I couldn’t possibly feel more unattractive than I do today. Except maybe if I had an 8-inch goiter growing out of my neck and crumbling teeth or something.
I have an eye infection that has my left eye with this just-throttled-by-Rocky swollen-bloodshot look going on. That’s fun. Really.
Because that wasn’t fun enough, I’ve also come down with a vaginal yeast infection. (I’m so not even thinking about men right now, or sex, or arousal, or orgasms.)
Throw in the fact that I’ve just found out these ARE cockroaches in my apartment — German ones.
(My Twitters upon learning this were: “But it’s official. They were cockroaches. German Cockroaches. SS cockroaches. Brownshirts. Bad! They should have been gassed. Karma!” Followed by, “Snell! Snell! Achtung, roach! Achtung! At least now I know their language. “Ich liebe gas!”)
Fortunately poisoned-food has been dotted about my cupboards by a Professional Murderer of Bugs to help eradicate the vengeful little motherfuckers. Die! Die! Die! Don’t even think ’bout comin’ back ’round here!
Every now and then it’s hard not to feel like life has decided to use you as a punching bag for a few days. “You like that one? Here, try this on for size! Suckah!”
But I’m laughing about it. This is shitty. I mean, it’s comic-book shitty. It’s comical. How can I not laugh? I’ve busted a gut over this.
And I assure you, humour’s something I have. For the next 40 years of my life I’ll remember that week I had cockroaches, an eye infection, and a yeast infection, all at once, and no money to deal with any of it. ($9 for cleaning supplies, $17 for prescription, and $17 for Canesten. There’s the $40 I was taking to Value Village to find jeans and a sweater. Thanks.)
But the attractiveness thing? I’m living in a home infested with cockroaches, I have a yeast infection that’s making me itchier than any human being should ever be, and I have an eye infection that leaves me sensitive to light and unable to do anything that makes blood rush to my head because the throbbing leaves me feeling like daggers are poking in my eye.
Sex is about the last thing I could give a fuck about today. Really. Arousal? I scoff at the notion! Take your orgasm and go, chump, because we’re not on the clock ’round these parts, I’m afraid. My god.
And in a week I turn 35. I mean, could you LAUGH harder at this? Holy shit. I couldn’t write it better than this.
It’s like they say, though. This too shall pass. What’s the big deal? One shitty week in a lifetime. A shitty week that comes with an “Oh, my god” gutt-busting story that’ll let me rake in the laughs from folks for the rest of my life. I love telling stories like this.
Living them, however, is never as much fun. But that’s the thing. Without living it, you get no story. It’s the original catch-22, I’m afraid.
And this, this week, is how my cookie crumbles. What can I say? Fire the writer. A completely implausible combination of events. And to happen to such an unlikely protagonist? And you call that writing?
Pfft. Sadly, no. “Reality.”
[insert weak chuckle here]