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I wrote this on Band Back Together.

Please read it.

I love you all, my Pranksters.

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.

After we’d taken the kids out – against my better judgement – for buffalo wings, I was ready for Mommy’s Time Where She Tongues A Bottle of Xanax.

So I took a bath.

No, Pranksters, I am not 91 years old. I just happen to like baths. Especially because I can hide in them without having errant crotch parasites popping in and out demanding things.

So there I was, happily scrub-a-dubbing my hairs, getting ready to hack the hairs off my legs, when it happened.

Sniff-sniff, went my nose.

Rub-rub, went my hand, figuring I’d somehow gotten shampoo UP my nostril. (it wouldn’t be the first time)

Bad move, Aunt Becky. Bad, BAD move.

The next thing I knew, a faucet had been switched on and my nose began to pour blood, all over me, my vagina and everything.

Fuck.

I’ve gotten bloody noses since I was a toddler (don’t do cocaine, kids!) so I know the types of bloody noses I get.

1) Mildly irritating, yet goes away in approximately three minutes

B) Should probably require a blood transfusion.

This was the latter of the two.

And I knew that I was stuck – rooted in place. If I dared make a move, I was going to spew blood all over the bathroom, my clean clothes, EVERYTHING. It would be a massacre.

So I sat there, trying to figure out what I could do. I had at my disposal 1 old washcloth and 1 plastic cup (from the kids washing their hairs).

First, I tried to staunch the flow with the washcloth. No way in HELL I wanted to sit in Shark Week water. Within 30 seconds, the cloth was soaked and I was freaking out.

Could I call someone? I was in the bathroom at the very back of the house and the likelihood of someone hearing me was about as great as the likelihood that I will, one day, win a Grammy for my mash-up of “Whoomp, There It Is” and “It’s My Party.” Besides, I knew that hollering would only increase the blood flowing freely from my nose.

I began thrashing around, upset at the unfairness of it all, perhaps pulling a WHY ME, GOD, WHY MEEEEEEE? as I splished and splashed, all histrionic-style. I gave up pretty quickly, because there was no one around to notice my plight.

I was already drenched in my own blood, trying to drain the bathwater as quickly as I could. Frantically, I looked around, spying the cup. Fuck, I thought. FUCK. That’s what I got to work with.

So I put the cup under my nose, tilted my head forward, and tried to breathe through my mouth. I could ride this out. I could do this. I was the brave fucking toaster without the toast or the er.

I don’t know how long I sat there, my blood pooling in the sad cup, but it had to have been awhile. Soon, my bathwater drained and there I sat, shivering, and wet, covered in blood, while my nose continued to do it’s best faucet impression.

Eventually, my nose decided that HEY! Clotting is REALLY cool! and I was able to rinse the blood off myself and exit the shower, a little light-headed, but fine.

I considered donating the blood to some wanna-be vampire (Breaking Cherries Dawn opened this weekend, right?), but decided that I didn’t know enough wanna-be vampires.

Which is sad, really. I could’ve gotten some pretty good cash for it.

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