We all know this blog is the #1 place to go when you want to talk about #2. In the past,
that h00r, Jenny Jerkface persons who shall remain nameless posted about defiling a certain gentleman's trailer, among other things. Some of us are cut from a classier cloth. I'd like to elevate the tone here. Stay with me.
I texted JJ earlier today and told her I was going to write a post about micturition. I think she assumed I was kidding. She should know better. I never joke about urine.
As some of you may be aware, I recently moved. I'm starting a new job soon where I will
play on Twitter and read / write fanfiction work very hard for my new employer. One of the requirements for my employment was to take a drug test.
Guess I should throw a blanket over that or something.
They sent me some fancy looking paperwork with the name and address of a lab nearby. I trucked down there first thing this morning, hoping to avoid a crowd. One thing you should know about me—I hate germs. A lab full of germy people is pretty much my 7th circle of Hell. If I could I would walk around like this all day.
Do you have this in pink?
My luck being what it is, I did not avoid the crowd. I was number 11,786,465 in line. Another interesting TK fact—I make Jenny Jerkface's hypochondria look like amateur night. This lab, clearly run by Mephistopheles, was airing some kind of health channel that catalogues all kinds of symptoms for your viewing pleasure. I'm certain I have less than a week to live now that I've been self-diagnosed with depression, bulimia, hip dysplasia, Restless Leg Syndrome, prostate cancer, Gulf War Syndrome and Parvo.
a lifetime thirty minutes, I was finally called for my turn. The doctor / nurse / man in scrubs had a seriously thick accent and had to repeat everything he said at least five times. I think I was his favorite patient of the day. He shoves a plastic thimble into my palm and says, "Pee in this." Come again? I've never seen a smaller container.
I tried to explain to this man in the medical profession that I have girl parts and bad aim. He's basically asked me to land a space shuttle on a coaster. He had no response. Just as I was closing the bathroom door, he says, "Oh, and you can't wash your hands until you sign some paperwork."
This is a hard limit for me. I wash my hands. All. The. Time. Jenny Jerkface luuuuurved making fun of me for bringing 2 bottles of hand sanitizer to SXSW, but then that bitch asked to borrow one every five seconds. After arguing with this dude (did I mention I was his favorite person of the day?) I capitulated & closed the bathroom door. He stood right outside. Like, RIGHT outside. I could see his shadow and hear him breathing. My bladder immediately went into Red Alert, boarded up shop and told my urine, "You shall not pass!" Gandalf lives in my excretory system. Who knew?
Then the real horror show started. There were no paper liners to put down over the toilet seat. Holy hell. I had no idea I'd need a bevy of narcotics just to make it through this drug test.
Hold the cafe, mocha & latte and make that a double.
Hovering over the toilet while aiming the thimble cup in five inch heels is like nailing Jell-o to a tree. Meanwhile, Heavy Breather is still outside the door and Gandalf is sending all fluids back from whence they came. Complete panic set in and I started sweating like a whore in church. Fast forward about nine hours and I finally filled the thimble. Halfway.
I exited the disgusting bathroom (without washing my hands) and handed the cup to Mouth Breathing Scrubs Man. "It's half empty," he said.
"I like to think of it as half full," I retorted. Fucking pessimist.
He gave me a nasty look because he was probably picking up on some of the sarcasm I wasn't bothering to tamp down. Whatever. I might have felt a little sorry for him if he hadn't asked me to then sign some papers with HIS pen. Motherfucker. Why don't they just throw a cage of rats on my face and be done with it? All eleven million people in front of me used that pen with their pee hands. Some of those people were dudes who clearly had to touch their wangs, their meaty man sticks, their one-eyed pussy marauders before touching that pen. I needed a safe word. He had to ask me three more times before I finally grabbed the pen with two fingers and scrawled my name, while throwing up into the back of my mouth.
Needless to say, I've washed my hands about 85 times since this morning.
Everyone grab your pee cups and meet me in the comment section. I shared some of my neurotic tendencies. Now you show me yours.