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5 days ago
The Time I Whored Myself for Cash. I MEAN....Helped Out the Scientific Community. It was All for Science. The Money Was Just a Bonus.
As most freshmen in college can probably relate, cash is a necessity, and in limited supply. (unless you're a trust fund baby or your parents pay for all the things, then I fucking hate you, you spoiled brat.)
In 1997 I found myself in the cash-strapped college freshman boat, and I needed some money pronto. YES, I was working part-time. YES, my parents helped a little when they could. But going out drinking and then hitting the street food vendors multiple nights a week gets expensive. I needed some moo-la.
One day as I waited for the dorm elevator, I noticed a flyer searching for volunteers for a study. The only requirements were: you must be directly related to a family member with diagnosed depression and anxiety disorder but you yourself must not be. You must be willing to give some blood and take long surveys. You must be willing to come back for a follow up. Visit #1 determined eligibility and began the surveys and tests. Visit #2 was a simple follow up with more surveys and tests. Each visit paid $75. For a TOTAL of 2-3 hours.
My thought process upon reading this? HMM. Cash. Easy cash. I come from a long line of crazy, I mean, anxiety and depression (mom, sister, grandparents, etc.). I'm awesome and fine and happy. Cash. Easy. $150. Sign me the fuck up.
So I signed up and showed up and after an interview and thorough medical history, they said I fit the study. Then they took some of my blood. They were wanting to see if there was a way to identify some sort of marker or gene or something in me that kept me "safe" from the family history of depression and anxiety. The made me fill out PAGES and PAGES of questions. Then I had to sit and breath carbon dioxide to see if they could induce a panic attack. They couldn't. I got my $75 and left.
Sidenote: I believe they even contacted some of my family members to see if they'd participate. I don't think anyone did. Clearly they don't love the money like I do. I mean, clearly they don't care about science and saving all of mankind like I do.
I don't remember much of the follow up, just that I got more money. Score.
A few years later I remember thinking for a brief moment, those sonofabitches have my DNA somewhere. They'd better not do anything unethical with it. Unless they wanna clone me. Two of me would be goddamn AMAZING.
THEN, an even MORE few years later, I started battling anxiety. Big time. Panic attacks and severe hypochondria. Which depressed me.
THEN, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, which made my depression and anxiety go off the charts. Surprisingly, it helped calm down my hypochondria for a bit. It was like all my worries of something being horribly wrong with me were true and here it was so I can finally relax a little now. Not that THAT lasted long.
The story all comes full circle like this:
A. I quickly blew through the $150. On inappropriate things like beer and birth control.
B. Random scientists have my DNA in a search for a generalized anxiety disorder gene but it's WORTHLESS cuz 19 year old me was fine but 30 year old me is a fucking wreck so the study is practically invalid.
C. There's still no clone of me.
D. I'm a money whore and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
E. I also love Cheetos. It has nothing to do with this post but my GAWD I can't stop thinking about them.
In 1997 I found myself in the cash-strapped college freshman boat, and I needed some money pronto. YES, I was working part-time. YES, my parents helped a little when they could. But going out drinking and then hitting the street food vendors multiple nights a week gets expensive. I needed some moo-la.
One day as I waited for the dorm elevator, I noticed a flyer searching for volunteers for a study. The only requirements were: you must be directly related to a family member with diagnosed depression and anxiety disorder but you yourself must not be. You must be willing to give some blood and take long surveys. You must be willing to come back for a follow up. Visit #1 determined eligibility and began the surveys and tests. Visit #2 was a simple follow up with more surveys and tests. Each visit paid $75. For a TOTAL of 2-3 hours.
My thought process upon reading this? HMM. Cash. Easy cash. I come from a long line of crazy, I mean, anxiety and depression (mom, sister, grandparents, etc.). I'm awesome and fine and happy. Cash. Easy. $150. Sign me the fuck up.
So I signed up and showed up and after an interview and thorough medical history, they said I fit the study. Then they took some of my blood. They were wanting to see if there was a way to identify some sort of marker or gene or something in me that kept me "safe" from the family history of depression and anxiety. The made me fill out PAGES and PAGES of questions. Then I had to sit and breath carbon dioxide to see if they could induce a panic attack. They couldn't. I got my $75 and left.
Pitchers of beer on me if my fake ID works tonight bitches!
I don't remember much of the follow up, just that I got more money. Score.
A few years later I remember thinking for a brief moment, those sonofabitches have my DNA somewhere. They'd better not do anything unethical with it. Unless they wanna clone me. Two of me would be goddamn AMAZING.
THEN, an even MORE few years later, I started battling anxiety. Big time. Panic attacks and severe hypochondria. Which depressed me.
THEN, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, which made my depression and anxiety go off the charts. Surprisingly, it helped calm down my hypochondria for a bit. It was like all my worries of something being horribly wrong with me were true and here it was so I can finally relax a little now. Not that THAT lasted long.
The story all comes full circle like this:
A. I quickly blew through the $150. On inappropriate things like beer and birth control.
B. Random scientists have my DNA in a search for a generalized anxiety disorder gene but it's WORTHLESS cuz 19 year old me was fine but 30 year old me is a fucking wreck so the study is practically invalid.
C. There's still no clone of me.
D. I'm a money whore and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
E. I also love Cheetos. It has nothing to do with this post but my GAWD I can't stop thinking about them.
My Simple-Minded, Not at All Researched, Non-Endorsed, Totally Biased Take on the 2012 Election Year.
Good grief you guys. The state of our politics in this country is blowing my mind. I can't even believe what I see and hear anymore about these guys vying for the presidency of the United States of America.
Here's my thoughts on all of these clowns.
Ron Paul, aka the CUTEST Keebler elf around:
Mitt Romney
In my humble opinion, this is the only one who could beat President Obama. But what do I know?
ACTUALLY.... Less hair gel Mitt, that's what I know.
Here's my thoughts on all of these clowns.
Ron Paul, aka the CUTEST Keebler elf around:
FREE COOKIES FOR ALL!
I've gotta admit, the guy sometimes makes the most logical, rational sense out of all of them. Which is why he'll never win. We Americans don't seem to like logic and reason.Mitt Romney
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| MY GOD YOU PEOPLE SMELL SO.... POOR. |
ACTUALLY.... Less hair gel Mitt, that's what I know.
Newt Gingrich
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| EVEN I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS MANY WOMEN HAVE MARRIED ME! I have several problems with this one. A. He's named after a lizard. B. His neck jiggles too much. C. He's a loser. Plus? His wife scares the Botox outta me. See?  Rick Santorum If you guys follow me on the Twitter, you KNOW how I feel about this sexist, backwards-thinking jerk. I can't wrap my brain around the fact that so many people are voting for him. It's like voting to go back in time pre-Women's Suffrage, pre-Civil Rights Movement, pre-electricity and reading of books.  NOW HUSH THERE LITTLE LADY. NO ONE GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK OR VOTE OR THINK FOR YOURSELF. SHHH. Who is voting for this guy?  "Duggars endorse Rick Santorum" AH. That's where he's gotten all those numbers. All the Duggars have voted. They seem like very nice people, by the way. I like them. I really do. Last, the President.  THESE CLOWNS ARE GONNA GUARANTEE ME FOUR MORE YEARS. IMAGINE MY GRAY HAIR THEN! SHOULD I GET DYE IT? LEAVE IT? I CAN'T REALLY SEEM TO EVER FULLY MAKE UP MY MIND. I'm sure you all can see my point. Which is why I hereby nominate David Beckham for President of the United States. I could give a flying fuck that he's not even American. God bless America AND the Queen on this one.  CAN I GET A HELL YEAH? This election would be signed, sealed, delivered, and fucking YUMMY. Or, you know, maybe SHE'LL reappear. Good grief.....don't even get me started.  Disclaimer: The views in this post are mine and mine alone. You don't like them? I don't give a flying hot shit. I'm a HUMOR blogger. There's really zero substance to me at all. Actually, that's not true. You should see the DEPTH of my love for vodka and David Beckham. I've got some sonofabitchen substance all up in here for those. |
I'm a Human Roller Coaster and You Probably Should Avoid This Ride.
I'm not good with words lately unless they're profanity-ridden and bitter so I drew you a diagram of me and my brain lately. I should really wear a warning sign that says, "Tread carefully. If you get too close or blink incorrectly, the RAGE will commence." I know I need to get out of this funk, and pronto, but that's the thing with funks, you can't just turn them off with the snap of your fingers. Or, in my case, the flipping of the bird.
I won't go into details, but know that I'm juggling some personal shit and half of it is just me mind-fucking myself with a tiny bit me being crazy selfish and a tiny bit of me wanting something more with a dose of wanderlust and a dash of early onset mid-life crisis. I should really go pour my heart out to my therapist but then it's like admitting my fucked-upness and I like to live in denial 95% of the time.
Here's the diagram of the roller coaster ride that is me. And normally I'd say I'm a ride you TOTALLY want to get on (dirty dirty) but I'm thinking a ride on me would make you toss your cookies and run screaming to your mommy.
I won't go into details, but know that I'm juggling some personal shit and half of it is just me mind-fucking myself with a tiny bit me being crazy selfish and a tiny bit of me wanting something more with a dose of wanderlust and a dash of early onset mid-life crisis. I should really go pour my heart out to my therapist but then it's like admitting my fucked-upness and I like to live in denial 95% of the time.
Here's the diagram of the roller coaster ride that is me. And normally I'd say I'm a ride you TOTALLY want to get on (dirty dirty) but I'm thinking a ride on me would make you toss your cookies and run screaming to your mommy.
In Case You Ever Wondered What it Would Be Like to Be Married to Me
In the wee hours of the morning, before the sun is up or alarm clocks have gone off....
Me: Hubby. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE. UP.
Hubby: Hmm?? *grunt, moan, roll over*
Me: We need to have a serious talk. Now. Are you even listening? Cuz this is SERIOUS.
Hubby: What?
Me: I've lost 25 pounds and my boob are drooping. Like, National Geographic style. Like, would you like syrup with your pancakes? drooping.
Hubby: Huh?
Me: I'm serious. This is serious. It's pretty much emergency stuff here. I need a boob job. Buy me one. Here, feel. (make him feel)
Hubby: Um, no.
Me: Ok then. I'm getting one.
Hubby: Just push them up.
Me: I can't wear a bra FOREVER. I'm getting a boob job.
Hubby: Um, no.
Me: Ok so it's settled. I'm getting one. Good talk hubby.
Hubby: ????
And then I immediately texted Marianna about it because SHE LISTENS to me.
Me: Hubby. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE. UP.
Hubby: Hmm?? *grunt, moan, roll over*
Me: We need to have a serious talk. Now. Are you even listening? Cuz this is SERIOUS.
Hubby: What?
Me: I've lost 25 pounds and my boob are drooping. Like, National Geographic style. Like, would you like syrup with your pancakes? drooping.
Hubby: Huh?
Me: I'm serious. This is serious. It's pretty much emergency stuff here. I need a boob job. Buy me one. Here, feel. (make him feel)
Hubby: Um, no.
Me: Ok then. I'm getting one.
Hubby: Just push them up.
Me: I can't wear a bra FOREVER. I'm getting a boob job.
Hubby: Um, no.
Me: Ok so it's settled. I'm getting one. Good talk hubby.
Hubby: ????
And then I immediately texted Marianna about it because SHE LISTENS to me.
The Idiotic Half Birthday Phenomenon
HUH?
Half birthday?
WTF?
This isn't the first time I've heard of this and the fact that people actually celebrate it. Bossy Girl was invited to a half birthday party last summer, and I'm sorts of confused about the purpose behind it. We did NOT go, by the way.
I don't freaking get this half birthday trend plain and simple. You may disagree and think it's all wonderful and creative and you're all, hey, we do it in my family! Oh well. I think it's moronic.
I will never hold a "half birthday" party for my kids, but I know she'll be invited to more in her lifetime. Do I let her go when I'm so morally against it?
And more importantly, can I get the kid a half present? Like for half off?
HAPPY HALF BIRTHDAY! Enjoy your half teddy bear! OR YOUR HALF BARBIE!!!
To me, it's just another way to spoil your kid rotten by adding a second "birthday" to their life.
Like an annual birthday isn't enough. Like your kid is that damn special that an additional celebration of their sloppy painful birth is required.
Probably with gifts and a big ole party cuz your kid is that friggin awesome that he/she requires more stuff and attention.
Where the hell did this trend come from? What crazy ass, over the top, my kid is so perfect he/she needs TWO parties parent created this?
What the hell people? Let's just celebrate the shit out of our kids. Why the hell not?
Let's also starting having a "Conception Birthday." If you know the exact date you got your freak on and conceived your little prince/princess, have a party. The cake could be a little round circle cake with cream frosting and squiggly little sperm-looking candles all over it. Or these:
Let's also have a "Labor Has Begun Party" to celebrate when those bastard contractions started, or, when your water broke, beginning the process of pushing your "perfect" kid out into the world. That would be a fun party, by the way. Water balloon fights and sucker punches to the stomach for all kids invited to celebrate the anniversary of the magic labor event!
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| Look! It's just like when mommy's water broke the day you were born! |
Well, it's the weekend y'all. I'd better go plan a "YAY. YOU MADE IT THROUGH A WHOLE WEEK OF SCHOOL" party for my kid.
Ugh.
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