Free Balling....... Revisited.

I can't type very well tonight as I had to go back for more blood. I suppose I looked as though I had too much. It's not a big deal I just can't bend my arm so I resemble frankstein with my arms straight out plotting this out for you. They wrapped me up in one of those self stick ace bandage looking jobs because I'm bleeding funny, but I keep snapping it and fiddling like it is the medical version of a happy meal toy.

March 9th brings the Second Annual Morgan Commando Celebration. As I am not in well form to praddle on, I shall post 2005. I expect FULL celebration this year fuckers. It's lengthy, but what fun is "yeah so I flashed my pussy." in comparison. I'd forgotten about the shot potion by the way, so SEE even a year back I demanded my red crayon bandaid. -DM

Buffin' Flashin' - March 9 2005

Don’t get your panties in a bunch but March 9 has just been declared “Go Commando Day” and Americans are being asked not to wear underwear on that day.

Well alrighty! I find this very intriguing. Who needs bullshit like valentines day when once a year you can secretly say fuck you to the underwear drawer and run about knowing you have a dirty little secret under your skirt.

I intend to participate. Not that I’m not known to go commando time to time (although officially outlawed by Mr. Morgan) there is something about it being declared “Go Commando Day” that just makes my mind tick. When I pass people that day, will the other commandos exchange a knowing nod? A smirk of silently understood brethren?

Most of the people I see on a daily basis at the post office alone makes me hope and pray they were not told about Commando Day because the thought of an 80 year old ball sack swinging in the wind is so-not-hawt.

At any rate, word of the day is definitely free buffin’……. that my friends is a four star word baby!

2005-03-09 - 1:28 p.m.

Buffin Flashin’ - Part 2

No Annual Commando Day comes without consequences.

I averted certain pregnancy today. It’s a good thing. No it does not mean I slapped the peter of a fellow Commando Day celebrator.

It means my every-three-month-shot-in-the ass was due and as of yesterday it was stated by Mr. Morgan that it could not be afforded. Um….. yeah. Like a screaming 9 pound ball of vomit and shit is?

I wasn’t sure how I was going to get the money, and I plotted on it all afternoon yesterday knowing good and well that I WAS going to get the money AND said shot in the ass no matter what. Mr. Morgan at the time of previous discussion had simply said “We just won’t fuck.” What a perfect solution no?

No.

Men, I am aware of how very dense you are in the area of birth control. All women come to know this at a very young age when we hear you say “Don’t worry…. I’ll put out.” We learn how completely uneducated you are to the female reproductive system right after the above quote, when you slop your cock around our thighs and say “I can’t find it.” Yes, I mean you.

So the idea that just not having sex would fix everything is fucking retarded. Sorry.

Here’s the reality.

When a woman on depo-provera shot (oddly the same medication used to sterile male rapists in other countries) misses a shot, her doctor doesn’t just shrug and say “Oh that’s ok D, just come in when you can and we’ll fix you up.”

Negative. Said woman will spend two weeks taking blood pregnancy tests, whether she fucks or not. Mr. Morgan does not understand this. He also does not understand the nature of the rapist shot. It stops a woman’s period! Wooooo, that is all he knows about it. His wife doesn’t bleed or bitch and eat chocolate and cry once a month. Any info on it after that fell on deaf ears.

Ok I bitch. But I don’t bleed or eat chocolate. I occasionally cry, but almost always for the most stupid fucking reasons, like Old Yeller and that scene in Fiddler on the Roof when Havele (say it Ha-Va-Lay) begs “Papa… accept us!” and Tevia just ain’t havin’ it. I cry every time and sometimes rewind it to cry some more. Women can be stupid like that, it’s good fun.

Anyway…. I got the money by beating the shit out of an old lady leaving the grocery store. I also took her food stamps and that blueing hair dye shit old women pour over themselves as if to say “I’m not grey! I’m blue!”

I lie. Mr. Morgan came home with a fistful of cash that he put into my palm so fast I just KNOW he ran into a herd of little kids at work. A few minutes of:

“Mommny can I have that?’
“No.”
”Why?”
“Because I said.”
“ But whhhhhhhhhy!”
“You already have one.”
“But I gave it to Jimmy.”
“That’s what you get.”

/starts crying and wailing, then begins that little kid talk that in type sounds like a sentence but in reality is a string of words a kid says at mach one without breathing “But he said if I didn’t give it to him he’d come over and steal all my GI Joes and melt them into candles and sell them on the schoolyard for a nickel each then buy bubble gum and chew it in front of meeeeeeee!”

I really laugh about this because while the above didn’t happen… the look on Mr. Morgan’s face clearly indicated he’d seen a bratty child, and that the birth control his wife was frantic over suddenly became much more important.

This morning I pick up my shot from the pharmacy, and get it for even six bucks cheaper than last time.

I take the little vile of goodness to my doctors office to pay a nurse to needle me. I waited about 25 minutes, but I was groovy because they had a Dr. Seuss book. I like the pointless rhymes of Dr. Seuss. Don’t think I wasn’t aware of the “used and touched” book factor I mentioned earlier about books, I was very much aware that in a gyno office touching a book like that was about the same as licking a herpe. But I washed my hands in their drinking fountain a couple of times much to the dirty looks of the nurses.

I was happily reading my green eggs and ham or whatever happy tale it was when I heard my name.

“D?”

I closed the book cheerfully and grabbed my bag when I noticed….

“You aren’t Tyra.”

The strange nurse gave me a surprised look. I mean, shit I hadn’t intended to sound so dickish, it just happened.

“No, I’m not.”
“Well where is Tyra.”
“She’s not here.”
“Why.”
“Um…”

At that point my dick factor grew and I waved her off with a hand gesture and went walking back to the room for my no-baby needle. As I walked I mumbled some shit that was totally uncalled for but to me, the whole missing Tyra thing was uncalled for. Tyra knows I need her, she knows that the last time some strange nurse put a needle in my ass I couldn’t sit for two weeks. Tyra, failed me. Hag.

I didn’t feel like talking or being nice (not that I had been) so I just dropped my skirt, bent over the table and drummed my fingers like a fucking bitch while I waited. I did however tell her I hadn’t intended to sound mean, but that I’m a habit person and changes in my regular scope of expectations make for blunt, uncensored remarks.

It might have occurred to me, that much like you don’t insult your waiter until you have the food, that it was imprudent to be rude to a woman with a 6 inch needle. I don’t always have that sort of foresight.

Shot went fine, although I didn’t get my red crayola crayon bandaid that Tyra always gives me. Instead I got some stupid boring round thing that I peeled off right away. When I get the crayon one I wear it until the adhesive falls off in the shower after a week or so.

I am a child and on more than one occasion I’ve said “Wanna see my bandaid?” while already grabbing at my pants as if I was ten years old and about to compare knee scabs with another kid.

I was about to get into my car when I remembered how tender 150mL in the upper ass is. I gingerly sat down and swung around, legs agape when I realized two things:

1. Someone pulling into the parking spot next to me.
2. Commando Day.

The man’s jaw dropped and it took a minute for me to get full concept of what he saw and why his movements had instantly frozen.

I’m sure he has something to share with the boys at the bar tonight.

-DM