BOOBS.

Not to suddenly overwhelm our readers with worries about "ladyparts," but I'm pretty much convinced I've got breast cancer. This is extra "hilarious" because I convinced myself of this the very same day I actually went to the doctor, and she fondled my boobs and gave me a clean bill of health. (What's the doctor term for fondle again...?)

HOWEVER, this makes me even more certain that there's a problem. Yeah, I know: "that's crazy." But check it out.

(1) The doctor sees a good dozen, two-dozen lady-parts a day, and as such, probably doesn't really give every single ladies' parts the complete hooha. Who could expect her to -- she's a busy ladyparts doctor, with lots important ladyparts to fondle.

(2) She said it herself: there's no magic formula for lump-finding, what you're really looking for is "changes in your body." Pseudo-science. So why, I ask you, does she ever bother with the honk-honk ding-ding? If she were honking my shit every day, then I could trust her pseudo-science a little more. But until she has my boyfriend in there dinging along with her... Not helpful.

(3) Mine aren't the tiggest ol' bitties in the world. So she probably didn't even try.

Conclusion: this thing I found in the back part of my left Teton is probably gonna kill me. It's like someone dropped a jujubee in there, I swear. And not only that, I found another one on the top of the same gazonga -- a tiny, Nerd-sized one -- what are the odds? Obviously, the discovery of the second lump only made me more sure that that first one was legit. Yeah, maybe I was falling asleep at the time of said self-exam, and maybe I was laying in a clinically inappropriate position for lump-diving, and possibly the first lump was just me hitting my rib at a weird angle and the second lump was just a mole I forgot I had, but I'd rather be safe than not sorry I'm calling the doctor for the fifth time this week.

Another thing about HPV... kind of...

I was telling my friend and neighbor Nate about my fear of dying of cancer in the deepness of my vag story, and HE SAID:

"YEAH. Did you know that we're all going to die of fungal infection?"

and I SAID:

"WHAT?"

and he said:

"Yeah, man, all the bees are dying and frogs too and they know now it's from fungus that takes over their body and kills them, and scientists say it is just a matter of time before the fungus starts making the jump to infect humans."

Here is a picture of a mosquito that has been killed by fungus:

But don't worry everyone! He later sent me an e-mail with an anti-fungal remedy:

oregano oil is a very useful tool.
it is very potent and will help keep the warts at bay.
also garlic extract as well.

make glass of ice water with four drops of garlic and one drop of oregano, the oregano is super powerful and very strong just a drop will do.
mix it and take this for four days then give your body a break. it is so strong.

this should do the job.
be healthy
:)

So the thing about HPV...

So basically pretty much everyone has HPV, right? Men, do not be surprised by this information. You have it too, but no one talks to you about it because there are no symptoms and no way to test. UNLESS you have the kind that causes genital warts.

Oh god, genital warts.

Also, HPV can cause cancer in the deepness of your vag hole.

So the last time I went for a pap smear I was nervous about testing positive (FYI I DID NOT), and starting trying to talk myself down.

"Hey, caitlin, don't worry. Worst case scenario is if you have HPV you can get medication or just go for regular pap smears and be fine!"

"Hey, caitlin, you're right.... Unless, what if an Apocalypse happens? Like, in the hit novel 'The Road'?" (see below picture for what the world will look like after World War III)



"Because if that happens then you won't be able to go for regular check up because most likely all doctors will be dead and all medical facilities destroyed. And then you will die of cancer in the deepness of your vag hole!"

I guess I should also be worried about dying of lack of food.

I have to say this again: I don't have dirty parts warts.

Well: Russian doctors found a FUCKING TREE GROWING IN SOME GUY'S LUNG.

I...did...not... know that could happen.

Now I do.

Perfect.

Single White Female

I'm freelancing now, which means I sometimes have to meet people whom I've never met in hopes that they will give me money in exchange for goods and services. My goods are my wicked sweet knowledge and my services are writing whatever you need writ (via my mad skillz), but every so often I get work off of craigslist, and you never know what kind of "goods" and "services" people reeeally want when they post positions on there.

So I have an interview with this lady in a couple days, and we're meeting in a nice public coffee shop. But what if she's a sociopathic killer, cleverly aware of the commonly held cautions about craigslist, and she's just trying to lull me into a false sense of security with the safe first meeting, the green loose leaf tea, and the "offhand" mentions of her toddlers with hippie names? I'll bet she even brings pictures of her alleged children to the interview, to whip them out in case she senses fear behind my eyes, so that Of course I'll meet you at your "basement level" "office" in the warehouse district for our next meeting, because why would a lady in an Arc'teryx fleece vest want to chop me into little pieces and feed me to her labradoodle?

"Hi Mom! I am home!"

Whenever my brother and I would come home from school when I was in middle school, I would be afraid that people had followed us home and were hiding in the bushes, waiting for us to go inside before they broke in and killed us.

So I would always say really loudly, "Hi Mom! I am home!"

On several occasions my brother asked why I was saying that when Mom obviously wasn't home.

I told him to shut up because I was older.

Take Me Out at the Ball Game

My boyfriend's taking my younger brother to a baseball game today. What could be more wholesome? Except that my brother is deathly allergic to peanuts. And today will certainly be the day they finally come for him.

Yeah, my brother's a grown-ass man who's been going to ball games since he was a fetus, and yeah, he's been dealing with this allergy for 19 years and has one of those insta-syringe Epipen things that you stab into your own thigh in an Pulp-Ficition-style allergy-emergency. But I assume that right when Justin Morneau hits an incredible pop-up in the bottom of the ninth, deep to center field, as the ball arcs gracefully toward my brother and my boyfriend and they outstretch their mitts in a moment of childlike bliss and they meet each other's eyes and know -- for the first time -- that they could be family... that's when some crazy drunk girl from two rows back will stumble forward with one hand full of peanuts and the other hand full of crackerjacks, rub them into my brother's face, and kiss him on the mouth with her face full of peanutty Big League Chew, and then, of course, grab the Epipen from my brother's back pocket before he can get to it, and plunge it into my boyfriend's heart before running and leaping off the center field wall and grabbing the ball out of the air on her way down, so that not only will my boyfriend and brother die horrible deaths, the Twins' potentially game winning home run will be rendered illegitimate. I just know it. Goddamn peanuts and crackerjacks... I DO care if they never come back.