We already knew my vagina had commitment issues.

Capping off an already splendid day, I have a cyst that won’t go away, so I’m on my way to the doctor just to be 100% sure I’m not dying. I’m ALMOST positive, but symptoms of lady cancer are, like, fatigue, upset stomach, and menstrual changes — so, you know, not at ALL vague things most women have.

I hate needing medical attention anywhere in my vagina’s orbit. My gyno and I have a once-yearly relationship and I’m pretty OK with that. I’m not really looking for anything next-level.

Plus the only available doctor is male, which makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve had a man in the region. I’m all self-conscious about it and spiffed it up a bit, as if otherwise mine could possibly be the most offensive vagina he’ll see today.

“Sometimes you have to show a little skin…”

My earlier post reminded me that I should finally see a dermatologist, just for a generalized old-lady exam to see if any of my adorable freckles are going to kill me later.

I’m on the website looking at the doctors’ photos and qualifications, and a few of them are men. One is a hot man.

Sorry, no, much as I’d love to take my clothes off in front of you, it’s not gonna be when I’m speckled with skin allergies and potentially cancerous freckles.

Tell ya what — let one of the other doctors in your practice fix those things, and also hook me up with some Botox, and THEN I can strut around your office naked, just for fun. Cool? Cool.

“Looks like there’s been some girl-on-girl crime here.”

I apparently have a lot of feelings today…

I hate women’s magazines, and Self in particular — it’s basically Marie Claire wearing sneakers — so I’m enjoying watching this tutu debacle unfold.
I don’t like running. At all. But part of the reason I still do it, and the main reason I pay to do races, is that runners are (generally) some supportive sons of bitches, and it makes me feel awesome to be part of that camaraderie.

And this? Is bullshit. I don’t give a baker’s fuck what that woman is wearing — she’s out there running. (While, I might add, SURVIVING CANCER.) I personally don’t do the tutu, but I’ve run in a tiara. Why? Because I CAN. I like running because you can do it in a tutu or tiara, or in high-tech running gear, and it’s all good. I know there are some judgey panda “real runners” out there, and you know what? Whatever. I’m having fun, and being active, and feeling good about ME.

As long as I’m wearing clothes, my friends who run aren’t gonna go all Regina George on me: “That is the ugliest effing tutu I’ve ever seen.” Because my friends aren’t assholes. And from what I’ve seen, particularly in this case, a lot of runners aren’t assholes, either.

So screw you, Self. And by the way, on Wednesdays, we wear pink. Pink tutus.

Rock out with your sock out!

Ahem… I’ll just leave this here…

Via Buzzfeed: Men Are Putting Their Penises In Socks On Instagram For Cancer Awareness And It Is So, So Good.