that we both found myself attractive. There wasn’t much conversation either. Finally, after a few long moments of silence, the guy asked me if I had anything at all to say, so I said “Well, I happen to love broccoli stems much more than the florets, and I say this because in life, you have to stand for something, otherwise you’ll fall for anything.”
Like Cabbage Patch Dolls.