This week had a theme, a pretty straightforward one too: "Katie, Wilma Fingerdo", laced with syphilis, oozing herpes sores, attached to a gnome wearing a trollee-esq mask when you least expect it, EVERY FUCKING DAY?!
I met with optadaddy on Monday to discuss my lady balls. While I appreciate his enthusiasm for Graves' ophthalmology because really, if a doctor has a raging hard on for something that's ailing you, s/he's the DR you want. Right? Right.
I'm in the chair. Between us is the peeper machine that scopes your balls. While he's fondling mine with said machine, he's going on and on and on about his latest study with rabbits and rats and their peepers popping. Again, I appreciate his enthusiasm, but do I really need the deets?
I said, "My sister had a rabbit named Clovis", thinking this would ignite the, oh-I've-said-too-much-gene, and make him stop. On the contrary, he didn't. After the fondlefest, I said, "Ya know, DRB, I really don't want to break-up with you because you are the Graves' Optha daddy of doom. However, the image of sacrificed animals is nauseating, depressing and way more than I can handle. You've crossed a boundary."
Do you know what he said? "I'm authoring a paper for (I can't remember the name) medical journal all about it."
Seriously?! I have NOTHING to say and EVERYTHING to talk.
Everyone was so far up my ass this week, did I ask for a free colonoscopy? No, I did not. No matter what I said or did, it was wrong. A ginormy week of misunderstandings. Don't you love when people say, "I'm listening."? Really? You are? Than why the fuck can't you hear me?!
The upside is that my surname isn't Humpdick. I'm healthy and the week will be officially over tomorrow.
PS: Wilma Fingerdo is a dragalicious diva.