It's a Sunday night. I really don't have anything good to say.

Things I hate right now:

Disappointment. I can't decide if it's because I expect too much or simply because I'm not jaded enough to expect the worst, but I am rather tired of feeling this way. Hope is dangerous like that. It lies. 

Money. Because I'm fucking broke. And I've never placed the proper value on it, really. I mean, not the value others would have me place on it. It's just not important to me. Unfortunately, the debt collectors don't feel the same way. Bastards. 

Twitches. I'm trying to get myself on a lower daily dose of Xanax, as I may have to ween off it altogether soon. Aside from the increased anxiety - which, for me, has always equated to crying - I'm twitching more again. It's like I have MS with a side of tourettes. HATE. 

Things I love right now:

Friends. A friend was here Friday night and we talked until 4am. Alcohol wasn't even involved. We just hadn't seen each other in awhile and apparently there was a lot to cover. I didn't even mind missing the sleep - which is really saying something. I may not see him again for many many months, if at all. That should be a part of the first list. 

Other friends. I have two friends who text me on a regular basis and I'm quite sure I have actually just created them both in my head. They are my Tyler Durden. Most people don't even answer the texts I send - let alone text me first - so, again, I may be creating them. But they do humor me so. As I do myself. Which actually doesn't help refute my beliefs here. 

Alcohol, wine, chocolate, and anything salty. Because it's that time of the month. And either I embrace being fat or I kill people. I've chosen the former. You're welcome. 

Bitches be CRAZY.

It’s 40 minutes into detention duty, I brought a book and actual work down with me, but all I have managed to do is hold various text/email conversations and play 15 games of Words With Friends. Welcome to the productivity that shapes my life.    

Spurred on by the content of two of my conversations, though, I have come to a conclusion: Women don’t like me. I’d say it’s that *all* women don’t like me but that’s not entirely true either. Crazy bitches don’t like me, and since most women are crazy bitches, it’s clearly just the vast *majority* of women that don’t like me.    

(I can say this because I am a woman and I am legit crazy, so, yeah, there ya go.)  

((No offense intended to the other crazy bitches out there who may be reading this and are now totally agreeing with my assessment – I am infinitely unlikeable to the female population, I know.))  

This truth was pointed out to me by a male friend after I was telling him about a recent blow out with two female coworkers. He pointed out that this wasn’t the first time that I’ve dealt with similar issues and he was completely right. The best I can figure is that I simply don’t get along well with women. (although I’m not totally discounting his theory: “I’m telling you, it’s the boobs” (they are kinda powerful and stuff, but I’m still not 100% sold.))  

And it’s not that I actively look to NOT get along with other women, but it's that I don't actively look TO get along either. I'm not terribly girlie. Even in high school, all my friends were guys. Except for my one close female friend, who was known to befriend (and even date, with unfortunate results) strictly gay men. (although she was in theater so the pickings were slim to begin with) However, this brings me to my second conclusion: the women I do get along with are generally the women that other women don't like as well. But, gay guys? LOVE them. And they love them right back. As do I. (love me some gay men.) 

These conclusions, which are hardly earth-shattering, have only further cemented my new-found belief: My "inner girl"? is really just a gay boy in drag. It explains SO much and the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. 

Point 1: women don't like me - I'm not girlie enough to even care. 

Point 2: women who love gay men, love me - because my inner girl is a GAY BOY. 

Point 3: I can rock stiletto heels and fake eye lashes like no one's business. Obviously. 

Point 4: man-hating lesbians do not like me - because my inner girl is a GAY BOY. (gay, but a boy nonetheless) However, lesbians who still like men (just not *like* like them, because then they would simply be straight women who don't like me) do like me. (that's a complicated one, I know, but it still holds true.)

Point 5: I love gay men. I really do. Because - yes, you guessed it! -  my inner girl is a GAY BOY. I also just love men in general. Mostly because they don't give me the trouble that women have. Throughout my whole. goddamn. life. 

Now, when it comes to teenage girls, I have to say - this doesn't hold true. Most of my female students still love me. All I can guess is that their inner bitch is still maturing. They'll get there. And, in the meantime, they love me. And the more problems they have? The more they love me. I am the flame to messed-up-girl-drama-moths. 

Disclaimer: this blog has potential to offend, well, everyone. Except maybe straight men. (men are such pigs (there: equality for all))

Post-Disclaimer Disclaimer: that probably should have been posted at the beginning of this post. And, since it wasn't, I will simply just apologize en masse. I'm sorry if anyone's panties are in a bunch. But frankly? not as much as I probably should be.

Judgment vs. Judgement (or, "How I Spent My Spring Break")

Preface: it should be noted that I use the term "spring break" very loosely here. In that, when I think "spring break"? I think hot coeds getting drunk and stupid on some beach in Florida or Mexico, whereas my "spring break" was nothing more than a long weekend that was topped off by getting peed on by a cat. Totally different. But, I'm getting ahead of myself....

My long weekend began with finding Ghetto Dawg unable to walk, stand, or not try to bite my face off every time I cane near her. I called the vet and they fit me in right away - getting her into the car was another matter altogether. After dressing myself in a thick coat, Chris' work gloves, and throwing a beach towel over P-dizzy's head, I hauled her whole 25 pound furry body to the car as if I was carrying a whining yelping bomb with teeth.

It was awesome.

When we got there, she continued to try to eat the faces of everyone present, which was lovely as well. In addition to the Xanax I had slipped her (from my own personal collection, thankyouverymuch) before we came in, they gave her a shot in the ass to sedate her. And then still had to muzzle her because she *still* wanted to eat their faces.

Hannibal Lector Dawg is not amused.

Cut to many hours later, and the vet thinks she has something called "Beagle Pain Syndrome" which is roughly akin to doggie-meningitis, has the symptomology of MS, and has nothing to do with her NOT being a beagle.

Yep, you read it right. Princess-Ghetto-Hannibal-Lector-Dawg, for all intents and purposes, has doggie MS. Of course that wasn't the vets official prognosis, but it's mine. And of COURSE she's my dawg. We were meant for one another. I just can't bite people's faces off. Though I wish I could.

Later that night, I went to see Alex at Grace for a small new tattoo. It took me 30 mins to get into downtown Phoenixville (because apparently it's the cool new place for hipsters and wanna-be-hipsters to be seen (please note: I'm not even entirely sure what a hipster is, but it seems right)) and only 20 minutes for the set-up and tat to be done.

(it's a mantra and a personal reminder)

The tattoo itself led to an interesting discussion (and follow-up Google search) on the proper spelling of "judgment". Many long web-pages short, either "judgment" or "judgement" is considered acceptable, but the sans "e" spelling is considered correct and preferred everywhere except in Britain and Australia. So, as long my life-long trend of being hopelessly not-well-traveled continues, I should be good.

The next two days were uneventful, spent with family, eating way too much, and only about 65% of my time was spent in my pjs, which is about 27% short of what my preferred goal would be. Meh, you win some, you spend some time actually bathed and clothed.

Cut to today, the last day of my totally righteous and awesome "spring break" when I awoke early for a doctor's appointment only to find that my million-year-old, dying-slowly-from-what-I-have-diagnosed-as-kidney-failure (didn't we establish by now that I'm a vet? keep up, people) cat had slept on me, peed all over herself - in her sleep - thus peeing all over my covers and, yes, all over me.

Let me tell you - in case you've never had the pleasure - waking up at 6am with your boobs smelling like cat urine is as much confusing as it is completely unsettling. I'll leave it at that.

And other than my doctor explaining that I've had a significant weight gain over the last two years (no shit, you mean my clothes aren't shrinking? do you suppose it has something to do with the fact that I'm taking more drugs and hormones than a dairy cow?) and him asking "do you exercise regularly?" (answer: is working to keep my sanity considered exercise? because it totally should be), it was a fun visit. I followed up by making an appointment with my OB-GYN (because I need a second opinion on his whole you-must-quit-all-psychoactive-drugs-if-you-want-to-have-a-baby stance (which was slightly overshadowed by his Dr. Obvious announcement that I was fat (and by the possibility of waking up 4 months pregnant and finding you're so depressed that you want to drive your car off an overpass and that can't possibly be considered safe for a baby either)) for later this month and an appointment with my neurologist next month, because why should they be left out of the "wow-Jamie-you've-gotten-HUGE" fun.

(and if that last paragraph isn't proof positive that I need to be medicated I don't know what is.)

P.S? I've never been on a real "spring break", even in college. I'm thinking by the time I can afford to go hit a beach with a bunch of drunk coeds for a week, it will be more like "Geriatrics Gone Wild". (I'm gonna own that (wrinkled and sagging) shit.)

P.P.S? Callie made this today at pre-school. It's a rocket ship. (and that's all I'm saying about that.)