10:52AM, my neurologist’s office.
Man, I hope that fish eats some more rocks. That’s hiLARious when he spits ‘em back out.
I’d really like a fish tank. Salt water, tho. Freshwater fish poo too much. Shit, I’d probably kill them. Then I’d be depressed for months.
10:55AM, my neurologist’s office.
BUBBLES! BUUUUUBLES! BUBBLE BUBBLE BUBBLE!
Man, fish are hilarious.
11:05AM, my neurologist’s office.
Fuck, this is gonna be some shitballs news. I really should’ve put this off another day.
OH, hell, he’s asking me a question about my headaches. LOOK AWAKE. Nod. Yeah! Nodding is always good. WAIT, I just told him my headaches are getting better. RETRACT, RETRACT, RETRACT.
11:10AM, my neurologist’s office.
He really does look like a cowboy from a spaghetti Western. Wait, what the hell does “spaghetti Western” mean? Either way, he totally does.
Shit, more drugs. And these side effects. If the headaches won’t kill me, the treatment fucking will.
11:12AM, my neurologist’s office.
Is he still talking about side effects? I’m getting depressed. I know, I should think about something else.
Why is Jessica Simpson, reported to be due “this spring” so huge? I don’t believe it. I bet she’s popping out a kid any moment now.
11:17AM, my neurologist’s office.
Did Jay-Z and Beyonce REALLY shut down an entire NICU for their baby? That’s some bullshit.
hums, “it’s a hard knock life.”
11:22AM, my neurologist’s office.
He’s yelling at me for not getting a blood test done. Fuck. What was the test again? I love tests. Just yesterday I took an IQ test – I’m pretty sure I failed.
Should I tell him about my IQ test and ask if that’s what he wanted? NO. Bad call, SHUT UP BECKY.
11:24AM, my neurologist’s office.
Damns. More drugs. And a side effect that can kill me – another one. Lords.
THINK OF THE BUBBLES, BECKY. BUUUUUUUUBLES.
Not working. Imagining my funeral.
People better be crying at my funeral. None of this – “celebrate my life” bullshit – I want tears. REAL TEARS. I will PAY people to cry if I have to.
Shit, I wonder what the going rate is for funeral criers.
Hrms. Would I find them on Craigs List? That seems to be the best place to find ‘em. Fuck. They took out Craigs List personal ads. Fuck. Now I’m gonna have to find a real job.
11:36AM, my neurologist’s office.
Ooooh! My brain is rewiring itself to become better at circumventing my migraine meds. That’s almost robotic.
Wait. No. That means my brain is becoming resistant to it. That’s not good.
11:42AM, my neurologist’s office.
Woah, he gave me a lot of instructions and all I can think is: “when is Jessica Simpson REALLY having her baby?” This is not good.
Ooooo! Bubbles!
I get a handful of those address labels throughout the year. Not ones that I order or anything, but the ones that various charities send to me to elicit me to send them cash. (if I ordered them, they’d probably have anatomical parts or the three wolf moon on them or something)
They’re usually corny things, ladybugs and smiling faces and shit. So normally, I toss them into the recycling bin, knowing I don’t exactly want to say that my name is “Mrs. David Harks” or anything. Because believe it or not, when I got married, I KEPT A NAME OF MY OWN.
Anyway. Not a huge fan of those charitable stickers.
Don’t get me wrong – I donate to a couple of charities religiously: Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep and March of Dimes (soon enough Band Back Together!), but I don’t have the fundage to donate to every stinking thing that wants my cash.
Yeah, I’m looking at you, Jimmy Motherfucking Wales.
That’s why, when the Sarah McLaughlin “Angel” song pipes up on one of those ASPCA commercials, I have to turn the channel before I start throwing wads of cash at the television screen. I mean, could they GET any more tear-jerking? I think not.
(dramatic foreshadowing) Rather, I THOUGHT not.
So quickly, I change the channel and pretend that I’m not weeping into my Diet Coke. Because Lord knows, I cannot afford to pay off yet ANOTHER person to prevent them from telling the world that I do, in fact, have feelings.
But last night, I saw that I got yet ANOTHER set of address labels. Addressed to me: Ms. Becky S. Harks. Finally, my ACTUAL name. I could USE those for the Christmas Cards I’ll forget to send!
“No,” Ben and Daver both chimed as I opened it. “YOU DON’T NEED TO SEND THEM MONIES.”
My resolve strong, I was all, “I’m too GOOD for charitable tactics. I can TOTALLY use these stickers WITHOUT forking over wads of cash. I CAN FUCKING DO IT. EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER!”
And then I saw it. The letter.
Yeah.
You got my formerly sick kid’s NAME on top of your letterhead. Nice job. Now I HAVE to give you money.
Jesus, could you stick the knife in any deeper?
“Guys,” I said, tears pouring, “I have to send them mah monies.”
“NO,” they said, almost in unison. “Becky, c’mon!”
“LOOK.” I thrust the paper into Ben’s hand. Immediately, his face crumpled, his eyes just a little moist (he clearly never paid me off to tell the world he doesn’t have feelers).
Then I handed it to Daver, whose face did a similar crumple.
“Okay,” they agreed. “You do.”
It looks like you’ve won this round, St. Judes.
Jimmy Motherfucking Wales? You can blow me. Hard. In fact, I sorta wanna to pull a John C. Mayer on you now. WATCH OUT JIMMY FUCKING WALES. I’M ON TO YOU.
Pranksters, you have watched my daughter grow tall and strong. You have cheered her on, loved her from afar (and from – in rare cases – close by), and helped her by helping me. You are the Prankster Army of aunts and uncles she so deserves and one day, I hope that you all can meet my Princess of the Bells in person.
I wanted her to tell you something that she’s been waiting a long time to say:
Aunt Becky Shirts!
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