Pope Francis: Game Changer?

Papal audience, St. Peter's Square, Vatican City, Rome, Italy - 06 Nov 2013You may or may not know that for many years, I have struggled with the concept of being a Catholic. When I was much younger, I was actually somewhat strict in my Catholic beliefs, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve become much more of a “Cafeteria Catholic,” if you will; I pick and choose what tenets of the Church I choose to follow and blatantly ignore those I find to be beyond the realm of pure reason. I make no apologies for my religious liberalism; I’ve had discussions with Catholic priests, even, and make them well aware of my disdain for the Church’s teachings on how to treat homosexuals, or the lack of female priests (priestesses?), and even proudly tout my utmost love and appreciation for birth control pills.

I should be in birth control pill commercials, actually.

However, nothing rocked me more than the child sexual abuse scandal. I have never been more horrified and disgusted at anything in my life as when those revelations came about. I’m not even saying that to be melodramatic. I was crushed. Devastated. I actually left the Church for a short time after that. I couldn’t bring myself to support an organization that in any way, shape or form supported such vile deeds. And let’s be honest, the Church DID support child molestation by priests; evil persists when good men do nothing, and the so-called good guys did nothing. These bishops, cardinals, and popes stood by, nay—they actively shuffled priests around from parish to parish! Why? Did they hope there were fewer—or no—children at the new parishes? That perhaps these children had parents who kept a closer watch on them, and wouldn’t allow them to be with anyone—even a priest!–without having a watchful eye on them?

My area’s own cardinals and bishops played a huge role in this scandal (namely, Bernard Cardinal Law and Bishop John McCormack). I was on my home church’s pastoral council when this began to unfold. One of these bishops came by to give us a pep talk of sorts, on how to be a “good pastoral council.” As he sat down to give his spiel, I immediately stood up and told him matter-of-factly that nothing he had to say would have any bearing on how I lived my life or the role I played on the council or within my parish, given his active role in shuffling around priests accused of child rape and molestation. I proceeded to tell him that he was hardly any sort of reputable leader, and that there was a special place in Hell reserved for him. I then walked out. The pastor at the time had a horrified look on his face, but I never received any repercussions for my “calm” outburst; as a matter of fact, a couple of other parish council members joined me on my way out.

But since then, I’ve only stayed a Catholic because of my parish. I’ve been there for a long, long time and many of the parishioners are like family to me. How do you just leave your family? They didn’t molest anyone. My priests were never accused to harming any children. They didn’t do anything “wrong.”

So, I stayed.

And here I am, 22 years later, at the same parish. With the same nice people. I know I am well-liked and even loved by many people there. I have played a big role in that community over the years as a parish council member, music minister, Eucharistic minister, and liturgical organizer.

Yet, I still struggle being there. And by “there,” I mean the “Big Church.”

My views don’t quite align with the Catholic Church 100%. They never have. Hell, they don’t even align 50%. There’s the birth control issue. I lived with my husband before we were married. I haven’t been to confession in nearly two decades because I think it’s a load of shit. I eat meat whenever I want to now, even during Lent (oh, the horror!). The whole women-not-allowed-to-be-priests thing is crap; I’d actually consider being a priest, if it weren’t for my damn vagina and the whole celibacy thing. Oh, and I LOVE the gays—they should have all the same rights and benefits that I have. If the “Big Church” knew all this, they’d excommunicate me in a heartbeat, and rightfully so. But I make no apologies. One thing I actually like about myself is the fact that I’m never afraid to speak my mind.

Not to mention I’m crude as can be—hardly a model for living a “holy” existence. I talk about tits openly on Facebook, I drink too much, I swear like a drunken sailor, and I like cats more than most people.

Mother Theresa, I am not.

But…I stay. Because it’s “family.” It’s familiar.

And now I have a new reason: this awesome Pope Francis guy.

I mean, has he really DONE anything yet? Well, not really. Not in terms of changing a lot of doctrine that needs updating, anyway. I’m hoping he gets around to working on that, because let’s get real: he’s not getting any younger.

But whether you’re Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, Jewish, Muslim, atheist, agnostic, or whatever else you call yourself, you gotta admit: this guy walks his talk.

I know staunch anti-Catholics, and some even more staunch atheists, who just think this guy is great. He just seems…I dunno…nice. Christ-like. The way a pope should be. After the cold-as-ice Benedict (maybe he was an okay guy, but he didn’t exactly radiate sweetness), Francis is a breath of fresh air.

I just like him. I don’t like many people, but I like him. Have I met him? No. But Francis did this: http://nypost.com/2013/11/07/pope-francis-kisses-blesses-severely-disfigured-man/.  Any guy who blesses and then kisses the face of another covered in tumors and lesions isn’t normally an asshole.

He has an incredible and long history of serving others when he was a priest and bishop back in Argentina. He visited slums on a regular basis, distributed food to the poor, refused private transportation and opted for the bus instead. He refused to live in the luxury papal apartment, opting for a considerably-more humble abode instead. He cooks his own food. He regularly departs from the protection of the Vatican Guard to go talk to people. He washes the feet of men, women and non-Catholics (even Muslims! In prison, no less!). He is not perfect—he supposedly opposes same-sex marriage, women priests, and a host of other non-traditional viewpoints—but then again, no man is perfect.

Women, maybe. Just kidding.

He is a step in the right direction. He is opening doors and beginning discussions. People are excited about him. I am excited about him.

Yes, actions are more important than words. And so many actions need to occur in the Roman Catholic Church…actions to break away from ridiculous, outdated doctrines, and embrace the 21st Century.

But just the sheer initiation of such pertinent discussions, in addition to the warmth, humility, and acceptance Francis projects…well, all this can do wonders for a desperately broken organization. One man can move mountains. One man can change hearts.

I hope these actions are soon to come, before it is too late. In fact, it is already too late for millions of former Catholics.

But it’s not too late for me.


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Chips Guy: I hate you.

To the guy eating chips in the next cubicle,

OK, I like potato chips. Scratch that—I LOVE potato chips. As a matter of fact, if I had to list my top 10 favorite foods, potato chips would be on that list.

I especially love sour cream and onion chips. The ones with the ridges. Or the ketchup ones you can only find at a handful of places in the United States. I actually heard about steak-flavored chips on the radio this morning, and I look forward to trying those as well.

However, guy in the next cubicle, I have never, in my 31 years on this Earth, encountered someone who ate chips as much as you do.

Don’t get me wrong—I’d eat chips all day long if I could. I’d be even fatter than I am currently, but I get the attraction.

But chips are a very loud food. They are especially loud WHEN YOU DON’T CLOSE YOUR MOUTH AS YOU CHEW.

Guy in the next cubicle, I’m desperately trying to concentrate on writing dreadfully boring, optical-engineering related copy for our company’s new website. On 4 hours’ sleep. Shoving an entire handful of Lays in your trap—all day long—has a tendency to wear on my nerves, to say the least.

You’re certainly not a skinny guy, but that is beside the point. Again, I’d eat chips 24/7 if I were a size 0. But I have never met anyone on this planet who ACTUALLY eats chips 24/7. How many Costco-sized bags do you consume per day? You should monitor that.

I think if you were hot—like the guy 4 cubicles down from you—I admittedly probably wouldn’t be as annoyed. But aside from the chips, you remind me of a cross between Steve Urkel and Milton from Office Space. You snort up your snot and cough up phlegm every 3 minutes. Perhaps altering your diet would make you a smidge healthier? I’ve heard oranges are good to rid the body of phlegm. And they are quiet.

Fortunately, when we move into the new building, I will finally have my own office, where I will be able to write boring copy in peace. And you will be able to munch on those Pringles to your heart’s content without my wanting to stab you in the throat.



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Buddy, I’ll miss you.

ImageOn Thursday night, Gary and I had to make the horrible decision to put our beloved cat, Buddy, to sleep. It was one of the most painful decisions we’ve ever had to make. That evening, we noticed Buddy wasn’t walking very well. He was shot with a shotgun, long before we adopted him, and had buckshot in his rear end. So, he always walked a little stiff, but he couldn’t seem to put any pressure on his right hind leg/foot and his left hind leg/foot was sort of dragging as well. We took him to the emergency vet hospital  where the doctors ran tests and discovered he had a blood clot. The vet presented us with some options.

The first option was to bring him to a specialist in Boston that night and that they would do a procedure on him that she estimated only had less than a 25% chance to work on cats with compromised immune systems (like Buddy). And even if the procedure DID work, it was likely that he would suffer another clot. The procedure was expensive ($3,000-$5,000), but money is never any object to me when it comes to my cats. However, Buddy hates to travel even a few miles, and I knew the stress of the car ride to Boston (after all the stress he had already been through) would be really tough on him. He would have been afraid, probably thinking that we were taking him to another shelter or leaving him somewhere other than home. I couldn’t bear to know he was so afraid in what could have been his last moments.

There was a Warfarin procedure they could do at the local vet office to prevent other clots from forming, but that would do nothing for the clots that were already there and Buddy would have likely had to have had an amputation. He would have also most likely suffered other clots within a very short time. The doctor said it wasn’t uncommon for additional, and potentially more painful clots, to form within less than 6 months.

Being FIV+, and not exactly a healthy FIV+ cat like my other two cats are, the doctor said his chances were slim for living a good life beyond this particular episode. She then told us a reasonable option would be euthanasia, and that both she, and most likely cardiologists and specialists who examined him, would likely make the same suggestion.

Buddy has been through a lot: being shot with a shotgun, having surgery to remove his tail because of it, still having shotgun shell in his rear end which made it stiff for him to walk. He had also formed anemia, had chronic diarrhea, and had a mouth full of ulcers (common in FIV+ cats) that we were doing our best to treat daily with antibiotics. He hadn’t been eating quite as well lately, so my guess is that he had some other things going on–or maybe he knew something we didn’t. He had been a bit more ornery and grumbly in the past weeks, and just not as social as he was before. Still sweet, but not totally himself.

I thought about his chances, about all he had been through, and about how I didn’t want him to be stressed or afraid anymore. I thought about doing the procedure in Boston, in the hopes that it would save him. But then I realized I was being selfish, and that the kind thing to do would be to make him comfortable and help him with his transition over the Rainbow Bridge.

So that’s what we chose for him. He went very peacefully, and in the arms of his Momma, who loved him so much. His Daddy was right there next to him, petting his head. He was privately cremated and we got the ashes and a little tuft of his fur, which will always be a part of our home. I know he will always be a part of our hearts.

I work at a local Humane Society, but I couldn’t bear to go to work on Friday or this weekend. It would have been too tough. I have been nonstop crying, as I’m doing now typing this blog. I can’t even sleep without taking sleeping pills. While I know I made the right decision, I am second-guessing myself because I miss him so much. I hope that guilt passes. I pray I made the right decision.

When I say there was never a cat like Buddy, I mean it. And there never will be a cat like Buddy ever again. He truly was a character–he just had so much personality. They truly broke the mold when they made Buddy! He had a perfect mix of complete kindness and sweetness with a nice bit of “don’t eff with me” thrown in there. He didn’t meow–he either grumbled or made this very wildcat type sound. He liked to lay on me when I was laying on the sofa, get as close to my face as possible, and then sneeze. He loved his yummies (wet food) and grocery day–when he knew he would get to split a few slices of deli turkey with Leon and Bruno.

He only lived with us for a year and a half. We wish so desperately that he had more time with us. But he was so well-loved while he was here. It’s been a couple of days now and I still can’t stop crying. I miss him more than words can say. I know a lot of people say, “Get over it–it’s just a cat.” Well, if you think that, then nothing I can say will change your mind. To pet lovers, they are family. Scratch that–you see them more often than you see a lot of your family members. They are MORE than family. Gary and I aren’t having children, so for us, they ARE our kids. Our cats love us unconditionally. We don’t get into fights with our pets. They never forget us for bigger and better things–we ARE their ‘bigger and better things.’ They run to the door to greet us when we come home. They never judge us or make fun of us. Much more than I can say for the majority of humans out there. So, if you don’t understand the love of a pet, or if you don’t understand how much I’m grieving over the loss of mine, well…let’s just say that someday, I hope you open your heart enough to adopt a pet and understand that unconditional love. Because it’s amazing.

We have two other cats, which makes things a bit easier. They are getting extra love.

Hug your four-legged friends a little closer today. And your two-legged loved ones, too, for that matter. You never know when you’ll have to say goodbye.

Buddy, I miss you so much. Momma loves you. I know we will see each other again.For those who are not familiar, the Rainbow Bridge poem is below. It is a poem derived from Norse Legend, and I like to think it’s true.


By the edge of a woods, at the foot of a hill,
Is a lush, green meadow where time stands still.
Where the friends of man and woman do run,
When their time on earth is over and done.

For here, between this world and the next,
Is a place where each beloved creature finds rest.
On this golden land, they wait and they play,
Till the Rainbow Bridge they cross over one day.

No more do they suffer, in pain or in sadness,
For here they are whole, their lives filled with gladness.
Their limbs are restored, their health renewed,
Their bodies have healed, with strength imbued.

They romp through the grass, without even a care,
Until one day they start, and sniff at the air.
All ears prick forward, eyes dart front and back,
Then all of a sudden, one breaks from the pack. 
For just at that instant, their eyes have met;
Together again, both person and pet.
So they run to each other, these friends from long past,
The time of their parting is over at last. 

The sadness they felt while they were apart,
Has turned into joy once more in each heart.
They embrace with a love that will last forever,
And then, side-by-side, they cross over… together.

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Whistling. Stop it.

Oh God. I hate whistling.

Sweet mother of God, people. I absolutely guarantee you that NO ONE wants to hear your rousing version of “Way Down Upon the Suwannee River,” or the theme song to the Marine Corps. I love the Marines. Most Americans love the Marines. But you don’t need to remind us of their anthem.

Most whistlers are old. I’ve noticed this. Old people, don’t take offense to this. High schoolers think I’m old and I’m only 30. I’ve dealt with it.

So old whistlers always find the need to whistle anywhere–and I mean ANYWHERE. The produce section of the supermarket. The airplane. Restaurants. You pretty rarely find a young person whistling anything. Maybe it’s a lost art; dear God, I hope that’s true.

What’s even worse is when people aren’t whistling a song AT ALL, but just a series of notes that don’t amount to a melody. Oh. My. God. Seriously knock it off. People are thinking about how to choke you. Trust me on this.

I think my disgust for whistling came from my father. You see, my father is an avid whistler. I love my Dad, so obviously the loathing doesn’t apply to him necessarily. But his whistling makes me want to dig out my eardrums with a rusty grapefruit spoon. Drives me absolutely insane.

So, not only does my Dad whistle, but he enjoys–and no, I can’t make this up–LISTENING TO PROFESSIONAL WHISTLERS. Yes, there are professional whistlers. Who have RECORDED THEMSELVES. WHISTLING.

I remember, vividly, as a child in the 1980s/early 90s, driving up to the White Mountains on a regular basis with my parents. They love it up there and we’d vacation a lot in the region. Anyway, my father would play tapes in the car on the way up.

What cassettes did he pop into the player? Roger Whittaker. No, really.

For those who do not know who Roger Whittaker is, he is an old fart musician/singer/whistler. Yep–he whistles his songs. My father has every cassette that Roger Whittaker ever released. And he’d play them. Roger primarily whistles old Irish folk songs like “Danny Boy”. But he’d also whistle other stuff, too. Most of them were just songs that old people like, a la “Greensleeves” or “My Darling Clementine.”

And my father would happily play this for two and a half hours while I was in the back seat, wondering where the best place would be for me to unfasten my seat belt, open the car door, and roll out and hopefully down the side of whatever mountain the station wagon was climbing at the time.

People: next time you get the urge to whistle “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” resist it. I know you’re (probably) old and you can do whatever you want, but have some consideration and just stop it. We get it: you’re creative and musically talented. But keep it up, and someday someone just might choke you in the produce section of the supermarket. And no one wants to get choked.


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Bad spas.

Preface: I consider myself a reasonably creative person. But I feel it necessary to state that I did not exaggerate or make up any portion of the following story.

So I had quite the experience today; special thanks to Couptopia for this.

Couptopia is basically a lesser known version of Groupon, for those who are not familiar.

Anyway, back in November, Couptopia published one of their specials. The special was for a 60 minute facial at a salon/spa in Manchester. The price was $20.

As one who appreciates good deals, and anything spa-like, I purchased said special. I was not familiar with the spa, but figured it couldn’t be that bad. It’s not like this is in a Bangledesh slum; it’s Manchester. And I’ve never really had a bad facial, so why not give it a try?

Well, today was my appointment to redeem the certificate. I was instantly hesitant pulling into the parking lot. The spa was in a small strip mall sandwiched between a uniform store and a seedy-looking Mexican restaurant.

I open the door to the salon and read signs instructing clients to head over the the reception desk. I walk down a long, dimly-lit hallway, to be greeted by a 6’5 cross-dresser/transsexual wearing tall black boots, jeggings, a ruffly skirt over said jeggings and a pink shirt that revealed a sizable portion of his hairy midriff. He also wore terribly-applied make-up (over minor facial stubble, mind you) and a blonde wig.

Now, listen. I understand what you may be thinking about me. I’m sure you’re thinking that I am intolerant. I assure you that I am not. I may joke a lot about how much I hate people, but I hate people equally. The few people I don’t hate are of a vast assortment of races, religions, sexual preferences, financial backgrounds, etc. I feel the need to be clear here.

But I have never seen anything like this in real life. It was truly the worst cross-dressing attempt I have ever seen. Ever. It was as if a tall version of my couldn’t-be-more-manly husband lost a bet and had to dress like a girl for Halloween.

Now, you know when you see something unusual/shocking/unordinary and you need a few seconds for your brain to process it? Well, that happened here. As (s)he proceeded greet me and ask me (in a very manly voice, by the way) if he could help me. I feel absolutely beyond terrible for doing this, but my brain needed those few seconds to…you know…PROCESS WHAT I WAS SEEING.

So, I stood there. And stared. It was for at least 15-20 seconds. I know it was rude. But I truly had no other choice in the matter. It wasn’t a voluntary reaction.

After I came to my senses, I replied that yes, (s)he could indeed help me, as I have a facial scheduled with Cris. (S)he asked me to take a seat and told me she would be out in a few minutes. As I perused through an old copy of People, (s)he (I’m not writing that to be rude, I don’t know how to refer to transgender/cross-dressers and this is the best way I know to do it), began to touch up said make-up and then walked over to his/her client to check her hair as the color was processing.

Cris then comes out and asks me to follow her. She leads me to a really, really, really dark room and tells me to undress to my “comfort level” and that she will be right back.

She knocks on the door not even 30 seconds later and asks if I’m ready. Apparently I am Superman in a telephone booth.

I feel the need to explain how a facial works. If you’re anything like my husband, who has never enjoyed a facial, you are unfamiliar with the process. Long-short of it, it’s a somewhat “delicate” procedure. It’s meant to be relaxing, soothing, calming. It involves slow, circular, two-finger motions when masks are applied to the face, usually a face/neck/shoulders/arms/hands massage lasting around 10-15 minutes, soothing music. You get the picture.

Mind out of the gutter, gentlemen.

The facial process also generally involves a minor procedure called extraction, where the esthetician uses a tool to extract all of the dirt out of your pores. This eliminates the majority of any blackheads on your face.

Anyway, she proceeds to take the entirety of her two hands, cover them in mask gunk, and literally slaps it onto my face. There was nothing relaxing, soothing and/or calming about it. She does this with every new mask/layer. It was sheer chaos–I actually can’t think of a better term for it. It was as if she was Jackson Pollock, violently tossing paint onto a canvas.

That canvas happened to be my face.

In the middle of one of her “applications,” I began to chuckle. And then laugh. Hard. Because I just KNEW I HAD to be on “Candid Camera.” I mean, there was just no way this was real. She started chuckling a little, too–just because I was laughing–and proceeded to ask me why I was laughing so hard. I just told her that a friend had told me a funny story earlier today and it just popped into my head again.

She then proceeds to give me a pathetic neck massage that lasted no more than a minute and a half. Cris then slathered another mask onto my face and said she had a waxing to do on another client and that she would be back in 20 or 25 minutes.

Wait. WHAT?

Masks don’t generally need to lay on your face during a facial for that long. It’s 5-7 minutes, tops.

So she leaves the room and, no lie, I hop off the table and start looking around the room for a video camera. There was a couple of closets in the room so I also had a feeling Monty Hall or some other old game show host would jump out of it and I’d get a thousand dollars for being such a good sport and putting up with this ridiculousness.

She comes back after 20 minutes or so (probably after waxing some old lady’s bikini region) and takes my mask off, asks me how I feel, and tells me we are done.

Now, normally,  if I REALLY don’t like a service or a product I received, I will generally politely say something. But this was just pure entertainment, and it was already paid for, so I handed her a small tip and went on my merry way. I get into my car, only to realize she didn’t even take off all of the mask. Some of it was still sticking to my face.

Yes, this really happened to me today.

And this is why I blog. Because this type of stuff happens to me on a regular basis, and everyone else needs to know about it. Because it’s funny.

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Norovirus. Jesus, take me now.

I am writing this article knowing the possibility it could be my last before my untimely death. Please pardon any spelling or grammatical errors as I wait for my saintly husband to come home from work and bring me to the hospital to get an IV and hopefully some demerol.

I hate needles with a passion. Most people aren’t really a fan of them, but I loathe them. I actually have to take a large dose of valium before getting injections just so I’m calm enough. And yes, I realize I am almost 30 years old. Stop laughing.

But as I lay in my bed, right now, holed off in my dark bedroom, I’m caring less and less about those needles because I just want relief from this horrid, satanic illness.

Unless you’ve ever had norovirus, you have no idea what I’m talking about. Most people have had the “stomach flu.” I’ve had the stomach flu before many times. Well, norovirus is no ordinary stomach flu. Lucifer himself actually created this illness. Picture the stomach flu multiplied by 1,000. Once you have that in your head, smash yourself in the face a few times with a hammer and then go eat a pork roast that’s been hanging out in 100 degree weather. THAT’S norovirus.

So, here I am, sweaty, shivering, achy as all Hell, and…ummm….finding myself having to “relieve myself” from both ends. EVERY 5-10 MINUTES. No, I’m not exaggerating whatsoever. I woke up today around 3 am and haven’t stopped since–it’s now 2:30 pm–with the exception of about 45 minutes where I was able to drift off to sleep.

I have Gatorade which I’m not able to keep down at all. I’ve managed to keep down at least some ginger ale. No food whatsoever. The thought of it is just awful.

I NEED to go to the hospital, which is literally about a minute down the street; however, while I can bring a barf bucket, I’m worried I will actually soil myself on the way there. So, I’m apprehensive, to say the least. Because I blatantly refuse to soil myself in public. Not until I’m at least 80.

So…that was my day! Hope yours was better!


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Canker Sores.

My mouth feels as if it’s eating itself.

Anyone who gets canker sores knows what I mean.

For those who don’t know what they are, canker sores are basically mouth ulcers. Open sores. INSIDE YOUR MOUTH. Like, where you EAT and DRINK.

Sometimes, I find myself wondering, “Is there really a higher power?” Because if there is, he must be one sick puppy to have invented things like cancer, tornadoes, AIDS, earthquakes, and canker sores.

I know, I know…canker sores do not compare to the devastating effects of the other listed horrible things. And yes, I suppose I’d rather have canker sores than be diagnosed with some horrendous, fatal illness.

But c’mon–they still suck.

There is no cure for them. There is no real relief for them, either. They are apparently hereditary to some degree. But neither my mother nor my father had them, and they don’t remember anyone else in the family having them, either. Yet, I get them pretty much constantly.

Yes, you read that right..gaping sores…in my mouth…CONSTANTLY.

Yet another reason why I must be adopted.

Anything even remotely acidic feels like you gargled with gasoline and tried to eat a blow torch.  And when you get “only” one, it’s at least somewhat tolerable. But I oftentimes get two or more. AT THE SAME TIME. And if that’s the case, you can bet your behind that I have them on opposite sides of my mouth so that chewing anything at all is pretty much an impossible task. You’d think I’d actually would lose some weight from lack of eating during these times, but no–I find a way to make it work and I remain…well…fat.

And then, because I’m paranoid, I always think that THIS time, it HAS to be oral cancer. This is what freak jobs like me worry about. Canker sores being cancer. You haven’t died from them yet, moron. You’d think I’d learn.

I’ve looked up all these stupid so-called “cures.” Apparently something called alum powder is supposed to do the trick. You get a canker sore, you dip a q-tip in some water and then in the alum, and put it on the canker sore. According to internet sources, it hurts so bad for about 30 seconds that you’re about ready to blow your brains out, but once that subsides, it supposedly puts some sort of barrier on the canker sore. The problem is that I stupidly just deal with the canker sore and never order any alum and you can’t find it anywhere but the internet.

Then there’s that ambesol stuff.  But it tastes gross. And then it numbs your mouth. Thanks, but I’d like to feel my mouth once in a while, just not the canker sore. I JUST WANT TO EAT MY BREAKFAST. AND TASTE IT. AND NOT DROOL IT OUT.

And then there’s enlarged taste buds, otherwise known as tongue canker sores. Which I also have. Right now. With the two canker sores also in my mouth. On the opposite sides. And yes, it feels as if I’m swishing around a hive of angry hornets.

So yes, I’m a tad bit ornery right now.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to order some alum now from Amazon and hope that I don’t blow my brains out the next time I have a freakish mouth ulcer.

For the record, the picture below is a canker sore, for those lucky bastards who never get them. That is not my mouth, however. I’m prettier than that and so is my mouth, cankers and all. That is an image I stole off of the internet. If anyone tries to sue me for stealing this photo, well…I hope you actually do swish around a hive of angry hornets.

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