Sunday, October 3, 2010

Invasion of The Vagina-Snatchers

Alas, it is time to write. It's not that I haven't been writing; it's just that after weeks of writing on Rousseau, Jefferson, and Lao-Tzu, I find it more appealing than ever to write on things that have to do with my life. Since I am not a prince (though I do own a couple Prince albums and after multiple times of clicking "repeat" I find that I still have no idea why the rain is purple and not blue or maybe even a deep crimson), and I did not write the Declaration of Independence (for if I did, I would classify men's inalienable rights as Shooting The Bird In Traffic, Shooting The Bird In Photographs, and Shooting The Bird When Not Quite Sure How To Respond With Words), and I am not Asian (though, according to The Vapors, you can turn Japanese on a daily basis, depending solely on how horny you are), I am forced to write only of what I know of. And what I know does not pertain to government, our country, or obtaining peace, but instead pertains to the following: red cardigans, cop calls, and bare-naked asses.

I really hate having to "paint the picture," but since you may not understand this story fully, or learn a valuable lesson from it for that matter, I find that I must paint said picture, and it's not going to be pretty. Since I hate doing it. Which I just told you. WERE YOU NOT PAYING ATTENTION? Alright, summary: IwasinChattanoogafortheweekendandthisiswhathappened:

True friends will greet you with hugs, kisses, and an unlimited supply of margaritas. I have these true friends. While sitting outside and catching up ("What are you up to?" "Not shit."), we all found it rather amusing to mock the packs of Catholic School Girls who had all seemed to flock to this particular college campus. Knowing that we were on such a location, we were quick to infer that these were not actual Catholic School Girls, but instead Big Fat Attention Whores. We all knew that by boycotting the frat party of the night and spending our evening making fun of the cheeks peeking out from behind the plaid, we were super fucking cool. However, it is a known fact that alcohol tends to make people less cool. And I will willingly admit...I was the first to surrender my cool points.

" you guys...maybe...wannagotothefratparty?"
Cringing cringing cringing waiting for a response please say yes cringing cringing cringing.

Jumping jumping jumping we are all way too excited and therefore must be way too intoxicated but still jumping jumping jumping.

"Well hell yeah dude, let's go!"
Piling piling piling how can we all fit into this car at least I am focused enough to call shotgun piling piling piling.

After the two man-boys of our group, a group which we like to call BCM (Big Cock Mafia for long), and the two man-boys who I shall refer to as Thing 1 and Thing 2, change into some more appropriate "successful man clothes," which can be defined as the question of, "Just how closely can you resemble an Easter Egg?," we're ready to hit the road. Us girls, 3 of us in total, decided to go as Catholic School Girls Who Had Been Expelled, which can be defined as, "I'm not changing my clothes just to be half-naked, you bitch." And off we were, completely oblivious to just what lay in store for us.

Having been born with vaginas, the three of us were allowed to waltz right in. And they say there is still inequality among men and women! Pshhh! Vaginas have obviously, obviously, acquired much respect over the years, since now there are whole social gatherings planned discreetly themed as, "Invasion of The Vagina-Snatchers." Yay for women! Aretha, your wish has come true! Aretha, EUREKA!

I'm starting to not relate to my audience. Moving on.

Thing 1 and Thing 2, on the contrary, had been asked to please "check the list," a list of which they were not on, since neither of them are Sperry-wearing, condom-carrying, dick-slobs from The Bone Zone, so off they went into the darkness of the night...never to be seen again...until 45 minutes later when they appeared on the balcony dripping with sweat.


Trekking through the woods for miles. Hopping a barbed wire fence. Climbing over a giant air-conditioning unit. Hopping yet another barbed wire fence. Hiking in the dark. Through the woods. Around the corner. Up the balcony. Across the planks. And there they were.

All for a frat party.
Damn alcohol.

After a mere 10 minutes of mingling with drunken sluts (why is it that girls only get the way they get when they drink? I never see guys slurring their words and falling all over the place and touching everyone they come across and telling everyone how "cute" they are in a voice that has become much more high-pitched than it was pre-drinking. girls suck. and these ones sucked in lots of different ways.), Red Cardigan, a.k.a. Giant Doucher, a.k.a. Preppy Asswipe, a.k.a. WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING WHEN YOU PUT ON THAT RED CARDIGAN YOU CHRISTMAS-TIME-WHORE, approaches Thing 1. Pulls him aside. All with his cheesy-smile and his pretentious attitude and his doomed post-college future. To "have a chat."

Thing 1 soon returns, relieved because "that was a close one that was a close one that was a close one he almost caught me but I convinced him I was a frat brother I can't believe he fell for that," all while I am in clear view of Red Cardigan eavesdropping from around the corner.

"Thing 1. Thing 1. Thing 1."
I was thinking that maybe if I just repeated his name over and over again, he'd stop talking. My method proved to have some flaws.

"Hey, buddy, can I talk to you again real quick?"
I still don't understand how any man could take himself seriously in a cardigan.

I mean it's a cardigan.


Red cardigan.

Cardigan that's red.




Whatever. Thing 1 comes back with the news that we're getting kicked out. I was ready to leave after having been asked "where my costume was," but I soon changed my mind after hearing from Thing 2 that there was a dance party downstairs. Because if I were a machine...

But, Thing 1 was getting "sketched out" and therefore we collected the 5 total members of Big Cock Mafia and departed from the soon-to-be-orgy.

But I was pissed.

I was so pissed, in fact, that the whole way back to the car, I was yelling at Thing 1 for allowing Red Cardigan to kick him out like that. And for being polite to Red Cardigan. And for leaving in a calm, cool, collected, and mature manner. WE ARE 20 YEARS OLD THIS IS NO TIME TO BE MATURE WE'RE AT A BEER-BINGING-BROTHEL FOR GOD'S SAKE.

Thing 1 began to see things my way. But how would we get revenge? One of us Catholic-School-Outcasts made a little joke from the backseat as we sat pondering.

"Ha! It'd be so funny if we called the cops on them and busted their party!"



"Please calm down, sir. We are sending some officers over right---"


The minute he hangs up, we all start laughing, while realizing that Thing 1 could make quite the soap opera star. For none of us could have done it quite like that.

We pull up next to the house and wait. I, personally, was paranoid as shit, but was much thankful later that Thing 1 insisted on us posting up outside the house, for minutes later, it was one...two...three sirens.

And one stampede of sloppy sluts.

We drive off, parking in a random, abandoned lot and getting out of out mere panic and a total lapse of logic.

"Uhh...LET'S WALK!"


Thing 2 and I soon lost the other three, missing out on their venture back to the frat house. Apparently it went a little something like this.

"Hey! Where's Red Cardigan?!"


After hearing this tale, we all decide to get back in the car and head back to campus to reminisce on the night and tell each other how badass we all are. It is to our luck that to get home, we first had to drive past the frat house.


While Thing 1 is standing on his seat and hanging out the window, Thing 2 sees such a moment as the perfect opportunity to pull down his pants, stick his ass out the window, and shake it a little to and fro.

Their faces...oh, if you could have just seen their faces...the countless amount of shocked, angry faces...and the ass out the window.


We zoom back into the lane, with Thing 2 falling in Thing 1's lap, still with his pants down, mind you, and we return to out humble abode, where we had previously been sitting, only imagining what it would be like to attend such a party.

Not even knowing that later that night, the 5 of us would MAKE that party. Fuck with Big Cock Mafia, and Big Cock Mafia fucks your world. I'd now like to abruptly end this with a little piece of Ferrier Wisdom:

If the Scatman can do it, so can you.

Friday, July 30, 2010

The Jesus Drug

Before I embark on my literary journey for this evening, I would like to quote a beautiful poet from our past, for this talented genius was able to sum up the entire meaning of tonight’s topic at hand in three simple words.

“Fuck the police.”

Of course, I don't really mean "fuck the police." I had to call the police once when I was younger, and as my 7-year-old sister was trying to figure out how to throw the ladder out our window so we could escape from what we thought was a deadly intruder (not that exterminators aren't deadly intruders...), the police were there to help calm us misunderstood children down, and if an intruder ever did break in to my house, I would call them and know they'd do all they could to save my life. Not that I couldn't kick an intruder's ass myself. Cause I could.

Though technically I am not brown, I still got it bad. And I don’t mean Usher’s definition of “got it bad,” but if I ever do choose to blog about love, I’ll keep him in mind, even disregarding his spelling. Look, Usher, I know your Kindergarten teacher taught you something different, but "u" is actually spelled with three letters. Mind-blowing, I know. So is the fact that you refer to breasts as "boobies." Wow. Oh. WOW.

I actually got it bad because to me, a 92 dollar ticket is BAD. And you know what’s even worse? Traffic school. And worse that that? Traffic school for two days. And even worse than that? The fact that a car drove by me last week as I was walking across the street and yelled, “DIKE.” But that’s completely irrelevant.

I must have bad luck, because the last time I was in a speeding car, as a poor, helpless, innocent passenger, this was the play-by-play:

My sister sees the blue lights before I do. We look at each other, already knowing that we both are repeating the word, "Fuck" in our minds, kind of like this: Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, and my sister pulls over, as we are both still thinking, "Fuckfuckfuckfuck," maybe even adding a "Fucky" in there, which I blame on the pressure of the situation, since "fucky" isn't even a word. The cop slowly paces up to the sister exhales slowly, preparing herself for the ticket to come.

Cop: Whoa! You were going over a hundred!

My sister: I'm sorry, I was just trying to get home on time for curfew.

Cop: The speed limit is 55!

My sister: I'm really, really sorry. I didn't realize I was going so fast.

Cop: Ha! Ha! Ha! Man you were going fast! Well, slow down, okay? Hahahahaha!

The cop walks away laughing, turns his car on, and drives off.

My sister: Dude...he was so...fucking... STONED!

We laugh in utter joy and continue on our way home.

Ahem, with that experience fresh in your mind, I will now tell the story of my own cop-encounter, which occurred only a couple weeks following the former.

I am driving along the freeway. Alone. Again, I am a poor, helpless, innocent, soon-to-be-VICTIM of pure bad luck, and pure-bad-FUCK. As in everything. Okay, that wasn't clever at all. I just didn't want to blatantly say, "Fuck everything," because that would be cynical. Oh well. FUCK EVERYTHING. (Pessimism is acceptable as long as you balance it out with optimism. That is the golden rule. I never knew Mother Theresa personally, but I know she would agree with me. You see, I may have directly stated "fuck everything," but I wasn't finished with my statement. If I had stopped there, I would be shaking Lucifer's hand in a couple years, but I did not stop there. You interrupted me. What I was GOING to say before you were rude was, "Fuck everything, EXCEPT for easy-bake cookie dough." See? Saying that everything should be fucked except for easy-bake cookie dough means that easy-bake cookie dough is a wonderful thing, which it is, which means that I was positive just then! Cookie dough has brought me positive thoughts! Yay! Life IS worth living! Thank you, Nestle Tollhouse. Thank you.

The truth is, I was not thinking of frozen cookie dough when I saw the flashing blue lights; I was thinking of how long I could get away with refusing to pay my taxes. Because there's no way in hell I'm giving those shitheads money to get UNDERCOVER COP CARS. Play-by-play time:

Total Dick: Do you know why I pulled you over?

Innocent Me: My left headlight is out?

Total Dick: Uh, it?

Innocent Me: Uhhh...nevermind.

Total Dick: Do you know what the speed limit is?

Innocent Me: Seventy?

Total Dick: Even if it was seventy, you were going seventy-five. The speed limit is fifty five.

Innocent: Oh??? Reallyyyyyy???

Total Dick: And you were speeding in a construction zone.

Innocent Me: Oh??? Reallyyyyy???

Total Dick: I know you don't think it's a big deal to speed. None of you young people do. You think it's all about fun and games.

Innocent Me: I didn't know I was speeding, I'm sorry.

Total Dick: You'll be sorry when you're speeding and you kill someone.

Total Dick: You'll be sorry when you're speeding and you get hit and die.

Total Dick: Do you know what it's like to pull a dead girl out of a car?

Innocent Me: have never done that...

Total Dick: Do you know what it's like to have to call someone's parents and tell them their daughter is dead and hear them cry?

Innocent Me:'ve never done that, either...

Total Dick: Well I have. Do you know why that girl is dead now?

Innocent Me: No...

Total Dick: Someone who was speeding hit her.

Innocent Me: Oh??? Reallyyyyyy???

Total Dick: I'm not going to give you a speeding ticket.

Innocent Me: Oh, thank y---

Total Dick: I'm going to give you a reckless driving ticket. Because not only were you speeding, you were speeding in a construction zone. Sign here.

One 92-dollar-ticket after, and my dad has "good news."

Dad: I have good news!

Me: What?

Dad: You're eligible for traffic school!

Think of the cookie dough, think of the cookie dough, think of the cookie dough...

A month later, I am not thinking of the cookie dough. I am sitting in a room with ten other people, one of whom has turned his seat 90 degrees so he can stare directly at me and wink whenever I look over at him, and listening to my traffic school teacher tell a guy named "TT" to pull up his pants.

"TT, pull up your pants."

" pants IZ pulled up, mayne!"

"The crotch is past your knees."

"Nah duuuuu, my crotch right HEE-YA!"

TT grabs his junk and shakes it in order to make sure that everyone in traffic school is aware that he has testicles.

"Thank you for that, TT."

"I'm jus showin you, duuuuu....DIS my crotch!"

TT continues to shake his junk toward our 72-year-old traffic school teacher, just in case we were all wondering, "Does TT also have a penis?"

"That's enough, TT. Why don't you tell us all why you're in here instead."

"DUUUUUU...see what I don't git is how can a cop be goin n suspendin my license when I don't even GOT no license!"

"You don't have a license, TT?"


" can't drive without a license."

"Dat's what I'm SAYIN', dawg! If I ain't got no license, how can dem cops be suspendin it?"

"Because TT, you cannot drive without a license."

"Yes I can! I be doin it since I was foe-teen!"

"You cannot to that, TT."

"Yes I can! How you think I got here if I couldn't be drivin without no license?"

"No, TT. I'm not saying you physically are not able to drive without a license; I am saying, TT, that it is illegal."

"Mayne, dis shit STUPID!"

"That's it. Everyone, take a break. Go. Go."

Thankful that TT had managed to annoy our 72-year-old teacher, who I will refer to as Mr. 72, enough to give us a 20 minute break after only being in the class for half an hour, Mr. 72, for a reason I will never know, singles me out and tells me his life story as I am sitting outside.

"I smoked 4 packs a day for 53 years. I just quit 13 months ago."

"Wow, Mr. 72. Are you glad you quit?"

"Hell no! I sure do miss it! Smoking and chain-smoking are 2 different things, young lady. Before I'd start up, I'd light up. I still love the smell. Boy, do I miss it. Smoking is such a wonderful joy."

As I then decided that Mr. 72 was FUCKING AWESOME, we went back inside and watched videos about babies dying. TT told us how it wasn't fair that he got a ticket when all his friends "be ridin dirty," and don't get pulled over, while he "jus be goin to see one of his booty calls," and he gets a ticket for going the opposite way down a one way street. This concluded Day One.

Day Two began with me not being able to enter the building, since the two bitches working as security guards found it to be just hilarious to refuse to unlock the door for me, and then wave at me from inside as they smiled and laughed. I put my hands on my face, dragging my cheeks as far down as they would go, because in times of hating everyone in the world, I find it comforting to smash my face downwards. They then unlocked the door for me.

"You don't know how to open a doe [door], hun-nay?"

I stared at them, trying to look as disgusted as I possibly could.

"Well, you gots ta start by takin yo hands off yo face, did you know dat?"

I continued to look at them as if they were naked. Which in their case, would be quite disgusting.

"You know you gots ta put yo hand on da doe handle to open a doe? Did you know dat?"

I continue to picture their nipples dragging across the floor as they walk.

"You gots an attitude. hunn-ay?"

Those would be some dirty nipples.

"Fine, be dat way. Why you here?"

I walk away and sit by my entire class, who were all smiling at me as they waited in the lobby and witnessed Bitch 1 and Bitch 2 live up to their names. Apparently, they had done the "haha we're not opening the door for you because we're fat security guards who are going nowhere in our lives" trick to everyone there. I deemed myself The Hero of Day Two, though I'll admit TT would have done a much better job had he been there.

Day Two began with Mr. 72 making jokes about his ex-wife's body being in his trunk and how his spine is messed up. TT, however, was kind enough to clue us all in on the new drug on the market.

"Duuuuuuu....dis drug be from like Jerusalem, you know where JEZUS was bone [born], and like, it be fixin ALL yo problems. Cause like, it come from where JEZUS wuz, ya feel me? It be da JEZUS DRUG, mayne! Like, dis drug do ANYthang. You got a problem, and it fix it. It would fix yo spine, and like, you know dat true love feelin? That first love feelin ya git, and how aftuh dat you never get dat same feelin again wit no mattah WHO you be tappin, well dis drug GIVE you dat feelin, BRUH!"

Feeling a bit guilty for questioning TT's capability of feeling love, Mr. 72 soon interrupts my thoughts with:

"That's why I buy Viagra."

Which then leads to a discussion of who in our class had taken Viagra, whether it works or not, if it's true that you will have a boner for 3 weeks straight, which TT had heard, which then somehow led to Mr. 72 informing us of his 3 ex-wives and how one of them killed herself. Now, whether that correlated with his need for Viagra or not, I was too timid to ask. But I'm still wondering.

After a video of how texting can lead to car crashes killing everyone except the toddlers in the backseat asking why Mommy and Daddy won't wake up, a 30-minute conversation about how my dad is a news reporter, and The Guy Who Wouldn't Stop Staring At Me jumping out from behind a corner and grabbing me, yelling, "BOO!" which is just highly inappropriate and I have NO idea why he felt comfortable around me enough to grab me and think it's okay, Day Two ended.

It turns out traffic school wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined; in fact, it was quite entertaining. TT, if you're out there reading this...I will miss you. And your crotch.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Jeepers Peepers

Not even 24 hours after being in a dentist's office, I find myself in a doctor's office. All I can say is this: I feel ashamed for ever mocking the traditions of dentists, for it is the ones of doctors that are much more scandalous. I warn you now, this post is rated R for vulgar language and me talking about my breasts, so if you are under the age of 18, you better keep reading. A sheltered life is NOT the way to go, my under aged friend. This is coming from a girl who saw "Striptease" and "American Pie" when she was 8 years old. And besides the insomnia, occasional panic attack, history of depression, random bouts of fury involving kicking and screaming like a toddler, and the 3-year-boycott of socks, I turned out damn fine.

In order to fully understand this particular doctor's visit, I'll have to lead you through a mini-bio of yours truly. I was born Natasha Lee Ferrier; I was awesome, and I had a freckle on my back which I would later name Fupa. And by "later" I mean 19 years later. As in just now. Because I have fupas on the mind and I really wish I had one so I would know what that thing feels like. (Is it mushy? Is it hard? Does it still look like a giant fanny pack underneath the pants when the pants come off? Oh, the mystery of the F.U.P.A...) (That, too. Is it capitalized? 'Cause it should be. In fact, it is. I just declared. The Fat Upper-Pussy Area MUST be capitalized whenever written
or said. How you're going to capitalize a spoken word is for me to act like I know how to do, and you to actually figure out. I suggest yelling it.) However, over time, this freckle grew into a mole. A big, black mole. A mole that belongs on the chin of The Wicked Witch of the West's wicked chin, not on the Innocent Non-Witch of the East's innocent back.

This was 10 years ago that my freckle gained 50 pounds and became an Aborigine. I went to the doctor, like any normal 4th grader with a beauty mark that looked like an ape in the fetal position would do. After 15 minutes of the nurse scarping it as I cried, it came off. Then the doctor came in and denied it ever existed since there was nothing there. Since his nurse is a fucking idiot. And he believes fucking idiots over his patients. Ten years after that, and Fupa makes a back-attack. (Yes, that was an attempt at a pun.) Of course I didn't realize it was back until I walked into the kitchen and my dad grabbed my shoulders from behind, exclaiming,


...then booked a doctor's appointment that very day.

I'd never been to this doctor, which meant that I immediately knew I would be roaming around some giant building looking for the office. There I was, strolling from hallway to hallway, whistling to make it seem like I stroll hallways of office buildings on a regular basis, when I hear a woman speak behind me.

"Are you looking for me?"

I turn around, relieved that this had been so easy.

"Yes! Dr. Salt?"

"Oh, I wasn't talking to you."

I turn back around, realizing how idiotic it was to think it would have been that easy. As I turn, I also realize that there is no one else in the hallway. Then the woman opens a door and walks in, disappearing from sight. So basically, it was solely me and her in that hallway, and she tries and tells me she wasn't talking to me. So as I'm feeling crazy for thinking she had been, it hits me that she's the crazy bitch for talking to thin air. I NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS PLACE, I begin to think, but then I think of poor, giant Fupa, and I continue on my way.

So I'm sitting in the waiting room, being forced to not only listen to the most disturbing country music I've ever heard in my life, but the kind that gets stuck in your head. For the rest of the day, I will have this chorus playing in my mind:

"Rain is a good thang, rain makes corn,
corn makes whiskey,
whiskey makes my baby
feel a lil frisky."

You know, had I known it was that easy to put a single on the country charts, I would have gotten into the music business when I was 3 years old.

"Food is a good thang, you eat it,
it stuffs your belly,
then you shit,
and the food is smelly."

CMT Music Awards, here I'm a-comin!

While I am being brainwashed by lyrical ballads regarding the things that water is capable of, I am filling out a sheet. This, I didn't mind at all, for I love filling out sheets. It makes me think of "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion," because there was this one scene where they filled out a sheet. (I'm sure there are others, but the sheet-filling-scenes were obviously not as emotionally moving.) It's all the things I know are necessary for a doctor to know: my name, age, insurance company, why I'm there...until I get to the bottom of the sheet, which is where they completely lost me.

Have you ever had dry eyes?
Have you ever been depressed?
Where do you work?

If my eyes have ever been dry, does that mean they cannot glance at the mole on my back? Did they used to ask all these questions? The more time progresses, the more questions at the doctor's office. Sixty years from now, I'll go in to have my earlobes shortened, and I'll be answering questions like:

Have you ever smiled before?
Do you have friends?
Please list below your sexual fantasies.

There's no such thing as privacy anymore. But that's one Froot Loop compared to a whole bowl of Froot Loops for the invasion of privacy that came next.

"So, Natasha, you have a mole on your back."

"Yes, Nurse."

"Can I take a look at it?"

"Sure, sure."

"I can't seem is it...can you lift"

"Errr yeah, sorry, I went running before I came here so I didn't have time to change..."

You have no idea how many times doctors have told me to not wear sports bras to the doctor's office. They are the most awkward things to remove from behind. Of course I always forget since when I think of the doctor, I think of shots and finger pricks, not them taking my clothes off for me.

"Yeah, sports bras are tight..."

"Yeah,, I can do, no I can't...."

But I CAN make this situation incredibly awkward by not being able to figure out how to take off my own clothes!

"Here, why don't I just give you a gown."


"Here you go, now I'll step out while you change."

She leaves. I hold the "gown," which looks less like Princess Diana's dinner party dress and more like Cotton Eyed Joe's potato sack dress. But it's fine. I'm not here for fashion. I am here for Fupa. I am doing this for Fupa. Don't be selfish, Natasha! Put on the potato sack! As I put it on, a question strikes me: Why do they bother to design hospital gowns? The gown I was holding had green and white pinstripes and little paintbrush-strokes all over it. My, how creative. Paintbrush strokes! Who designed this masterpiece?! So creative, so unique! Someone actually got paid to not only design a giant piece of cloth with a tie at the top to only be worn by naked, sick people, but they got paid for their brilliant idea of doing something that everyone else in the world is capable of doing. Dipping a paintbrush in paint and swiping it horizontally for less than a millisecond. You don't even have to have your eyes open to do that. You don't even have to have hands to do that. And besides, it's not like naked, sick people are thinking of how fashion-forward they look when they're lying in a cot for days. And if they did, no matter WHAT was on that gown, it's not going to be stylish. Because one, hospital gowns are ugly, and two, no matter what is on the front, it doesn't change the fact that there is no back to that gown. Oh? Vera Wang exclusively designed your hospital gown? Well that's cool and all, but I can still see your ass.

But there was another problem with taking off my clothes to put on the gown. You see, when you take off your clothes, boy and girls, it means you have no clothes on, which means you are naked. And being naked is only acceptable in certain situations. At this moment, I was in a situation where I did not find nakedness being acceptable, for when I looked to my right, I found that there was no wall. Just windows. A wall made...purely...of windows. Windows with no curtains, no blinds, and no obese people to stand in front of it. On top of all that, these WIDE OPEN WINDOWS faced the office building's parking lot and one of the busiest roads I know.


After looking back to the windows and forth to the door (window glance to check for passersby; door glance to see if I could make a run for it), I finally come to the conclusion that no one could see me if I crouch behind the doctor's chair and change on the floor. But the floor was freezing. So I then come to the conclusion that I am over thinking this whole debacle, and I put on the gown faster than Ricky Bobby can shake and bake. Once my arms had traveled faster than the speed of light, I look to my right. Only 8 people in the parking lot. Okay. Good. The chances of one out of 8 of those people seeing me naked is pretty slim, right?


After 20 minutes of waiting, the occasional jot-down in my handy-dandy notebook of how fucked up doctor's offices are, and finding that the TV refused to go to any channel except "THE FACE OF FEAR: STOCKS AND BONDS," which was in no way interesting, no matter how many times I stroked my chin, the doctor arrived. She was a nice woman, a friendly woman, a woman who got straight to the point.

"So, you have a mole on your back?"



Without one word of warning, she had taken down my gown and started to examine the area known as the "torso," which could more specifically be categorized as "tits and nips."

"I'm just looking for bruises."

What? Look, lady, I did not sign on for a mammogram, nor did I come here to show you any potential hickey's you think I may have on my baby-feeders.

"Okay, so this mole! Tell me about it."

Well that was a quick subject change. THANK GOD.

So I tell her about it. Then she pokes it. And puts a band-aid on it. (My first band-aid to NOT have Daffy Duck or one of his cousins on it.)

"Well, Natasha. Around here, no news is good news."




"Um...well...we just usually don't call our patient if we find that nothing is wrong..."

"Oh! Ha...ha...I thought you meant...ha...I thought you meant that NO NEWS. IS EVER. GOOD NEWS."

"Hahahahahahahahaha! No! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

I had quickly become a laughing stock. A laughing stock in a backless gown. A double laughing stock. A double laughing stock who had just been exposed to two women, a parking lot of children, and Hillsboro Road. It was time for me to go. And I sure as hell was taking Fupa with me.

What was supposed to be an appointment for me to get my mole removed turned into a paintbrush-peepshow. Knowing that Fupa and I had just survived such emotional turmoil with one another, with him always having my back, we grew much closer together. We bonded like no woman and no mole had ever bonded before. Sure, he looks like the fly-version of Jeff Goldbloom, but he was always be right with me. I can't give Fupa up. Not when I know for a FACT, that he'll always have my back.