Who put this Jesus in my vagina?

So today I did the annual gyno exam, which is generally annoying as fuck. I really don’t appreciate anyone touching my vagina if it doesn’t end in orgasm.

Got put on a birth control pill so I can be a fatter, moodier, assholier asshole. (“What’s the Lamictal for?” “It’s for Crazy, so make sure I get Pill Lite so we don’t make that worse.”)

Then went downstairs in the same building to an on-site lab — SUPER convenient, but the lab is more free about being part of a Jesus-y hospital system. So there are crosses on the walls, presumably so I can pray to Jesus to forgive me for fucking, and also pray while the lady jacks four vials of my blood to make sure my vagina doesn’t have any biblical plagues.

This better be the best goddamn sex I’ve ever had.

The bitch of it? He’s starting to annoy me so I don’t think that’s even going to happen. But these are all good things to have done in general.

Still, fuck everything. I am dizzy, and getting tacos on my way home. Hmph.

“May I be excused? I seem to have the plague.”

Sick Singleton. Fuuuuck everything except tea, blankets, and drugs.

This is why I hate people. I was unemployed for almost a year and not one germ found me. Working for a month, interacting with humanity — bam, plague.

If I die, tell that one guy that never sleeping with him is one of my only regrets. That, and the time I got bangs. So it’s a pretty big deal.