Breastudice

I need a support group for my kind. It would be like AA, except it would be called CA.

"Hello. I'm Natasha Ferrier, and I'm a candyholic."

We would even have name tags. Because name tags make people feel important. However, they can also cause a stir of redundancy.

"Hi! I'm Sam."

"I know, I read your name tag. I'm ---"

"Natasha. Yes, I saw it on your name tag."

See? What's the point of introducing yourself if a sticker on your chest is doing the exact same thing? It's like saying your name twice. Better yet, it's like saying your name over and over again, since you leave your name tag on throughout the day. You might even say it's like saying your name and stressing the syllables for hours on end. Like this:

"NATASHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."

And during that prolonged period of saying your name, you are sporadically interrupting yourself with your speaking voice.

"NATASHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ---"

"I'm Natasha."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA---"

"Hi, I'm Natasha."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA---"

All day. Because it's on your name tag. Shoving yourself into people's eyes. Directing their eyes right to your pectorals. Which brings me to another point about name tags.

"So you're Natasha, right?"

"How'd you know my name?!"

"Well, it says it on your name tag."

"Oh, and by that you mean - it says it on my breast?"

"No! No! No. I just. Uh. What? No. It's just---"

"It's just - you were looking at my breast."

"Uh. No. I just. Well. You put your name tag right on it, where else was I ---"

"And not both, just one. Because if you had looked at the other one, you would not have known my name, would you? Because that one doesn't have a giant sticker smacked onto it. So you were only paying attention to one of my breasts."

"What! No! The point of a name tag is to have people read i---"

"Is one of my breasts better than the other one? Huh? You just met me, and already you have a breast preference?"

"NO. YOUR NAME TAG IS ---"

"Are you breastudice?"

"Excuse me?"

"Prejudice toward breasts?"

"No! You stuck a sticker right on it ---"

"Oh, so it's an "it" now, is it?"

"What are you talking about? This isn't about your breasts ---"

"WHAT did you say about my breasts?"

"Nothing! I didn't say anything about th---"

"You just said "your breasts." Did you not?"

"Well yeah, I did, but...uh...I meant...your...I just meant ---"

"PERVERT!"

Name tags are pointless. And there's really no acceptable place to put them. But like I said before, they do have a sense of importance, don't they?

So in CA, us candyholics gather and discuss what it's like to be addicted to candy. Gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy kids, sour gummy bears, giant gummy bears, chocolate-covered gummy bears, white-chocolate-covered gummy bears, gummy gums, chewing gum, bubble gum, gum drops, spice drops...

As you can imagine, the world of candy addiction is one quite large, and one quite difficult to overcome. You think drugs are bad? List all the drugs in the world. A lot, isn't it? A shit ton. Now list all the candy in the world.

IT'S NOT EVEN POSSIBLE. THERE'S JUST SO MUCH.

Same goes for alcohol. And porn. And ham sandwiches. Whatever the hell people are addicted to these days.

The problem with CA meetings is that, well, I'm the only adult there. Our meetings consist mainly of children, since the older we get, the less candy we tend to eat. Somehow I missed that step in maturing. That one, and the time that comes when little girls stop wearing hairbows. Yep, that train left me at the station.

Another problem with children being at the meeting is that, well, they're children. They're not 18 yet. So legally, they have to be accompanied by an adult. So they bring their parents. And their parents see me, an adult, without a kid, attending these sessions. And they start to wonder what a 21-year-old is doing at a CA meeting. And then they think I'm a pedophile. Because what better place would there be than a CA meeting to use the line:

"What some candy, little boy...?"

Exactly. So I go to these meetings to get HELP, and I'm interrogated by concerned parents. Ha! Parents being concerned for their child's safety...that's sooooo 90s.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes."

"I couldn't help but notice...you don't have a child with you."

"Nope!"

"So...what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to get help."

"But you're an adult..."

"How do you know that? I could be 7 years old. You don't know."

"Well, you're the only one whose name tag I can read..."

"Ah. Yes. Valid point there."

"So...you're addicted to candy."

"Yes. That's why I'm here."

"And how long have you been addicted?"

"Look, lady, have you been paying attention? I just explained all that. In fact, I explain all of that every week. If you ask me, I should be the one with the questions here."

"Alright, what's your question."

"One. Why are YOU here?"

"Because I have a child here."

"And you think your child is addicted to candy?"

"Yes."

"Which one is your child?"

"That one over there."

"Wow, that really narrows it down. Now I know exactly which one your kid is."

"The one in the purple shirt."

"Okay, then my next question is, why are you dressing your son in purple?"

"Excuse me?"

"That's a girl color."

"No it's not."

"It is when you're 11 years old."

"My husband wears purple."

"Yeah, and he married you, so his choices don't mean anything, obviously."

"How dare you!"

"How dare YOU! I have a serious problem here, and you come up acting like you own the place! AND, by the looks of your son, I'd say he's addicted to ALL foods - not just candy."

"You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"THAT'S IT, LADY! YOU'VE UPSET ME GREATLY. I HAVE NO CHOICE. I'M GOING TO GO BUY SOME LICORICE."

"No, Natasha! Just say no!"

This is the group leader chiming in.

"I'm sorry, Ms. *&^%$."

(It's Candyholics Anonymous, remember? Not Candyholics HeyLookAtMe.)

"Natasha, just count to ten ---"

"NO! I have been introduced to a problem, and instead of thinking of a way to fix it, instead of being strong, instead of choosing a safe and alternative method to cope, I MUST SELF-DESTRUCT!"

"Natasha, NO!"

"LICORICEEEEEE!"

"Natasha!"

"LicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicorice LicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicorice LicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicoriceLicorice."

"Natasha..."

"Red. Juicy. Long. Twizzlers. Cherry. Strawberry. Black. Don't care. Need it. Need licorice. Now."

"Natasha, please! There are other ways! Have a lemonade!"

"Lemonheads?"

"No! Have a soda!"

"Bottlecaps?"

"NO! Try something else! Have some chocolate milk!"

"Chocolate? Reese's? Snickers? Butterfinger?"

"She's gone."

"Milky Way? Hershey's Bar? M&Ms?"

"We've lost her."

"CANDYYYYYYYYY!"

Maybe I need some help. But first, I need a name tag. And a giant group of children who share my problem.

I Might Be In Your Ass

If you happen to see a girl in all black sitting in a dark and lonesome corner in a yet incredibly public place, it's me.

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.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? Do I know you?"

"No, I'm sorry for bothering you, I don't want anything from you."

"Okay?"

Strange way to start a conversation....

"I just came over to tell you, you're strikingly beautiful."

"Oh."

"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!"

"You too!"

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.

"Ouch."

"Ouch."

"Ouch."

"Ouch."

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."

"Okay good."

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?"

"Yes."

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."

"Well, good."

"YOLO!"

"What?"

"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...

"Yellow?"

"Natashaaaaaa..."

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!

"Oh."

"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.)

Start over.

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.

DUM-DUM-DUMMMMMM!

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.

"Name?"

"Natasha."

"Natasha...date of birth?

"October 26, 1990."

"Ten, twenty-six, ninety...do you smoke?"

"Yes."

"WHAT!"

"Yes..."

"No."

"No, yes."

"No-yes?"

"Yes. Wait, no. No, yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Well I'm putting no."

"Okay?"

"Your insurance goes up if I put yes, so I'm putting no."

"Yes!"

"Do you drink?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes. But...I'm not...a drinker...I just..."

"You're just 21. I know. Yes. But I'm putting no."

"Okay?"

"Your insurance goes up if I put yes."

"Yes!"

"Remember that, honey. Whenever a doctor asks if you drink or smoke, say no."

"Yes!"

"No, no."

"Yes, no."

"No, just no."

"Just say no."

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Sit on up here now."

"Okay."

"I'm gonna check your ears."

"They're dirty."

"Dirty?"

"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.

"Yeah, I---"

"As long as you don't get those bar-things up there. I just don't understand those."

"Okay."

"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."

"Yes, Doctor."

"Now, let me check your tongue."

"But I should pierce that, right?"

"Haaaaaaaa!"

Yeah, I make doctors laugh. It's kinda my thing.

"Okay, now your eyes."

"Okay."

"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."

"WHAT."

"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."

"Fine."

"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...

WARM DIB-DAB

POP DA ZIT

DAT ASS I'M GONNA NIB-NAB

U GOT ZIT ON YO TIT?

HELL NAH.

Killah.

And that was The Little Cli---

DUM DUM DUMMMMM!

Not yet, keyboard!

And that was The Little Clinic.

Ahem. THE LITTLE CLINIC.

AHEM! Keyboar---

DUM DUM DUMMMMMM!

Thank you.

I talk to my keyboard, I wear all black, and I'm watching you, so you better watch yourself. And yo' ass.