I’m sure the image of me sitting around with harsh black eyeliner lining my eyes inexpertly while listening to (insert something more emo than The Cure here. Help a stupid sister out.) and cutting my arm while hoping like hell it gives me attention (this is actually the mental picture I have associated with the diagnosis of “depression,” which is why I use the PPD initials instead when referring to my current issues. Makes me feel less like a dramatic teenager), it was just not the case today.

Rather than sit around wallowing in my grief, I was overtaken by the intense urge to purge.

To be fair, this is something I typically do every couple of months, but to completely illustrate how un-me I’ve been, I’m going to confess to you, Darling Internet, that it’s been over a year since my last purge (of my own stuff). I hope you understand, baby, I’ve just been unwell. No baby, it’s not you, it’s me. Really, it is.

Since I live with two people who are unable to part with so much as a four-year old Target receipt for a plastic garbage can that we no longer own, I am completely responsible for making certain we don’t save such stuff. Last year found me tossing rudely away The Daver’s collection of cassette tapes because we no longer own a tape player, and empty CD cases (why we lugged them from apartment to condo to house, I cannot be sure).

(I move it to the garage where it sits until I insist that we drop it off at the Salvation Army down the street. It does, I admit, sit there for many days erm, months. Ashley keeps threatening to leave a pee-stained mattress propped up against my garage to really give my home that Salvation Army Drop Center look. She’s a funny one, that Ashley.)

So today, I tasked myself unceremoniously with purging my closet. This is a more depressing task than one might think, as I am currently too large for my pre-pregnancy stuff and too small for my maternity tents clothes (thank you, Baby Jesus, thank you).

And without really delving into my cadre of un-fat clothes, I was able to get rid of three bags of clothes and another bag full of miscellaneous stuff that I have never found a use for but saved in case I suddenly needed about 500 mini packages of off brand tissues (um, I have no idea why people insist upon giving these to me. Do I constantly walk around with bats in the ole batcave? I am sure there are less oblique ways to inform me of this.) or the tags for clothes I’ve been wearing for months (which is pure laziness rather than deliberate ‘I might need this-ness’).

For some reason, getting rid of stuff gives me a high like no other (aside from Vicodin. Mmmmm Vicodin, how I love thee…let me count the ways….one, two, three…). I don’t pretend to understand why I feel so gooshy and elated when I’m getting rid of something and becoming more organized, but it never fails to bring me to near-orgasm.

I have a deep seated fear of becoming that person who lives so incredibly surrounded by crap that my kids are horrified and disgusted to come to my home, for fear of being attacked by a toppling box-o-junk and buried there for the next several years.

I think I might be severely twisted.

(The Internet is letting out a collective “You think?”)

Even during my Single Years ™, I always have had a deep affection for Valentine’s Day, probably, at least in part, because it showcases my favorite colors: Red, Pink, and Sparkly. I’m not going to say that before I got a built-in Valentine (well, three of them, if you’re counting), I didn’t occasionally long to do something romantical with my other half, but I never knew what that was, exactly, which made it exceptionally hard to wish for.

Even after however many years The Daver and I have been together (let’s not count, mmkay?), we have yet to form any interesting traditions relating to Valentine’s Day (aside from me buying every Pink -n- Spangly thing I can get my mitts on), and I am pretty okay with that.

I guess I just don’t see the point in Valentine’s Day.

I mean, any holiday that nets me some presents (oh, I am so easily bought) is A-Okay in my book, and I do love buying gifts for the Sausage Factory nearly as much as I love getting them, but shit, why is there only one day of the year that I have to express my love?

And how, exactly, is love bought with a box of crappy chocolates (which I have actually never gotten) or wilting flowers? I have a feeling that if I were to be on the receiving end of either of those gifts, I would end up more upset than if I’d gotten nothing at all. Why? Because I dislike crappy versions of ANYTHING, and stuffed animals for people over the age of 8 drive me up a wall.

But I am probably in the minority here, as I noticed wall-to-wall such items yesterday at Mecca (read: Target), which means that there is a market for these gifts.

I don’t know.

Aside from the gifting and the color scheme, Valentine’s Day isn’t all that appealing to me (to be fair, if Bastille Day–which happens to be the day before my birthday, so mayhap this is a bad example– were the day in which I got presents, I would like it just as well). I don’t love my husband any more or any less today than I will tomorrow (unless he magically makes the ice melt from the driveway; then I will love him more), and I’ve always thought real romance was found in the day-to-day stuff.

Passion is great, I’m told, but it fizzles and you’re left sitting across the table with someone whose deplorable manners you’d never noticed when he was giving you multiple orgasms.

Maybe it’s not as thrilling to have someone who will (without prompting) clean out the coffee maker for you so that your morning coffee doesn’t taste vaguely minerally, but I don’t care. Passion doesn’t set up e-payments for the bills or pick you up McDonalds when you’re needing a fix. Passion doesn’t watch you push an 8 pound baby out of your crotchal area WITHOUT VOMITING, nor does it stay up late to help your big son fill out last minute Valentines, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even clean up dog barf from the white (WHITE!) carpeting.

I’d rather have someone who, without making a gross poo face, will plunge the toilet you’ve just clogged (while complimenting your toilet clogging prowess), or drop everything he’s doing to visit your dad in the ICU.

Maybe it’s not the sentiment expressed in a Hallmark card, but it’s real and that’s what I care about.

The Daver, who smiles as he takes my shit and sometimes even laughs when he’s wearing his phone headset and I follow him around trying to order a cheeseburger and large Diet Coke, is the man I never expected I’d be lucky enough to marry.

And no matter how pissed off I can become with him, I never forget that.

Ever.

—————-

So tell me what YOU think about Valentine’s Day. Love it? Hate it? Marginally indifferent?

—————

And happy Valentine’s Day to all of you! Aunt Becky loves you, you know.

One of the side effects of my Vitamin Z that I’m experiencing is these crippling headaches, and NOT the ejaculation problems that are warned against with a shrieking frequency all over the bottle (mayhap it’s because I DON’T HAVE A PENIS. Or do I? Mwahahahaha).

They’re the sort that have left me forgetting even the simplest of things (such as what am I actually writing about now that I have a post halfway written? And what the hell is my middle name again?) and raging against the sunlight that is gleefully reflecting off of the eleventy-hundred pounds of snow on the ground.

As a divine gift from God for someone who is currently struggling with an ugly case of Writer’s Block (hey, better than genital herpes, right?), I was tagged for a meme by my friend KT over at When Did I Become A Grown-Up?. As a rule, I only do them if I like them, but this one happens to be a favorite. I’m going to call it The Seven Odder Things About Me Meme (I’ve done this one before. To make certain I don’t repeat myself, I’ll linky-poo here.)

1. It should come as no shock to anyone who has seen me dress myself that I am actually color blind. I’ll take a moment here to let those of you who have seen my fashion sense (or lack thereof) collect yourself from the gut-busting laughter. Try not to pull a muscle, mmkay?

…

…

…

Done, now?

Fuckers.

See, it’s actually pretty rare for women to be color blind as it’s an X-linked disorder (meaning both of my chromosomes must have it). I’ll avoid going into further details so that you are not forced to gnaw your arm off with boredom.

It has been the cause for many a (stupid) marital dispute over the shade of a particular color. In the end, I’ve learned to rely on Dave’s opinion (smart as that may not be) about certain shades.

My kids are going to have to get used to looking as though hobo’s have dressed them, eh?

2. I have an intense phobia of canned fruits, in spite of my unrequited love of fruits in general. There’s something about canned anything, floating happily in a goo sauce that completely freaks me out. Ditto for Jello molds.

I think this may be a throw back to the dissection craze of my 5th grade teacher, who, in all of her glory, decided to spend a large portion of the year showcasing the various creepy jars full of deceased animals suspended in Formalin (or the famous carcinogenic Formaldehyde, it was the 80’s, after all) to us. Now, I loves me my dissections (seriously), but seeing floating suspended baby chicks in glass jars was enough to give me nightmares.

I think this is where the phobia stems from (that, and my hippie mother would likely rather have eaten her own feces than served us something suspended in SUGAR.), but I can’t seem to shake it, EVEN IF I LIKE THE FRUIT IN QUESTION.

3. When I was in my first semester in college, I took an introductory biology class and one of the tasks that we were required to learn was all of the organ systems of the fetal pig (which are similar to the layout of a human). While half of my class was left gagging into their Bunsen burners, I took to the task like a pig in, well, shit. The instructor insisted that we learn this inside and out (oh pun, pu-pun, pun, PUN), and suggested that we take ours home to study (due to limited laboratory time).

Well, I took it a step further and named mine. It’s the same name as my former heating pad boyfriend: Stu.

To maximize the shock value to my mother (and to ensure that the dogs did NOT have a tasty snack while I wasn’t looking), I decided to casually slip Stu into the meat drawer and then leave the house, knowing full well that she’d discover him in my absence.

She was underwhelmed.

4. Because in the academic realm, I am 110% An Annoying Overachiever, I became a TA for both Inorganic and Organic chemistry as well as a tutor for Anatomy and Physiology I and II.

It was only then that I developed a complete and total appreciation for teachers. Wow. Some of those students were not the brightest bulbs in the sconces.

5. Despite the fact that I blog like it’s going out of style (isn’t it?), I have never in my whole life written for fun. Ever. This includes journaling of any sort. Mainly because, what the fuck would I ever journal about?

In high school, I would occasionally try to write in a journal but it always ended up something like,

“I really like Shawn X. He sat next to me in Brit Lit and I swear he smiled at me. Oh, I don’t know WHAT I’ll do if he doesn’t ask me to Homecoming!”

And then I would look back on it and be embarrassed FOR myself.

6. One of the things I hate most about being a grown-up is that the older we get, the more PC we have to become. As someone who has never NOT laughed at a dick-n-fart joke, and whose all time favorite word is fuck (I actually gave it up for Lent one year DESPITE the fact that I am not Catholic. Maybe it’s better that I’m not Catholic, because I didn’t do a very good job of it.), I hate having to be all conscious of what I say in public and to other people.

I hate having to worry about offending people if I tell them what I think, and I hate offending people even when I’m not trying to. I use certain words to be humorous, not to be offensive (because I promise The Internet that if I am actively trying to offend someone, I will do so), and I hate having to censor myself in order to maintain the peace.

7. I genuinely believe that everything tastes better with bacon.

Now, here’s the catch: see, I’m supposed to tag a couple of people to do this meme, but I’m pretty sure everyone who has a blog has done it and is probably not as full of weird things to do it over and over again.

So I am tagging anyone (this means YOU! LURKER!) who reads this to give me a weird fact about themselves in the comments (use a fake name if you must). Because seriously, the comments are high-freaking-larious and might just help with poor, OH POOR Aunt Becky’s blinding headache.

Laughter IS the best medicine, after all (or so Reader’s Digest tells me, AND WHY WOULD THEY LIE TO ME?).

When I was in early high school, I once had a song stuck in my head for about 3 weeks straight. It was Rancid’s “Ruby SoHo” and what added insult to injury is that I didn’t even like the song in the first place.

Eventually, either after heavy drug use OR listening to it on repeat (flooding, anyone?), it got out, and I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t involuntarily shudder when I typed it. My aversion is that strong.

I’m relatively new to the world of insomnia, and if you’d told me three years ago (when I was “studying” to get my Master’s degree in sleep. Shit, I know my stronger points.) that I would ever struggle with it, I would have promptly laughed at you. And then laid down for a nap.

Some people use movies or drinking for escapeism. I used sleep. Having a bad day? Take a nap. Stressed about something? Study the back of my eyelids until I felt better.

And it worked better than any drug or hilarious romantic comedy starring some wacky British man ever did.

When I was diagnosed (and subsequently treated) for my hypothyroidism, I lost this ability to sleep well or nap at all, and I am telling you that I miss it terribly.

One hideously annoying side effect of this insomnia is that when I trundle off to bed each night, the moment my head makes contact with the pillow, it’s like some annoying song floodgate is opened, and the chorus’s from each and every commercial jingle floods my brain.

Just fucking try to sleep while your mind loops “Free Credit Report DOT Com!” over and over ad infinitium, ad nauseum. It succeeds in making me want to stick sharp pointy objects into my ear drums in hopes that it might hit the part of the brain responsible for annoyingly repetitious songs and/or phrases and kill it permanently off (who needs to remember every irritating commercials jingle, besides ad agencies? No one. It serves no purpose), but sleep, oh glorious sleep eludes me.

Eventually I do fall asleep and my internal loop of songs is silenced until Alex (or my bladder) rouses me, and I’ll get through part of my nocturnal rituals, start patting myself on the back for successfully getting that song out of my head, and just as I’m being all self-congratulatory, “Do-do-do-do, Do a Dollop Of Daisy” starts ringing through my head. And I begin contemplating lobotomies.

Again.

Oddly enough, when I wake up in the morning, yet another song is going through my head, but typically not a commercial jingle. It’s usually a fraction of some song that I do actually like and listen to, but it’s only a small snippet of this song. Like a phrase or two.

Were I about 10 or 12 years younger, I would attribute this particular part of the song to something infinitely more deep and meaningful than it warranted, and assume that this was some sort of message (ah, teenage melodramatic magical thinking), and subsequently analyze and overanalyze the hell out of it.

Blissfully, though, I am now older and have learned that sometimes a phrase stuck in your head is nothing more than that, and that it’s unimportant to attach meaning where there likely is none.

But it doesn’t answer the question of why, why now, while I am the most sleep deprived and addled I have ever been, why do these songs keep getting stuck in my head so annoyingly?

And what the hell can I do about it?

Last month (was it really a month ago?), I mentioned that maybe, just maybe I had once had a completely inappropriate crush on Vincent D’Onofrio for a spell, and that I had subsequently moved on to more snarky pastures (i.e. Anthony Bourdain).

But even in my wildest fantasies, I didn’t imply that I would have wanted to have hot monkey love with the guy. Either of ’em. I’d have preferred that we sit around reading poetry to each other while occasionally discussing the virtues of Manet vs. Monet. And then mocking people mercilessly. (I’ll let you figure out who I would do what with).

So today I will present to you the one celebrity with whom I would love to have a night of (hot) gross, dirty sexin’: Tommy Lee.

Yes, you heard it here first: Tommy Lee. I want to have The Sex with Tommy Lee. And then never speak to him again.

I mean, shit, we know he’s packin’.

Your turn. Who would you like to get ridin’ DURRTY with?

——————–

A couple of weeks ago, one of my wonderful blog friends gave me an award (and no, I didn’t even pay her) that made my ickle heart smile. I haven’t mentioned it before for two reasons: one, I have no idea how to put the icon on my blog (I had been contemplating glue and scissors, but it didn’t work, and WHOO BOY did it make a MESS) and two, I had to choose some recipients for ME to award it to.

All right, even Niobe and all of her tech-y goodness couldn’t make it work. Dumb blog not doing what I want it to do.

This is not an easy task.

In spite of my tendency toward bitchiness, I am not very good at singling people out. Maybe it’s the mother in me, but I can’t help but want everyone to win and no one to feel sad (this may be the only nice part of my personality, so deal, people.).

The award is called Daily Dose, and it started over here. It’s supposed to be given to people whose blogs you cannot seem to live without. But if you’re blog is over on my blog roll, I probably at least check in with you once a day (not clever enough to use Google Reader, and I tried bloglines but it confused me, so yeah, I just click on your link here. I’m very high-tech, I know), so that’s not a good means to determine who I give an award to.

So I needed another qualifier and I’m using the word “Daily.” I will give you this award only if you post daily (some of my favorite blogs of all time do not have daily posts, mainly because other people tend to have actual lives, whereas I do not.).

Without further adieu, I present to you my recipients:

My darling Cali, who is going through a not-so-fun time in her life, and yet, remains cheerful and optimistic, which I love about her. Plus, we’re currently in a fight over who gets to be president of the Vincent D’Onofrio fan club, and maybe this will kill her with kindness until she allows me to reign over this important fan club job.

I will also give this award to my girl-crush Niobe , over at Dead Baby Jokes. She always posts something interesting or thought provoking and usually provides a snazzy picture or two that make me green with envy over her talent.

Miss Cricket has voluntarily agreed to post every day for the whole year, a feat that although I wish I could join her in, I am not brave enough. Plus, she just adopted a new kitty-cat, and I loves me my cats, so go check her out.

And lastly, I award this to Karen, who not only posts daily, but was my first (non-paid) Internet Person, whom I had never actually met (and yet, was not a spammer). I was shocked and thrilled that someone WHO I DIDN’T KNOW was reading my blog. Plus, she just got a new job, and how cool is that?

If I missed you and you post something most days, which I probably did, as this post has taken me a ridiculous amount of time to complete, give me a holler in the comments and I’ll include you up here.

Thanks again, Miss Em, for deciding that I was worthy of an award. I’ll admit, that maybe I blushed a wee bit when I saw that for once in my life, I’ve finally won something. For reals and for true.

I’ve regularly whined about how much I hate going to the doctor, to the point where even I get so sick of myself that I’m all “get over it, you big puss-bag,” and today is no exception. Normally, I get all fluttery because I want them to do a specific something for me (up my thyroid meds, give me a script for sleeping pills that doesn’t involve the phrase “benedryl,” slip me a jumbo pack ‘o’ Vicodin on the house just because I looked cute), just something.

I get nervous because I’m afraid they won’t do what I want them to do, and then where will I be? (Control issues much? Short answer: yes).

But today is a new game for me: I have no earthly clue what I want them to do for me. I mean, one of my biggest fears (aside from unwittingly being cast in Rock of Love 3) is that a doctor is going to tell me that I am, in fact, nuts, and since I am going in to the doctor today admitting that I might be, well, nuts, I don’t know WHAT to be anxious about.

I’m not overly thrilled that I will be taking with me today to the doctor, a short, balding chubby dude who routinely craps his pants for fun, but since I have very little choice (the dog has resisted my incessant begging for him to babysit), I’m going to pretend that I’m thrilled about having something to do while I wait. Something like try to contain a kid whose favorite game involves slapping me across the face while he blows spit particulates into my hair.

And is it any wonder I’ve gotten depressed?

Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m going into this with no agenda of my own. Afterall, if I have no good expectations of this, it can’t go that awry, right?

(don’t answer that).

Besides, the worst that can happen is that they commit me to the psych ward, and seriously, right about now, that sounds suspiciously like a vacation. A glorious vacation.

Gah.

Wish me luck.

Probably the hardest thing about admitting to myself that I have a problem (Hello, Al-Anon training!), is not that it’s “a” problem, but that it’s “this” problem. I wish it could be something simpler like “porn addiction” or that disease that makes you pull out your hair (I keep thinking trichamoniasis, which is NOT that disease, but a lovely STD. Forgive me for not researching further), because then it would not be my worst nightmare come true. It would be something simpler, at least for me to handle.

When you grow up surrounded by mental illness, there are a few things that happen to your development.

One, you associate all of the “bad things” that happen to your parent with something unrelated, a bit of magical thinking if I may (and I always may), i.e. Mom is sick because the house is dirty. Of course, this carried over into my adulthood, and maybe I’m not the most fastidious housekeeper on the planet, but my house is usually fairly clean, even on bad days.

Later on it occurs to your childish brain that maybe, just maybe, the reason for her illness is because YOU did something wrong. Kids, apparently have a knack for guilt rivaled only by the Catholic Church. This, too, carries over to your adulthood, and you find yourself blaming YOU for any little thing that has gone awry i.e. it’s obvious (to you) that it’s YOUR fault that the dog crapped on the carpet because you’re such a bad pet owner (and not the more logical “the dog crapped on the carpet because he is an asshole”).

I was once told that this is the way children of alcoholics feel as well, so let’s just give your Aunt Becky a double whammy here: my parents are BOTH alcoholics, too!

And lastly (this is a brief list here), children who have a mentally ill parent become absolutely phobic about turning into this parent (in this case, my mother). Admittedly, no one wants to turn into their mother, because ew! but I can assure you that it’s that much worse when your parent is completely unbalanced and unstable.

WHO would want THAT to be their aspiration?

(Please God, let me turn into someone who alternately screams or cries or looks comatose at a mere change in the breeze. Let me be unable to get out of bed for weeks at a time, and let my kids raise themselves until I can get my medication regime right. Please, please, please, please?)

Not so much fun, right?

So let me assure you that I do mental health checks daily (if not hourly) to make sure that I am not Going Off The Wheels On A Crazy Train, and to check whether or not my reactions to situations (pleasant or unpleasant) are normal enough. Dave informs me that this is one of my better features, as it leaves me pretty stable most of the time. I rarely fly off the handle at minor infractions (real or imagined), I approach (most) fights as logically as I can, and because I am prone to think and rethink issues, I’m fairly level.

Shit, I just wish it wasn’t this problem, y’all. Really, I do.

(is it weird to want to bargain with God to give me an STD instead of PPD? Don’t answer that.)

I was a sickly kid. Had I been born before the invention of antibiotics, I would have bit the bucket before my first birthday, not a doubt in my mind. Modern medicine saved my dimply ass more times than I could ever possibly count, but even still I was out of school more than I was in it. And while it SOUNDS kinda cool when you think about it really, it sucked ass.

When I was 14, I begged my doctor to take out my tonsils after I realized that they now had holes and craters in them where stuff was getting caught that I had to fish out. Which, hi, EW.

The surgery was a nightmare because my tonsils, having been used and abused by so many bugs for so many years had, for lack of a better word, rotted. LET THIS BE A WARNING TO YOU, PARENTS OUT THERE WHOSE PHYSICIANS TELL YOU TO TAKE OUT YOUR KIDS TONSILS: DO IT!

While the surgeon was in there, he niftily removed my adenoids too, because, well, why not?

What he never bothered to tell me, and what I didn’t realize until months later is that now I had no barrier between my mouth and my nose. At the wrong angle, let’s say a drinking fountain, water would simply pour from my mouth and out my nose.

It’s a charming party trick.

Having NO adenoids has made oral sex most irritating to perform, although now that I think of it, I bet there’s an untapped goldmine market for porn out there.

Nose Porn.

HOT.

I’m not a virgin.

No, hold back the gasps of amazement, I know it’s unbelievable. I am 24 years old and I have had sex.

To me, this statement means marvelous little. The lovin’ sessions I have had has always been nice, never earth-shattering, but nice. But to talk about my sexual status is something I’ve always done in the same tone as saying “I like Crest toothpaste, the kind with the sparkles.” It has never meant much of anything to me. It’s not some kind of feat, nor is it some kind of curse on my house. It just sort of is.

Through the years, I have come into contact with people who have not actually had sex. Maybe it was because they didn’t believe in sex before marriage due to their religious beliefs. Or due to a childhood trauma. Maybe the opportunity never presented itself. Or just because. I dunno. Never really mattered much to me either.

I consider it much in the same vein as my statements about having had sex, to be something like, “I like cheese omelets for breakfast” or “purple should be a flavor, dammit!” It’s another nothing statement. I’m full of them.

So what? Big deal. Who cares?

Pashmina informed me that there was this blogging site for virgins over 25 so OF COURSE I had to check it out.

Holy balls, these people are OBSESSED by their virginal status. Totally obsessed. Freakishly obsessed. Like they cannot stop thinking about it ever.

I dunno. If you want to Not Have The Sex, that’s cool, I don’t see The Sex as all that Earth Shattering an event. I’ve never done heroin and I don’t think about how much I wish I could do it all day every day. There are plenty of other things besides The Sex that you can do.

Then again, this is coming from a woman practicing “asstinence.”

Yup.

I’m saving my ass for marriage

It’s hot outside, now, because I live in Chicago where we have 2 seasons: Ass Hot and Ass Cold. And now, to make matters worse, this is my first experience with non-central air. We have several window units in the bedrooms, but the rest of our condo is sticky, muggy, and hot. The window units are pretty pathetic, too, because I think they’re from about 1946 and blow cool air maybe 12% of the time.

I’m just dying to see the electric bill.

I have a sauna in my armpits, they drip and cause my freshly applied deodorant to smell vaguely like cat piss. And my boobs? Well, they’re two life preservers adrift in a sea of salty sweaty juice. My wet hair dries in about 0.45 seconds upon leaving the shower.

But the worst, the ABSOLUTE worst part about living right now, is what the heat turns my vag into. Crotchal hygiene? Out the window. Clean cootch? Gone quicker than you can say “summer curtains” I feel like I’m sitting in pee. If this is what getting old is like, SHOOT ME.

I’m wondering if this is a call for FDS to the rescue but that could be the dehydration talking. I don’t know that I could actually handle buying or using.

Buying ass-pads? No problem. Buying condoms? Again, no biggie. Whatever, it means that I’m getting some ass.

Crotch spray, I don’t know, that just seems kinda, gross. I don’t think I want a lemon-scented vagina because that just seems a little weird to me. Like I’ve just had The Sex with Mr. Clean and he left his calling card as a Thank You for Coming.

Besides, it’s announcing to the entire pharmacy that you have a stinky cooter. Which, yeah, KINDA shameful.

I’d much rather tell the Internet.