This is the outfit I wear to the guynecologist to remind her to be gentle with me.

Photo on 2-7-13 at 9.30 AM

I went to her yesterday to figure out why my guynecologia is acting up.


(this pussy’s more confused than mine)

My guynecologist happens to be a lez so when she tells me to undress, I try to look extra pretty for her.


I got 99 problems but an itch ain’t one.

After feeling me up, and listening to me share my symptoms, my guyno explained that I might have endometriosis, which happens when your uterine cells suffer delusions of British grandeur. They start colonizing shit. Like, they can literally colonize your butt. They will try to turn your cornholio into a baby garage, and instead of a uterus, you wind up with a mother uterus and satellite uteruses. Ever noticed how uterus is second person and first person combined? It’s made of two gender neutral pronouns, and yet, it’s all wombyn.


Doesn’t it almost look like it’s its own person?

As my guyno was poking me, I heard a crisp kerplop.

“That’s my book,” I announced.

I had wedged some reading material under my thigh, and while I was being spelunked, it escaped. Maybe it feared being probed, too.

The guyno told me my uterus looks like the uterus of a lady my age whose never had kids, at least not in her uterus, and she told me to get an ultrasound and come back in a week. She left, and I bummed around the examination room by myself, listening to her through the uterine-thin walls as she induced some chick’s labor.


Half-hearted love for New York.

I picked my book, The Orange Eats Creeps, up off the floor. It’s about hobo-junkie-slut vampires drinking cough syrup in the Pacific Northwest. I figured with all the sluts in it, the book ought to get a pap smear.


Once I got home, I told TJ and Nagem the news about my insides. Then, I asked Nagem if she wanted to see Siddhartha’s face. He’s one of our rabbits and his modeling days are over. It seems that he either had a mild stroke or chewed a live wire that electrocuted his face crooked. At profile, he’s fine, but once he turns towards you, it’s Phantom of the Hopera.


Sid’s got Bette Davis smize.

It is good that we do not love Siddhartha for his looks. Plus, his voluptuous ghetto booty remains pert and unaffected.


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