“No Coat Hanger Abortions”

For the past four days I have been in Hartford, Connecticut (second only in sterile blandness to Charlotte, NC). The best thing about travelling for work, is not the places you go, but staying in hotels for free. Not only are there tiny shampoos and soaps to collect, but also, in every hotel room  I’ve stayed in,  I’ve seen this sign:

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Since there’s no reason for the banning of coat hangers in general, they being fairly innocuous items, I’ve been forced to assume that the sign means “Please, no coat hanger abortions in the bathroom.” It seems odd that you would need a sign to tell you that, however, since dying my hair red, I also dyed the hotel bathroom while washing it. Afterwards, it looked like I’d butchered someone and done a sub-Jodi Arias clean up job. So maybe hotel maids come to some odd conclusions after they see the mess that certain people leave behind.

The most interesting thing to happen while I was in Connecticut and probably the most interesting thing to happen in Connecticut, ever, was when I met a woman who had suffered from scurvy. Yes, that’s right, scurvy. As a child, I was fascinated by scurvy, it was the only time I was interested by something a teacher told me for more than twenty minutes in a row. But who manages to get scurvy these days??? She was just an average woman from New Jersey, not a pirate circa 1672.

After hearing her story and seemingly instantly developing every symptom of scurvy  (this happens with almost every disease  I hear about),  I’ve decided to stop eating a bag of Munchos and a Mars Bar for every meal. Now I alternate a glass of orange juice for breakfast or lunch. I’m hoping that’s enough to keep the scurvy at bay.

Fill in the Blank

Yesterday was Zontee’s last day at work, so like many things in my life, it started out innocently enough, by having a few drinks with friends, and then somehow degenerated into a group of drunkards talking about the benefits of a career in pole dancing, the pointlessness of dildos having veins and shading, and then finally, playing a card game where one of the correct answers was “Pacman uncontrollably guzzling cum.” It’s safe to say, that when given the option, this may very well be the correct answer to every question ever asked.

I’d never been to Zontee’s apartment before, and while there I discovered several things. One: she makes really good gluten free pasta, Two: babies hate me almost as much as I hate them and Three: she really likes Evian. I wanted to point out to her that you can  actually get water out of the tap for free, anytime you like, but anyone who likes Evian enough to have not one, but two pictures celebrating it’s existence on their bathroom wall has more problems than I can possibly help them with:

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Other things that happened yesterday: I dyed my hair bright red in an effort to look less like an extra from The Walking Dead (it almost worked) and got a tattoo inspired by what else? a book about psychopaths:

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In case you can’t read it, because I took this picture drunk in a moving subway car, it reads: “Stoic irreverence in the face of unremitting adversity.” Words to live your life by.

I’d also like to point out that I’m not a homicidal maniac, it’s just the way I photograph. That’s why my modelling career was cut short. There’s just not that much call for girls who look like they could pierce a hole in your skull with their eyes.

Happy Halloween!

If you were in some kind of barbiturate coma yesterday, you may have missed the fact that it was my least favourite day in the entire World. That’s right, it was the day when grown men and women stalk the streets dressed as witches and wizards and sexy nurses. Otherwise known as Halloween. If you’re really unlucky like me, you will leave your hair appointment at exactly the same time as said morons are taking their fat, spoiled, whiny children to get even more fat, spoiled and whiny buy taking them into every single store along 5th Avenue to rummage for free candy.

Sooooo glad I wasn’t working yesterday. I don’t like being forced to pretend that people’s kids are cute. It eats away at my identity as a scrooge like curmudgeon.

In England we don’t celebrate this ridiculous day, and if you do insist on dressing in a batman/princess costume, you better make sure as hell that you’re under the age of five, or risk a severe beating.

I did however take advantage of the free chocolate being handed out. I like free chocolate and I don’t see why I have to dress up as some kind of slutty witch to enjoy it, especially since I do kind of resemble one anyway.

Loz’s Guide to being Just Like Everyone Else

Today, I met with the new psychiatrist who’s been assigned to handle my “case”, Dr Singh*. She is female. I was hoping this wasn’t going to be the case, as I tend to assume that all women are like me: petty, vindictive, easily distracted, manipulative liars. However, she seemed nice enough (probably an act), and one prescriber of mild-altering substances is probably pretty similar to another, so no matter.

She asked me how I was feeling. I told her that I felt more stable than I had in a while and that my anxiety had decreased dramatically.

“Well, that’s great.” She said.

“But desperation, fear, anxiety and a sense of deep, wrenching sadness are the sole motivating factors in my life.” I told her.  “If I don’t have them, why would I get out of bed?”

She rolled her eyes and printed out the same numerous prescriptions that I get every month. “This is working, I see no reason to change your medication right now.”

So I guess this is how ordinary folk feel every day, and somehow this is a good thing. Since when has apathetic mediocrity been good for people?

Neither feel too strongly one way, or the other, I guess this is the key to a successful, yet entirely bland existence. Yay for being just like every other pointless and insipid human being on the planet. Why is feeling certain emotions more strongly than most people considered a disorder that must be promptly dealt with by completely erasing any interesting and unique personality traits that a person may possess?

Perhaps I’m just bored? Does low anxiety lead to boredom? Possibly. It will also most likely lead to me doing something I’ll deeply regret later, and also lead to me enjoying every goddamn minute of it.

As Vincent Van Gogh once said: “I’d rather die of passion, than die of boredom.”

*No need for a pseudonym, since every other person in the medical profession is called Singh.

RIP Frank from Downstairs (and also Lou Reed)

Question: What do Lou Reed and Frank, my neighbour from downstairs, have in common?

Answer: They’re both slightly creepy, yet awesome, and they both died yesterday.

The night before last, I heard an almighty crash, which sounding like someone falling through a plate glass window. I assumed it was Henry, in some kind of drug-addled haze, so I didn’t bother getting out of bed. The next morning, Frank was getting wheeled out of the apartment covered with a sheet. Apparently he’d had a fall and broken a hip. He died later that day.

I should point out that Frank was born during the Cretaceous period, making him approximately 144 million years old, so I guess he had a good innings. He was the only person I know who could say “Have a good day!” and make it sound like a threat.

He leaves behind baby brother Prosper, approx. 140 million years old.

My favourite Frank quote: “Everybody hates me, because I like to give them a hard time.” He then laughed, uproariously, almost maniacally. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so proud or pleased with themselves. His other favourite saying was : “Son of a bitch!” Which he used often, to express his feelings about pretty much everything in the World, ever.

I know if there is an afterlife, he will be giving Yahweh/Allah/Vishnu/Buddha/Satan/whoever, the benefit of his cranky yet accurate worldview. You can expect the World to improve by leaps and bounds shortly.

After Work Fun

Last night was special event night at work. I wasn’t on the schedule, but they have free wine and pizza afterwards so I decided to go anyway. Being at work can be surprisingly fun when you don’t have to actually do anything constructive.

As usual on wine and pizza evenings, conversation degenerated into discussions about wearing black-face and cooking babies. At one point Will, who happens to be black, came out as a white supremacist. Yes, really.

My favorite quotes of the night:

Arabia (to me): “If you don’t call me, I will cut your face with a broken Snapple bottle. Mangosteen. It’s my favourite flavour.”

Arabia (to me): “You’re already thin and creepy. You don’t need to start cooking babies as well.”

Next the discussion turned to Halloween costumes. I decided I was going to dress up as Arabia. She offered to lend me some combat boots and shave half of my head, but was strangely appalled when I said I was going to go to Sephora to buy some dark foundation aimed at women of colour, to plaster my face with. “That’s racist!” She screeched. But I can hardly pass for African American with my pasty, sickly, mildly jaundiced complexion. Next time I’m at work, I’m going to follow Arabia around with a Pantone colour chart so I can get just the right shade.

In other news, I got complimented on my blog today by someone who told me they were surprised that I have such an acerbic wit. “I have to pretend to be nice at work in order to keep my job.” I explained. “But I’m becoming more and more convinced that I really am a sociopath.”

Can You Say Awkward?

Today was my last session with my psychiatrist Dr S, before he leaves his position. He told me that he was proud of me and that I seem to be doing much better.

Before I left, I hugged him, (which was similar to trying to get my arms around an over-inflated beach ball) and wished him luck in his new position.

“Actually, I’m leaving to take care of my dying wife.” He explained.

“Oh….” I said, desperately flailing about for something appropriate to say. For some reason, I eventually ended with: “Um…good luck with that.”

What is the appropriate response when someone informs you that their significant other is dying or dead? Am I supposed to say “sorry”? This seems to be the standard response to such news. But I’m not sorry, because I didn’t kill her. The fact that I had nothing to do with her illness or her death seems to make it ridiculous for me to apologize for it.

Also, this is man who knows pretty much everything about me, things I wouldn’t even tell my closest friends, and yet I don’t even know his first name or what he does in his spare time. I’ve never even asked him how his day was, because our relationship was all about me and my non-problems. It never occurred to me that he continued to exist after I had closed the door to his office, let alone that he had other, more important things in his life than being my psychiatrist, such as a sick wife.

Ever since I heard the news I’ve had a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. What could this be? Is it empathy? If it is, I’m glad I have very little of it, because it’s a most uncomfortable feeling that I’d rather not experience ever again, if that’s at all possible.