Tuesday, January 31
I was looking through my old Photobucket account, and happened to come across these old Photoshop creations that really just could've been done with Paint:

I need to make something like this for Fall Out Boy too.

That's M.J. right before he goes to bed [with a 5-year-old boy].

So the gynecologist wasn't so bad, because I was actually due for March. No pap smear today, motherfucker. Thank god. Goddamn that shit fucking hurts. Oh man, last year when I had one, while lying on the table, there was a sign on the ceiling that said, "STAY CALM." I laughed at it in my head at that moment; Yes, that uncomfortable and awkward moment as the cha cha was being operated on by a foreign object, and I still find it pretty damn funny right now.

So nothing happened during today's visit. I stayed in the waiting room the whole time and the doctor just wrote a Ladies' Only pill prescription for three more months' worth. The bad part was, my mom had an actual appointment so I felt sorry for her (yeah I actually fucking felt sorry). And I have to get poked around and shit in March.

While I was waiting for my mom, I found an issue of Parents magazine on a side table. The baby pictures and little baby clothes were all cute to look at, I admit. But whenever I think about getting knocked up and then having to care for the consequence that comes with it, I think of how the shittiest mother I would be. Because my ego is so huge and my head is way too high up there in my ass, my kid would either:

1. die within two days of labor
2. be taken away and raised by my mom because I'd still give two shits more about myself than my child
3. grow up to be Mick Jagger

Oh, and here's a darling little Paint creation:

Squeeeeze those rolls!

As I was rummaging through my bag in the waiting room looking for my phone, for somebody had called me, I found a piece of blonde hair stuck on a mitten. So I'm sitting there, holding a strand of blonde hair, and looking totally fucking puzzled because I'm too fucking asian and too fucking black-haired to possibly be growing patches of short blonde hair somewhere on my body. I have no idea whose it is; It sort of makes me wonder how much I molt and how much of my hair gets around and if someone by chance happens to be looking through their shit, finds an entire yard-long of black hair that most likely belongs to some illegal immigrant. Hey, at least it wasn't white hair. Because if it was white hair, then it was most likely some old person who'd been violating your property. Or maybe they were violating you when you're too fucking dumb to notice that a little knome of a short man was humping your leg.

Or when you find a strand of hair that is the complete opposite of your own hair color stuck onto your shirt. Particularly a knitted sweater, then it is really fucking gross. To find a strand or two on your sock is fucking gross too. A red strand of hair would be pretty horrifying because I don't know a single fucking person who has red hair that's longer than a centimeter. Finding a pube on the soap bar is my worst nightmare.

Too bad a friend wasn't with me or else I could've pulled that old, "Whose fucking hair is this on the neckline of my shirt? Oh yeah, it's my hot boyfriend's. We were making out hardcore last night that not even a narcoleptic could get to sleep from all that noise."


Christina N. @ 7:48 PM