The return of Madam Rorschach.

Remember how I told you about Madam Rorschach’s unsavory oeuvres d’art? And how she was coming back from vacation after two weeks of the office toilet being spoiled spotless?

Well, either she was suffering from a creative block (mental or physical, take your pick) or just decided to give the toilet and I a grace period to readjust to her presence, because her first week back came and went without any new additions to the Sistine Crapper. And silly me, I made a terrible mistake. I got my hopes up that maybe, just maybe, she had had some miraculous epiphany during her time away and realized that the art world was not for her after all.

Live and learn, people, live and learn. Because today I discovered…

This is what I get for being an optimist.

Even so, I’m suitably impressed that she made it through a whole week without any displays of shartistry. Maybe I’ll bake her a cake to commemorate the achievement.

Although a bran muffin might be more appropriate.

Observing the common idiot in its natural habitat.

It’s been a long week for me. I’ve had this alliteratively sneaking suspicion that someone’s been slipping me sleeping pills on the sly, except in reality my thyroid’s just an inconsiderate douchecanoe and the pills I actually am taking to remedy the situation are taking their sweet-ass time to kick in. I’m tired, and I’m achy, and I’m cranky.

So in the spirit of crankiness, I’m just going to take some time to bitch about one of my pet peeves.

Learn to fucking look around you, people.

And watch this show, because it’s awesome.

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We need to talk about toilets.

Warning: this post primarily concerns bodily functions. I’m sorry, I know we’re still just getting to know each other and I’m springing bathroom talk on you already, but I never promised this blog would be pretty.

You see, my office has an “artist” in its midst. A Jackson Pollock imitator most foul. Her canvas, the loo; her medium, poo.

…I sincerely apologize for that, but I couldn’t resist the rhyme.

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Does this fat make me look fat?

So I ended up going to the doctor for my wrist alien test results a week later than intended, because I just couldn’t bring myself to wake up earlier than noon during the B.C. Day long weekend. Partly because I’ve been dog-tired in general lately, but also because fuck you, alien, you don’t own me. We’re going to the beach, and YOU’RE GONNA LIKE IT.

But this weekend I sucked it up and hauled myself out of bed at 8:30 on Sunday, arriving at the clinic 15 minutes before they were officially open for business. I then discovered that 15 minutes early was actually fashionably late, because there were already about a dozen people ahead of me and a 45 minute wait starting from when the walk-in doctor started seeing people at 9.

I don’t know about you, but when I find out I’m in for a long wait my brain goes into dictation mode and starts needlessly narrating everything, which is good because it means I’m officially back in a writing state of mind but bad because my brain doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that the rest of this post is pretty much just a present tense stream of consciousness account of a really boring hour and a bit, but my brain is like, “You should blog that shit and make everyone else suffer along with you!” so here we are.

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Happy teeth and pyrotechnics.

Raise your hand if you’reĀ totally looking forward to your next dental appointment.

Mm-hm, mm-hm…carry the one, and that’s…zero. Zero people super happy about to going to see the dentist. I’m not counting that weirdo waving his hand at the back. He’s clearly high on something. You’d have to be, to actually look forward to the dentist’s, even if it’s only for a cleaning. In fact some places advertise that they’re willing to get you high, just to get you in that chair. Sedation dentistry sells. I had them drug me up but good when my wisdom teeth were removed. Best money I ever spent.

Your mouth is one of those places where you don’t want just anyone messing around. When some of the most common nightmares people experience involve various awful things happening to their teeth, it can be tough to voluntarily go see someone whose job is to stick pointy things into them. I know people who’ve had to switch dentists multiple times before they found someone they were comfortable with, and others who simply stopped going altogether because of a particularly bad experience.

“Oh yeah, I’ll take care of that cavity REAL good.” “Uh, I just remembered I have somewhere to be…”

I happened to luck out. My dentist is my uncle, and one of the nicest people I know. This doesn’t necessarily make my visits to his office any more fun, but at least trust has never been an issue.

But it’s kind of funny when you know someone in both a professional and a personal capacity. I can never see my uncle without being reminded of the stories my mother has told me about him from their childhood together. Comparing the man of today with the boy that was has always been an interesting way to pass the time in the ol’ dentist’s chair.

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