Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Flushing Out Feminism

Before we begin, full disclosure: I have a vagina. While vaginas are known harborers of terrorists, I hereby certify that my vagina has been in my possession at all times, and no one has given me anything or asked me to carry on or check any items in my vagina for them. Any resemblance between my vagina and the four horsemen of the apocalypse is purely coincidental. Any use of my vagina without the express written permission of the 114th Congress of the United States is strictly prohibited. 

              
First of all, I never used to consider myself a feminist. The word seemed outdated, the whole concept obsolete… much like “carpetbagger”, “bootlegging”, or “business ethics”.  In fact, the very word "feminism" summoned in me an image of a curmudgeonly cult; a grumbling tribe of hairy she-beasts so hell-bent on punishing the world's penises that they spent most of their time powwowing around their bra fires fabricating slights against them by a mostly apathetic society.


I was raised to believe a person’s worth isn’t dependent on what does or doesn’t dangle between their legs, and I guess I was naive enough to think rampant misogyny was something from the dark ages. Or the 1950s. Same diff. Neither era had Lolcats, and that’s just no way to fucking live.


But after none-of-your-fucking-business-how-many years of being shit on as an adult woman (not literally, jerks), I’ve realized something… I was wrong. Sexism is not only real, it's fucking everywhere.

This post isn’t really about gender discrimination, though. We all know the facts. Women make less money than men for the same work. Companies can refuse to offer a health plan that contributes to societal decay by providing contraception, while simultaneously “making it rain” boner pills. Little girls are taught at a young age that their worth is based on their bodies, yet they’d better keep the disgusting things covered up or they deserve to be raped.  Oh, and if you must dress like a hussy in those yoga pants or sleeveless shirts you should probably buy some rape insurance with that tiny paycheck, because your HMO is more concerned with keeping potential rapists’ rods raging long into their golden years than helping you rid your womb of your unwanted gift from God, you ungrateful slut.

  
Whew. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. Must be the PMS!

Anyway, this post is not intended to highlight all the facts I just went ahead and highlighted anyway. No one’s really disputing that there’s a disparity when it comes to gender equality. Unless you count those jerks that get their dicks in a knot whenever the word “feminism” is thrown around… Sorry ‘men’s rights activists’, but you’re on the level with white people claiming reverse racism; whatever valid point you think you’re making, you really just sound like Veruca Salt lamenting the incubation period of a golden goose.


The point I’m struggling to make here (you know how us girls get sidetracked, especially if there is a shoe sale!) is that feminism is not only still relevant, it’s as important now as it’s ever been.  With the wage gap, rape culture, body shaming, and the over legislation of those unruly uteri, our voices need to be unified, and loud.

Feminism is NOT extremism.  Demanding that we send our daughters off to college without a one in five chance of her being sexually assaulted is not radical idealism. Asking schools to stop implementing ridiculous dress codes for girls and instead start teaching boys that they are accountable for their actions isn’t some fanatical attack on the status quo.  Wanting to post a selfie on Facebook without having your inbox flooded with potraits of penises in various states of arousal is… well, that one's just a pipe dream.  Get your Dick Pic Bingo boards out, ladies – this week’s winner gets a free bucket o’ eye bleach!


And feminism is NOT about hating men… other than the obvious exceptions of rapists, senators, the 95% of CEOs that happen to be equipped with dicks, and of course the astonishing number of men that can claim affiliation with all three of those groups. This is not us against them, and we’re not looking for special treatment. We’re just asking to be treated like people. You know, like corporations.


But, I have to say… can we reign in the crazy, just a little bit? It’s great that gender inequality is finally being dragged kicking and screaming into the limelight (no, I will not insert a rape joke here, thank you), but too often it seems as though we’re getting all pissy at each other about stupid shit while the real problems, much like the clitoris, go mostly ignored.

I mean, with human trafficking, victim shaming, domestic violence, and gender discrimination running rampant, we can probably afford to let a few minor cervical infractions slip by without getting our tampons all tangled over it, right?

Hey, a scientist wore a geeky shirt – quick, let's bludgeon him to death with our stilettos!
Also, we can’t solve all the world’s problems at once, so let’s try to stay on task. If I pitch a bitch about having to specify my child’s gender when ordering a Happy Meal because stereotyping toys as “boys” or “girls” is complete bullshit, I don’t need to be twat swatted over the unhealthy meal choices I make for my family, or about the non-hybrid, gas guzzling SUV I drove through the drive thru, because chances are I have my face crammed so full of McNuggety goodness that I’m not paying any attention to what you're saying anyway.


I could go on and on (typical woman, amirite?) but all I'm really trying to get at here is that feminism isn't about listing petty grievances associated with our overworked ovaries. It's about bringing to light all the deep-rooted gender biases that exist in our society, exposing these "traditions" for the maxi pads of manure they are, and setting that figurative shit sock ablaze after tossing one onto the porch of every idiotic white male Senator that thinks the vagina needs more regulations than handguns do.


This last thought is just for the ladies (in case any men actually read this far). Please, can we stop cutting each other down over senseless shit? Whether it’s race, religion, sexual orientation, body type, clothes, or makeup/lack thereof… none of it makes anyone more or less of a woman. It’s difficult enough to feel comfortable in one’s own skin with all of the bullshit notions of beauty that society beats into our brains from birth. But we hold the power to change that right now, and the first step to doing so is to stop judging others by their dress size. Or their hoodie size; whatever makes them comfortable. Duck face, on the other hand, will always warrant the wrath of a thousand rabid venom-spewing crotch goblins.




DISCLAIMER: Kimmy’s views are not representative of, endorsed by, agreed with, or even read by any equal rights organization. Or anyone else, for that matter. She’s just some douchebag on the internet. Seriously, if she managed to piss you off you should probably just use the internet for Lolcats.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

What Would Jesus Do? Rollback Prices!

#NO FILTER #YOLO #JK #LOL

If Jesus came back today, he’d probably wind up working at Walmart.

In this economy, and with his sketchy work history and lack of formal education, the King of Kings would almost certainly have to settle for minimum wage. Let’s face it, healing lepers isn't exactly a marketable skill these days; besides, there’s no reason those whiny fuckers can’t get off their blotchy asses and get a full time job with health insurance like everyone else. Whether by Medicaid or Son of God, free healthcare creates a false sense of entitlement and that shit is everything that’s wrong with America. Well, that and the gays. Luckily Jesus’s healthy affinity for hookers would at least keep him from being accused of that heinous crime against Capitalism, despite his secretive, all-male dinner parties.

Those sanctimonious sausagefests would be short-lived anyway,  as once our Heavenly Host got a few glasses of wine in him he would become belligerent: righteously proclaiming his dad is better than everyone else’s, and calling for toasts celebrating that the guests were unwittingly participating in cannibalism.

Jesus’s divine parlor trick with the eternal loaf of bread would be a hit with pigeons the world over, but anyone with any sense is trying to watch their carbs these days. And that water into wine thing is neat and all, but the world is running out of fresh water fast and oldboy’s over there turning perfectly good Aquafina into fucking Boone’s Farm.

Quickly becoming a social outcast, Jesus would probably turn to the holier-than-thou hobby of trolling the internet, shamelessly smiting blasphemers in comment sections on every corner of the World Wide Web.

The Beloved would thrive, however, as a greeter in the godforsaken entryway of the local Walmart, where he’d be stationed in an exploitative P.R. stunt by the almighty acne-stricken assistant manager. Despite the toothless gawks as he waves his holey hand to entering and exiting guests, he would be revered for his kind demeanor; though he would suffer a write-up or two to appease a few creeped out customers, to whom he’d profess his unending love as they shamble to the Dorito’s aisle.

While Jesus met his doom during his first go-round with mankind on Good Friday, his demise in the 21st century would come on the most sacred and cherished of modern days: Black Friday.

In a futile attempt to bring peace and goodwill to the Superstore, the Savior would be trampled to death by crusading shoppers, who rejected his Word that there were enough bargained-priced Keurigs for everyone. The fallen Messiah would be martyrized by Fox News as another casualty of the War on Christmas. Walmart would issue a statement that the company was devastated by the Divine Son’s death, and in tribute they would Rollback prices on both Bibles and flat screen LCD TV’s.

And on Cyber Monday the heavens would open wide, and the middle finger of God would extend to all the Earth, and the whole of humanity would be damned; for a demon spawn would spew forth from the cooch of a Kardashian, dooming the world to an eternity of reality TV meltdowns, anal bleaching, and gluten-free pizza crusts.

 Amen, and shit.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Real Women Have… an Inferiority Complex?


I spend a lot of time bitching about oversensitive jerkoffs on the internet.  I do it because, well, complaining is kind of my thing, and I prefer to do it while not wearing pants. Plus, what the fuck else is there to blog about, bumper stickers? Pffffft. 

I'm constantly criticizing all of the keyboard killjoys out there that are so quick to cry butthurt over every stupid little thing that could possibly, through some warped invocation of Six Degrees of Separation, offend Kevin Bacon.  

You mad, bro?

But I have a confession to make: I have become one of the crotchety old crybabies. And the imaginary issue that zaps the sand in my vagina into bitter shards of glass is the Real Women Have Curves campaign.

And the common sense to never ask a stranger when their baby is due.

Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t been blessed with the body of a 13 year old boy, but honestly both sides of the calorie-counting coin tend to grind my protruding pelvic bone. But then again, that pointy fucker rubs against everything. Seriously, ouch.


I realize the “Only Dogs Like Bones” propaganda is supposed to be payback for society’s alleged love affair with skeletal fashion models. A love affair which, I would dare say, doesn’t even exist outside of the fashion industry anyway. And the misrepresentation of the average woman is such a new thing, right? It’s certainly a far cry from the good ole’ days of wholesome, curvier sex symbols. You know, like Marilyn Monroe.


Why the hell are we basing a woman’s worth on her body measurements anyway? There are plenty of more pressing matters to pass judgment upon. For instance, does she like Nickelback? Is she a Nascar fan? Does she watch Grey’s Anatomy? There’s no need to deem a woman inferior based on something as trivial as her weight when there are so many better, non-aesthetic reasons to completely despise that bitch.

All women are unique, and every single one of us is beautiful.

The hair on the mole of her third chin is simply stunning.

"Real" women are tall, short, heavy, thin, black, white, gay, straight, rich, poor; really anyone that doesn’t have a grotesque appendage dangling between their legs that drains them of all common sense. Seriously…  I’m mostly straight and all, but let’s face it: penises aren't exactly adorable.

Awwwww.

I’m not trying to go all “angry feminist” with this post. either. I might burn my bras on occasion, but only because I get cold and my itty bitty chestnuts don't really need the support anyway. No, I’m just sick of constantly being told to “eat a damn sandwich” when I don’t even have a pretty little wife to make me one.


I realize men have to deal with annoying body image misrepresentations as well. You rarely see pudgy or balding men modeling suits or the latest designer line of man purses.  But where’s the backlash, boys? I mean, I’ve yet to see a “Real Men Have Beer Guts” movement. So why do women do this to each other?


We’re all up in arms about some political “War on Women”, yet we’re too busy arguing about what constitutes an adequate amount of body fat to stand up for our poor repressed, under-appreciated, over-legislated, yet gloriously resilient vaginas.


Ladies, it’s time we quit shaming each other based on ridiculous notions of size and beauty and just embrace our differences. I realize properly embracing someone that has really big boobs without seeming all pervy can be kind of difficult, but if we can squeeze small humans out of our vaginas I'm pretty sure we can manage a group hug with only the appropriate level of groping. 

So, consider this a call to action. Let's Unite our Uteruses! And I don’t mean that as a pitch for the next film in The Human Centipede franchise. Unless they want to buy it, then they should totally call me.  Seriously, I’m not busy at all.

One in three gets a free fisting!

All I’m trying to say is, can we stop with the body shaming shit already? Beauty does not have a size. It does, however, have PMS from hell once in a while and you’d better not fuck with it if you'd prefer to keep your balls intact. 



*DISCLAIMER: Turd Mountain is an equal opportunity offender, and recognizes transgender individuals’ beauty as well. However, the Nickelback rule still applies. 

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Words of Wisdom From the Pot (to the Kettle)


You know all those sappy, disgustingly inspiring articles or blog posts that get passed around the internet like <insert dumb and slightly disgusting simile here>? That shit is nauseating, and it makes us insignificant bloggers that simply post pointless vulgarity extremely jealous. Which also makes me nauseous. Although I do have IBS and an anxiety disorder; pretty much everything makes me kind of sick. Except Pizza Rolls. Those fuckers are delicious.

I can’t understand why this phenomenon of all slightly encouraging bullshit instantly going viral hasn’t hit Turd Mountain yet. Even my heartfelt (and oddly well received) cheap shot at veganism didn’t get nearly the number of views that some patronizing filth about building a perfect marriage did. And don’t even get me started on the rebuttal to a response to a tweet about an open letter to Miley Cyrus. But, I digress.

In an attempt to join the trend of telling everyone everything they’re doing all wrong, I’ve decided to write a helpful guide to surviving depression. You’re welcome.


Remember that annoying “Chicken Soup for the_______ Soul” trend? Well, consider this post a Laxative for the Bound-Up Brain. Maybe Words of Hope for the Hopelessly Depressed. Or, something to skim through to kill three minutes that won’t make you need to punch a fucking unicorn in its stupidly cheerful face.


So without further ado-doo, here are a few tips to lift you from dejected and miserable to a comfortable state of so-so:

-Find something positive in every situation. Start small! “Hey, right now I don’t want to kill myself” tends to remind us of all the reasons we really do want to, and all of our congratulatory self-talk goes down the shitter. Find a way to celebrate what you’re already achieving. “Hey, if I didn’t have crippling social anxiety and could actually join a yoga class, I bet my instructor would be super impressed with my ability to hold the fetal position for three days on end!” Now that is optimism you can’t argue with yourself about! Unless you said it all snotty-like. Then you kind of have it coming.

I am so in tune with my body right now.

-Hoard animals. Chances are you’ll be too busy cleaning up piss and puke to dwell on your misery. Plus you’ll never have to wonder if anyone gives two shits, because chances are you’ll find at least that many in your shoes.


-Drink vodka. Forget that whole “alcohol is a depressant” thing. More vodka is consumed in Eastern Europe and Russia than anywhere else in the world, and honestly, when you think of the happiest places on Earth doesn’t Yakustk immediately come to mind?

Eat your heart out, Disney World.

-Keep your therapy appointments. Spending an hour a week having a stranger uncomfortably stare at you while you try to choose the right lies to keep your ass out of the loony bin again will make you realize things could always be worse. You could have to do that shit twice a week.


-Start a blog centered around dick and fart jokes, thereby luring strangers into reading the pathetic details of your personal life. This will give you an inflated sense of self-worth, that will only come crashing down when you realize the only beings that can stomach you at your worst are your cats, and that’s just because they’re giant whores that will gladly dole out a snuggle or two in exchange for a full food dish and a clean box to poop in. (See “animal hoarding”.) But until then, you matter!


-Invest all your money in pajamas. It’s impossible to hate the world when you’re wearing fleece Hello Kitty jammies. And if you get ambitious and decide to clean yourself, what better than another pair of supercute cozies to change into? It’s like a slumber party all for you! Don’t be embarrassed; nobody’s coming to visit. Not now, not ever.


-Take pills. Lots and lots of pills. But get them from your doctor. They have the good shit. Sometimes the side effects even include "delusions of grandeur" and wouldn't that be a nice change of pace?


So, that’s it. Just follow these easy steps and you’ll be almost functional in no time! I’d give you examples of all the great things I’ve accomplished lately, but my lawyer has strictly advised against posting anything about my personal life until a few things are, um, settled. But I assure you, I’ve never been happier. You can trust me. Hey... if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.

Please kill me.

A bonus tip for my fellow weak writers out there-- End with a quote from somebody far more articulate than you could ever dream to be. For example, I can think of no public figure so inspiring to wrap up this piece of worthless drivel than the great prophet Mike Tyson: "I'm on the Zoloft to keep me from killing y'all."

If only we could all be so well adjusted.

**Legal Disclaimer: Kimmy is not a mental health professional, she’s just a professional at needing mental help. Do not actually follow any of her advice. Ever.  Please drink responsibly. Any accounts or descriptions of this blog without the express written consent of the National Football League are prohibited. And always stop, drop, and roll. Dicks.


Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Death of a Dermoid

Like childbirth, every patient’s surgical experience is a neat little story all its own. And also like childbirth, no one except the owner of the desecrated vagina really gives much of a shit. Seriously, this crap happens all the freakin’ time; no one cares. But this is my blog, and I don’t have anything else to bitch about.  Deal with it.


As I discussed in excruciating detail in my previous post, I had this neat little alien entity growing on one of my ovaries. Initially I was told the ovary and fallopian tube had gone in on a Groupon with the teratoma and would be coming along for the magic bus ride to the internal organ inferno, but my doctor changed her tune at my pre-op checkup a week prior to surgery. Although she spent far longer than she needed to the first time around convincing me that I wouldn’t miss the ovary (seriously, take ALL my girly bits—I’m a good tipper!) suddenly she wanted to attempt to save the dumb egg-crapping contraption, but wouldn’t know if that was possible until the slicing and dicing began. I can only assume there’s been some sort of bonus plan for leaving organs intact implemented, thereby creating less medical waste and/or insurance paperwork. You remember Cash For Clunkers? This is Coins For Loins or some shit. But I digress.


So I was left with more questions than answers going into surgery—how long will I be in the operating room, will I be in the hospital overnight, how large of an incision will the procedure require, how many body parts will I wake up missing… all the unknowns were shaken, not stirred, into one giant crap cocktail for an anxiety-plagued control freak such as moi. Luckily I’m also a great big weirdo, and despite all that other crap the only thing that bunched up my panic attack panties was the thought of going under anesthesia.


To make a long story short (too late) let’s fast forward to surgery day.

The only thing remotely interesting from the first two hours I was at the hospital was having a hose inserted near the crotch of my humongous hospital gown that inflated the whole thing with hot air (or cold, if you prefer your clam slightly chilled), making me look like the Marshmallow Man and that shrunken head dude from Beetlejuice mated and I was their puffy, panicky progeny.

Yes, I was terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought. But my mad Paint skillz remained intact.
Despite my toasty warm vagina, I was still pretty nervous. And a complete raging bitch because I hadn’t been allowed coffee that morning, but my family didn't really notice the subtle difference in my disposition.

Anyway, after about a thousand years of laying around being bored, scared, and bored of being scared, the Antichrist himself—my anesthesiologist—wandered over to introduce himself. It wasn't easy, but I managed to explain to him that he was my worst nightmare and he should eat shit and die (no offense! *winky face*), and he politely nodded, patted my inflated shoulder, and galloped away on his cloven hooves. I assumed he went to gather the seven horsemen and some virgin blood. Or take a pre-procedure piss. Whatever. Some other scrub-donning jerkoffs gathered around to unhook my cunt cooker and take some vitals. Then Dr. Demonpants trotted back over holding a syringe of something green. Our eyes locked and he uttered the words I’d been longing to hear my entire life: “Want me to slip you a mickey?”

After that they wheeled me into the operating room and had me scootch my ass from the stretcher onto the operating table. Seriously, why do I have insurance if I have to move my own ass? Pffft. I remember my doctor explaining how they would be looking at my innards on the screens hanging from the ceiling all around me, as if I really gave a shit. I could’ve used some Pink Floyd and maybe a little laser light show, but otherwise I was high and happy. The oxygen mask went on it was lights out for Kimmy.


When I awoke in the recovery room the first thing I did was pull up my gown (you’re welcome, old dude next to me!) and inspect the damage – three small incisions; one on each side of my lower abdomen, and one straight through my belly button. I was also pleased that I wasn't laying on ice in a seedy motel bathtub, though that would have made for a better story.

Anyway, I was eventually transported to my own little recovery room, where I was reunited with my family and informed that while it was “tedious” work (I’m not sure how they code that for insurance, but they’ll find a way), in a fantastical feat of operating room heroics the surgeon was able to save the ovary. (Again… like I give a shit.)  The doctor, who had *promised* to save me a teratoma tooth if she found one, described the growth as “large and hairy” but didn’t leave me a single souvenir.  Other than, you know, scars. Bitch.


I went home later that night. The total time from being dragged kicking and screaming through the hospital entrance to being wheeled drunkenly out translated to about ten hours. Not bad.

The first few days of recovery sucked. Thanks to a wicked sore throat from the breathing tube, a bitchy bladder, and an anxiety level that was far too high I didn't get much sleep. The gas they inflated my abdomen with was not only painful everywhere from my shoulders to my stomach but also kept me bloated, without the joy of a toasty twat. Apparently our abdominal cavities aren’t quite as easy (or fun) to empty out as a whoopee cushion, which I believe puts a final nail into the coffin of the intelligent design theory, don’t you?

Where's your God now??

While I wasn’t overly worried about it, six days post-surgery I got the phone call that the pathology report was in for the tumor and it was benign. I suppose anytime someone wants to call and tell me I don’t have cancer I’m not going to complain.

And now, a week later, I’m beyond bitter and bitchy with everyone and everything in my life. In other words, my recovery is going smashingly! My incisions are still a bit swollen and my belly button looks like Frankenstein’s butthole, but things are looking up. In a few more days I’ll be back to work and have a whole new set of imaginary problems to bitch about.


Oh, and I’m totally buying one of those climate control thingys for my cooch.

Thanks to both of my readers for all the love and support. Dicks.


Thursday, October 10, 2013

An Ovary Bite?

I think I’ve made clear how much I hate being a chick. I even rebelled against my gender by refusing to grow a respectable set of tits. Hey, some women burn their bras, I took it a step further and just flat out (see what I did there?) have no need for those mammary-muzzling contraptions of titillating torture. But now... well, NOW my genetically inferior reproductive system has really shown its cunty side.


I began having abdominal pain that would not go away a few months ago. At first I chalked it up to just another side effect of the depression/anxiety shitshow that has been gnawing away at my brain nonstop since my latest (but certainly not greatest; I’ve had better) meltdown. But after weeks of constant pain and a few nights spent crying in the fetal position because it hurt too much to move, I decided I’d better suck it up and go to my dumb doctor. You don’t have to feel sorry for me here, as crying in the fetal position is one of my favorite hobbies. Now if I had an affliction that caused me to mall walk whilst sipping a pumpkin spice latté and swapping some super juicy sex stories with members of the local Parent-Teacher Association, then I would request your sympathy.  As well as a mercy killing. But I digress.

After stealing some of my piss and listening to my bowels (he called their sounds normal—I think magnificent is a much more accurate adjective) my primary care physician ordered an ultrasound of my lady bits in order to make me go away. In his defense, I’m a total pain in the ass patient. Thanks to a traumatic ER experience during my first panic attack I pretty much have to be fully sedated to even have my blood pressure checked, which is apparently a little counterproductive.

Anyway, the ultrasound showed a “large, septated mass” on my right ovary, requiring an MRI for further diagnosis. Figuring that the medical field was just fucking with me, I considered putting an end to the whole diagnostic adventure right there. Transvaginal ultrasound? Fine. It’s not like I’ve never had a lube soaked, condom-cloaked wand shoved up my twat… I did go to a public high school. But an MRI was a little much for an anxiety-plagued fucktard like myself to endure. But I handled it like a rock star (Translation: I took a LOT of pills first) and got through it. Two days later (and two days before my follow up appointment with my gynecologist) the clinical report, complete with diagnosis, came in the mail: Ovarian Teratoma.

I believe this is the appropriate place for a: Dafuq?!?

The follow up appointment with my gynecologist confirmed it: my abdomen is harboring a tumor roughly ten times the size of my ovary that may or may not contain hair, teeth, and brain matter. I don’t know about you, but I think that is fucking spectacular. I mean, if you’re going to have a tumor, it may as well be the freakiest fucking thing imaginable, amirite? Some less sadistic medical professionals call this a “dermoid cyst”, but where’s the fun in that title? I mean, TERATOMA. Like tarantula, only with sharper teeth and GROWING INSIDE YOUR FUCKING BODY. Anyway, she scheduled surgery to have the alien mass, as well as the victim ovary, related fallopian tube, and whatever other lady bits that need scooping removed and sent out to be dissected in some lab, where I’m sure they’ll come to life and eat the faces off of a few pathologists. While I learned all this back on September 20th, my surgery isn’t scheduled until October 30th, which is the icing on the cervical cake.  I mean, a monstrous tumor being cut out of my body on Devil’s Night? I couldn’t write a better ending than that. Mostly because I’m not that strong of a writer.


Anyway, the good news is that my little demon has a 98% chance of being benign. While a 1 out of 50 chance of cancer is still not a risk I’d choose to take, the odds are quite lopsidedly in my favor. The MRI showed no other abnormalities, except for something about my uterine lining, but I always knew  that bitch was a little shady. Basically I’ll probably hobble away from this still being completely fertile (Sorry, world!) and no worse for wear. The biggest unanswered question at this point is how major the surgery will be. While most ovary extractions are done via laparoscopy (small incisions, fast recovery) at the time of my exam little Georgette Stark (fuck yes I named her) was hiding behind my uterus, which means her removal might entail a full C-section incision. The fun part is my doctor won’t know until she starts slicin’ and dicin’, so I’ll get to play the Wake Up and See How Big Your Scar Is game. Trick or Treat, motherfucker!


While I’m nervous as hell and totally dreading surgery, in typical panic patient fashion the part that is worrying me has nothing to do with pain or what other parasites may be found leeching off my fertile crescent. No, I’m afraid of anesthesia, all because the last time I had to be knocked out by a trained medical team I flipped out, and I’m worried I’ll lose my shit again. Yes, all of my worst fears boil down to being afraid of having a panic attack, even though I have them nearly every day anyway. Also, I tend to sedate myself to the point of near-coma without any sort of medical supervision on a nightly basis... but having those pesky professionals involved freaks me the fuck out. Dumb.

The strangest part of this whole ordeal (yes, it gets weirder than having a hairy tumor with teeth) has been the reaction from others. I mean sure, this fucking thing has caused some discomfort. But seriously, compared to the multitude of bullshit that going through life being bipolar and with an anxiety disorder has caused, a little abdominal pain isn’t that big of a deal. I certainly didn’t expect the reaction I’ve received.

Handmade with love -- a crocheted teratoma from my bff. She gets me.
At first I got pissed about the barrage of well-wishes that were needlessly pouring in. I have spent my life fighting thoughts and urges that would make even the most gangrenous of growths quiver in their cystic little shells. Nearly every day that I’m forced to go out into the world I face “fight or flight” panic on level with being attacked by a rabid donkey that’s only sustenance has been Viagra enemas. I blow off every obligation I can in order to embrace every opportunity to hide from civilization… and the breaks only make my fear worse. I’m constantly being told to cheer up, calm down, or get over it. Now… well, now I have a glorified stomachache and suddenly I’m a target of unsolicited sympathy.

It’s amazing (and slightly infuriating) how differently people with REAL ailments are treated. Even my doctors, once hostile toward me, are now warm and sympathetic. In the long run this isn’t even a major condition. My recovery time, depending on the surgical procedure required, will be ten days to six weeks. The recovery time for my mental affliction is NEVER. But if I complain about that, I’m a whiner, or a pill seeker.


But like most things, I’ve decided… fuck it. I’m going to milk my little gremlin for all she’s worth. I’m going for all the time off from being a functional human being I can get out of this. Because when you’ve been told most of your post-pubescent life that you just need to suck it up, it’s kind of nice to kick back and leave the sucking to everyone else.