Coconuts

Me: You will never guess what I’m doing.

Mike: Yeah, probably not. What’re you doing?

Me: Brushing my hair and fashioning a bra from the coconut I’m eating.

Mike: How the fuck do you expect me to guess that shit?

Diary: Wild Goose Chase

I woke up to beeping this morning. I could’ve sworn I had turned off my phone to ensure an uninterrupted night of quiet. I rolled onto my belly and karate chopped the shit out of my phone’s screen. It was blank. See? I knew I turned it off.

The beeping persisted. It was my insulin pump; I was all out of juice. I rolled out of bed, untangling my feeties from the flat sheets. My head still felt foggy from my cold. I bet Satan coughed on me. I walked to the kitchen, toes curling on the cold tile, and opened the fridge for my vial on insulin. I plucked it from the door, and it was just like that one scene from A Christmas Story: I dropped that shit. The bottle shattered. The scent of insulin filled the air (imagine the sterile smell of a hospital room). “AWW, JIMMINY CRACKPIPES!” I hollered while slamming the fridge shut. I would’ve done a river dance on the shards if it would undo my fuck up.

My mom sent a Skype message. “Jecca, are you okay?”

NO! “Yeah, I can’t talk right now. I have to leave soon.”

I took a whore bath, skipped breakfast, and reserved a Zipcar for the next three hours. Nissan. A real piece of shit car…with Jersey plates. But it would do.

I’m an army brat and have Tricare coverage (thank you, Pops) so I sped over to my local army hospital, but guess what? NO ONE WAS THERE! TRAINING HOLIDAY! Also there isn’t an ER at this hospital. I see why the soldiers call it “Kill Row” instead of “Kimbrough.” I should’ve stabbed myself in the leg to prove that not having an emergency department on a military installation is about as smart as shoving your dick in a pencil sharpener. But I didn’t want to give the only soul working the front desk a panic attack, so my blade stayed in its place on my hip. Plus I didn’t want to be stabbed…again.

I drove the 15 miles to St. Agnes Hospital in 12 minutes where these women in black robes took my vital signs and called me things like “my child” and “sweetheart.” I would’ve been smitten with these old ladies, but they couldn’t write me a script so they were about as interesting as a whore after you’ve fucked her twice. I told one I only believed in god “just in case.” If Hell is real I’m one step closer to its fiery gates. The nuns took my shenanigans well, but I suppose they wanted me out of the waiting room before I started speaking in tongues or something because they stuffed me into a triage room. I fucked off on my phone for a bit (extended my Zipcar reservation by an hour) before a balding doctor came in and wrote out a script for insulin. I could tell he was relieved I wasn’t a junkie scrounging about for narcotics. Merry Christmas.

I had about an hour and twenty minutes left before I had to return the car. I booked it to the nearest Rite Aid, script in hand. I swear I drove behind every 18 wheeler and senior citizen on the 10 minute drive there. I wondered if I would get into a lot of trouble if I drove on the sidewalks. Female, Asian drivers MUST get off with an easier sentence for that sort of shit since we can’t drive and don’t know any better. I bet it happens ALLA TIME! …no Crazy Taxi antics from Jessica this day though.

I ran into the Rite Aid where I was greeted by a mouthy and rude goth chick. “I have to call the doctor to make sure the script is real. It’ll take 30 to 45 minutes.”

Please tell me why I’d have a fake script for fucking INSULIN?! “Okay, I’ll wait here.”

I walked through the Rite Aid about six times. Christmas is over so everything with snowflakes on it is half-off, and Valentine’s Day hearts reign supreme in the Hallmark aisles. I’m not sure if I should be disgusted by that or not. I bought a Coke Zero to settle my rumbling stomach and sat down next to a display with brochures about STI’s. Apparently you can’t call them sexually transmitted diseases anymore because it sounds bad. They’re infections now. To a chick who wants to go into the medical field, they both sound gross. Frankly, I think venereal diseases should be called “steamed crotch juices” or something like that so people don’t fornicate with the infected and expose the rest of the population.

Anyway… Gothic Gretta called my name over the intercom and informed me that my insurance wouldn’t cover my insulin and I’d have to hash out $270 for a 100 mL vial of Humalog.

ARE YOU FUCKING ME?! “Are you fucking me?”

If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s my health insurance from good ol’ Uncle Sam. “Umm, no. But you can call your insurance to see if there’s a way we can fix this.” I sat down next to the STI brochures again. I wanted to blow my nose all over the pages covered with photos of genital warts. If I had had explosive diarrhea, I would’ve dropped trough and shit all over the waiting area. No corner would’ve been spared of a righteous speckling of shit. Fortunately, I did not have the trots. I whipped out my phone, called Tricare, and spoke with a nice lady named Wanda who said the pharm techs were idiots (that made me laugh). Wanda said I was golden and asked if she could speak with Goth chick. I tried to pass the phone. Gothic Gretta said she couldn’t speak with anyone over the phone unless if she directly called them. Wanda called her an idiot again. I said Gothic Gretta is the reason why I wanted to dump a wheelchaired man onto the freeway. We both laughed. Wanda gave me a number that would set everything straight.

Thirty minutes later I was out of the pharmacy, drugs in hand, on my way to the car. I got in…and the shitmobile wouldn’t start. I was late in returning it. Forget dumping a handicapped man into oncoming traffic. I wanted to stomp deformed children. I called Zipcar, told them to turn on my damned hoopdie so I could get it back to school, and drove it like I stole it. There was an Indian boy waiting for the car when I got back to campus. I could tell he wanted to say something. “Dude. Don’t. I just had a field day that involved the army, nuns, a goth, and a trip to the emergency room.” I held up my wrist so he could see my ER admittance bracelet. He raised his eyebrows, nodded his head, and clapped his hands once. “You’re good, girl.”

I walked my ass up the hill to my apartment where I am now eating some leftovers from last night. I went to my buddy Matt’s house yesterday for Christmas dinner and his mom sent me home with… a lot. This is some hella good food… makes everything all right in the world. It’s the little things in life.

That’s Stupid

I don’t know why people don’t say what they want to convey. They pussyfoot around the subject, leaving vague hints as to what’s rolling around in their heads. It’s stupid, and it makes us straight-shooters adopt idiotic practices of guessing, assuming, postulating, and taking leaps of faith that usually lead to very long drops with sharp objects at the bottom. I like speaking my mind (hence the somewhat anonymous blog), but damn I have to weigh the perils before I open my trap or risk becoming a social leper. I’m a slave to bourgeois norms…that means instead of sticking it to the man, I’m sucking him off. I suppose it’s fitting what with my being gagged and all. Hahaha~

Anyway. I fucked up last night. Here’s the quick and dirty: I went to a friend’s grad party. I told her I might leave early to hang with a guy. The party entourage went to a bar (I’m on the wagon so I found myself looking at the male bar patrons to see if I had matched any on Tinder; there were a few and I even chatted with one while I waited in line to go pee), everyone wanted to go dancing (oh god, no!), I left early with two other friends (I dance like a stripper whose rent is due on Tuesday… but only when I’m so drunk I go blind). Aside: I should mention that I hadn’t hung out with my freshly-graduated friend for a long while, and I had said she could spend the night at my place. I know, I know; bad Jessica. I went back on my word and that’s a shitty, dishonorable thing to do. *Cue Cher’s If I Could Turn Back Time.*

But here’s where shit gets a little more twisted: she said I could leave. I told her I could hide my apartment keys in the bushes next to my place so she could let herself in. She said it was all right, and that she’d stop drinking after we left the bar and just drive herself home. Everything is okay, right? No. NO NO NO! EVERYTHING IS WRONG! Apparently, when she said I could leave that really meant, “Please don’t go. Stay with me. Hang out with me.” WHY COULDN’T SHE JUST SAY THAT?! Woman-Speak, at least this dialect, is a language I am not well-versed in. Or maybe I’m just socially retarded and should know these things. This hearkens back to a conversation I had about people saying “I want you to want to do it.” What the fuck IS that? Bullshit, high (if not impossible) standards.

The fall out: she said she doesn’t want to be friends with someone who ditches her for a guy. My defense: I wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t been given explicit permission to go. I’m actually pretty fucked up about this turn of events. I should’ve seen it coming (fucking Asian slanty eyes!). I didn’t think the repercussions would be so great. I value her friendship very much, and I would do things differently if I could. But as my Uncle Brian says, “If ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts we’d all have a merry fucking Christmas.”

Silver linings: fucking like I’m an endangered species, coffee shop latte, antique and book boutique, interesting people with beautiful minds, The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. These things make me as happy as a bird with a french fry.

Sex Toy Shop and McDonald’s

I went on a date yesterday. I put on a little bit of make up… because I thought of it as war paint… because I was pissed off at this dude. Let’s rewind!

Here’s the quick and dirty: This fucker asked me to hang out on Friday. After a long time of saying how comfy I was watching Netflix in bed, I finally gave in and took an Uber over to his place. That asshole fell asleep on me. I stayed out on his stoop for 45 minutes in the cold, in a shady part of town waiting for my Uber to show up. I was livid. I was so mad I think I went blind. I wanted those crack addicts making a deal in the parking lot to start a fight with me.

“Hey girl, what dat mouf do?”

“TALK SHIT!”

And that’s exactly what I did with Malik (my faithful Uber driver); we had a shit talking party in his PT Cruiser. “That guy doesn’t deserve to have a nice girl like you as company, Miss Jessica.” “THAT DICK NUGGET!” “His manners are lacking, Miss Jessica.” “I’M GONNA BITE HIS EAR OFF!”

I don’t know why I agreed to go on the date we had planned prior to that shit show. Fixing that fuck up is like putting toothpaste back in the tube. Actually, I know why I decided to go through with it. I’m too curious. I wanted to see if he was a real jizz towel in person.

He took me to a Korean restaurant where I watched him use chopsticks out of the corner of my eye (they’re slanty so my peripheral vision is phenomenal. WIDE SCREEN, HI-DEF). It was like watching Bambi learn how to walk: cute but almost embarrassing to watch. He didn’t starve.

Then we went to a sex toy shop just a few doors down the best idea for a first date! They had an ass ton (tee hee) of lube, massage oils, vibrators, dildos, artificial vaginas, costumes, cock rings, books, a spool of rope… Bruh. They had this tingly oil you’re supposed to rub on your clit for extra sensation. I tested some out on my lower lip. I have every intention of going back with a few of my lady friends for that bottle of Jesus’s tears.

We looked at some Christmas lights (apparently they’re really popular in Baltimore; 34th street in Hampden) and then… we went to the grocery store so I could buy ingredients for grilled cheese sammiches. Bread, butter, cheese… and bacon. Apparently people put bacon on their grilled cheese thingies. This was news to me. I shouldn’t have been surprised since bacon goes on everything in America.

Oh but the date didn’t end there. We drove to his old high school and broke into the gym…and got busted by a security guard. Well, it wasn’t really breaking and entering since the building wasn’t locked, and the security guard told us to leave the building before he locked up. I remember I had to pee really badly, but since it was an all boys’ high school, there were no female restrooms. I have no qualm with taking a whiz in a men’s bathroom… but dude, I didn’t want him to hear me peeing. I have a weird problem with that. Call me crazy. Sue me. Take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut. I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN PEOPLE LISTEN TO ME PEEING!

To top it off, we went to McDonald’s for soft serve (I can finally say I went to McDonald’s for a first date), bullshitted about the Ravens and Colts in his car (GO COLTS), and I Skyped with my mom… while on my date. When Satan tried out the mould for the quintessential asshole, I poured out. In my defense, my mother had left some pretty frantic-sounding voicemails on my phone that needed to be addressed. When her emotions are running high she starts speaking a mash-up of Korean and English (Konglish), the stuff that swatted my eardrums that evening.

Anyhow, no moves were pulled, I went home, and I finished watching the rest of season three of American Horror Story. And now I have my last two finals to study for. Fuck me sideways and call me Pamela.

Cemetery

Sometimes I get into these slumps and I can’t tell people about them. I guess this isn’t just an issue for me. After all, nobody really cares unless if you’re pretty or dying.

I had a conversation with a very near and dear friend of mine, one of the few people I am at complete ease with. She told me I hide behind a mask of happiness and tomfoolery (more so than usual) when shit is on the rocks, and we’re not talking about my alcohol. There are worse ways to dress up I suppose. When things come to a head and I can’t handle being around people and my miserable ass could use some company, I take a walk to the cemetery. With a six pack.

I sit on some poor soul’s headstone and lay it on ’em. I crack open two beers and start mumbling about everything. My grandfather passed away a few weeks ago and I miss the shit out of him. I’m taking on student loans and I don’t even know if I’m gonna land a job after college. There are other things I mention, but that stuff is only for the dead. Funny thing is I feel better after these sessions. I feel better after talking to a bunch of rocks with dead people’s names on them. If I ever decide to get a headstone I’m gonna put some words of wisdom on that shit so it’s interesting. Okay, I don’t have much wisdom at my age, so perhaps a funny story would do.

In a club. Really drunk. Need more drink but I lost bottomless cup because some chick knocked it out of my hand; too lazy to look for it. Came up with plan: I say to man at bar, “My g spot is located about two inches inside your wallet.” He buys me a drink. I run away to dance floor laughing  my ass off.

I think someone could appreciate that story. To sweeten the deal I’d install a bench with a cup holder and Wifi hotspot. I bet all of the graveyard caretakers would visit my hole in the ground.

Actually, here are some words of wisdom that I say when people are stressing:

Y’all need to fucking relax. Take a bath. Eat some chocolate. Fuck with the curtains open. Shit.

I obviously have life figured out.

And I’m on the wagon so I’ll be taking Arizona tea to Beloved Son and Brother, David.

Old, Racist Ass Wagon

I used to live with my godparents in a pretty shitty neighborhood. It definitely wasn’t a place where a chick should walk around by herself, but I’m the kind of person who’s always looking for a fight and it gives me this psycho gleam in my eye. People stay the hell away from me. As such I figured it was okay for me to go for the occasional jog. Lord knows I can’t fucking run. My running consists of sobbing and, like, chocolate cake. Jogging is serious business though.

On a particular jog around Shanty Neighborhood, I stopped for a breather, hands on my knees as I made whooping cough-like sounds. It sounds disgusting when I get like that. As luck would have it, an elderly gentleman was letting his dog out for a nice dump on the front lawn. I waved and coughed out a pleasantry of some sort because my mama provided me with a decent amount of home training.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut because this fuck had “old, racist ass wagon” written all over him. Hindsight 20/20, right? He walked up to his mailbox and said, “I don’t want no slant eyes around here.”

I was taken aback by his brazen manner. I mean, shit. That’s something to be almost envious of. I think I may have apologized before I walked down the sidewalk. I was about two houses down before I realized how sick the burn was.

I turned on my heel and crowed, “YOU BETTER NOT EVER LET YOUR DOG OUT BY ITSELF BECAUSE I’LL EAT THAT SUM BITCH! I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, MOTHER FUCKER!” And then I got the hell out of dodge. Fun fact: racist, old ass wagons usually pack heat and are often blessed with uncanny accuracy by the Deity of Crack Shots.

That day, running was serious business and consisted of laughing my ass off.