If you happen to see that girl staring, it's me. Staring. Yes, at you.
If you happen to notice that the girl is incredibly obvious in her staring, and doesn't do a thing to hide her eyes looking straight at you, it's me. Not giving a shit.
I've been people-watching lately. Which really means I've just been creepin'. Yes, creepin'. I'm a creeper, and I'm damn proud of it. Look to your left...out your window...under your bed...I might just be there. Creepin' on yo ass. And what yo ass likes to do. I might even be in your ass. Lookin' around in there. You never know. It's what we creepers do. Hey, John. Yeah, you, with the generic name. Clean your ass. I've been in there. Your shit's stanky.
I went out tonight to people-watch. Sometimes it's successful. People don't notice me. I blend in with the night. Then other times, people are drunk. Either that, or incredibly confident. I stepped outside only five minutes to sit by myself and lurk, and I am approached.
"For what? Do I know you?"
"No, I'm sorry for bothering you, I don't want anything from you."
Strange way to start a conversation....
"I just came over to tell you, you're strikingly beautiful."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I was standing over there. And I couldn't help but come tell you. And that's all."
"Well...um...thank you. Wow."
"Yeah. You really are. Have a good night!"
And then Anonymous walks away. And that was it. Was I flattered? OF COURSE I WAS. WOULD I BE WRITING THIS IF I WASN'T? WOULD I BE SHARING THIS WITH THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD OF THE INTERNET IF I DIDN'T WANT TO BOAST ABOUT IT? Hell yeah I'm boasting. Because that was a serious compliment, and I am seriously impressed. Am I supposed to act humble? FUCK ACTING HUMBLE. I have enough shit in my life - I believe in cherishing the little things. I need business cards.
(For my BLOG.)
(Yeah, my train of thought is askew. I know. Someone compliments me, I think of business cards. It's whatever.)
But next time, I'm wearing a stick-on mustache. And I'm gonna wear gaucho pants. And I'm gonna be in an easy-go. Harder to hide that way, yes. But easier to not be approached.
Today, I happened to creep on my doctor. Yes, I do realize that this isn't legitimate creepin'. Because after all, I went to see the doctor. I initiated that meeting. I didn't just sit in the corner waiting for her to show up. So yeah, maybe I'm a shame to all the other creepers out there, but one day I will join your clan. And then I'll creep in on the creepers. And be leader. And walk around with a giant stick. Because that's what leaders do.
The other day, Saturday I think...I think at 11:48 am...a bump appeared on my bottom eyelid. A big, red bump. And it hurt when I blinked. Oh, I'm a big baby, am I? "Wah wah me hurt when me go blinky-blink." Listen up, Moonbounce-Mother-Fucker, I gots a statistic fer ya.
We blink 16 times per minute. That's 23,040 times in a day. Do I just know these things at the top of my head? Hell yea---
Nope, I googled it.
So I'm at work 4 hours on Saturday. That's 240 minutes. That's 4,240 blinks. Do I know that at the top of my head? Hell yea---
Nope, I calculated it.
Either way, that's still thousands of blinks. Which means thousands of times I thought, "Ouch." That's more than average for this here woman. I thought of typing out "Ouch" four-thousand-two-hundred-forty times just to prove my point, but then I also thought of how many times that would waste your time. And that would be 4,240 times of your time being wasted. So I settled for 40.
Did I say 40? I meant 4. Hopefully that remotely proved my argument.
I immediately showed my co-worker my dilemma. I simply walked up to her, pulled down my eyelid, and exclaimed:
"DO YOU SEE THIS?"
"Oh, yeah, I get those all the time."
Isn't it odd how bad things become better when you find out that someone else is in the same kind of pain?
"I mean, I get those ALL the time."
"Well, what is it?"
"Do you sleep in your make-up?"
I could have elaborated here. I could have said, "Every single night," but instead, I just said, "yes." Isn't it odd how we think we're still being honest by leaving information out?
"Me too. That's why you have that. It'll go away."
"Come on, you haven't heard that?"
Shit, Natasha! You just lost major cool points! Come on! You must know this, you must know this, you must know this...
Damnit, Natasha! Get your fucking act together! This could mean EVERYTHING.
"Hello? And yo yo yo? Combined?"
"YOLO: You Only Live Once."
An acronym, Natasha! An acronym! What the hell is wrong with you, you old hag!
"Everyone says it."
"What does that have to do with my eyeball?"
Three days later, and it's gotten worse. Not my ignorance to modern-sayings (I've been livin' that way for years, youngin'! And look where it got me!), but my mysterious-eye-thingy. Yes, that's a scientifuck (I swear, that was just a typo. I found that absolutely hilarious and had to just leave it there. But keep in mind, I initially meant to write "scientific." I guess my mind has been officially deemed dirty.) (By the way, LOVE is a 4-letter-word. I hope to turn that thought into something more one day.)
Yes, mysterious-eye-thingy is a scientific term. Doctors are using it everywhere. I googled it. (By the way, many people come to my blog by googling "damsel fuck" - most of them from the country of Turkey - but more on that in a later story.)
The eye sore is now white. And bigger, But no, not better. Just...nastier. So I go to...The Little Clinic.
Keep in mind, I hate doctor's visits. I APPRECIATE them, and I CHERISH them, but that does not necessarily mean I enjoy them. (I'm avoiding hate-mail here; the one time I wrote about the dentist, I got an angry dentist giving me a lecture on how I should appreciate their work. Like, why are you reading my blog, man?)
So I walk into her office. And, as it always goes, before anything starts, I have to answer a series of questions. And she types all of my answers.
"Natasha...date of birth?
"October 26, 1990."
"Ten, twenty-six, ninety...do you smoke?"
"Yes. Wait, no. No, yes."
"Well I'm putting no."
"Your insurance goes up if I put yes, so I'm putting no."
"Do you drink?"
"Yes. But...I'm not...a drinker...I just..."
"You're just 21. I know. Yes. But I'm putting no."
"Your insurance goes up if I put yes."
"Remember that, honey. Whenever a doctor asks if you drink or smoke, say no."
"No, just no."
"Just say no."
"Sit on up here now."
"I'm gonna check your ears."
"I'm sorry, I'm just warning you...ha...there's a lot of ear wax in there...I ran out of Q-tips...for the past year..."
"Don't worry, honey, as long as you don't have any weird piercings I have to deal with---"
"Yeah, there's an earring up there..."
"You know what - it's fine. One thing I've learned as a doctor - is not to grab girls' ears. There's always someone up there."
I'm 21 and I'm immature. Substitute "vaginas" for "ears" in that statement above and get a good laugh. Okay, now keep reading.
"As long as you don't get those bar-things up there. I just don't understand those."
"Now, let me check your nose. And don't pierce that either."
"People are always telling me I have the perfect nose for pierci---"
"DON'T DO IT."
"Now, let me check your tongue."
"But I should pierce that, right?"
Yeah, I make doctors laugh. It's kinda my thing.
"Okay, now your eyes."
"Yep, you got a giant zit on that one!"
"Yep. Thanks for phrasing it that way."
"That's too bad. A zit on your eyelid."
"Well, it wasn't that bad when it was known as "eye sore." Not "giant zit." "
"You're gonna have to pop it."
"Ha! Very funny."
"No, I'm serious."
"I'm gonna prescribe you some cream. Put it on, then dab it with warm water. Do this 4 times a day, and by the 5th day, you'll have to pop it. Like a zit."
"But I don't even get zits!"
"Well, you have one on your eye, honey."
"Here's your sheet for the presript---oops. I put "0" tubes. As in zero. Ha! That doesn't make any sense! Yeah, like I'm gonna send you over to the pharmacy to get NOTHING! Ha! Man, they'll get onto me for that one...I've done that a few times now..."
"I'll just explain to them..."
"Alright, hun! Now remember - warm dib-dab, pop the zit."
"Warm dib-dab. Pop the zit."
What a wonderful mantra to leave my doctor's visit with. I could write a song with that one...
POP DA ZIT
DAT ASS I'M GONNA NIB-NAB
U GOT ZIT ON YO TIT?
And that was The Little Cli---
DUM DUM DUMMMMM!
Not yet, keyboard!
And that was The Little Clinic.
Ahem. THE LITTLE CLINIC.
DUM DUM DUMMMMMM!
I talk to my keyboard, I wear all black, and I'm watching you, so you better watch yourself. And yo' ass.