@juliepepin awful gothful
@juliepepin awful gothful
I put a makeup spell on you @juliepepin #witchyboo #blair #obliviontheseries
Get that perfect “smokey eyes” look by setting fire to your eyes.
now where were we? oh right, Monday morning. the start of all things. it must be Monday because my laundry is looming in an ominous un-done pile, grocery levels are plummeting, i’ve had 4 hours of whiskey sleep and my throat feels like Satan’s chalkboard.
i’m not exactly bounding out of bed with energy and excitement but i definitely feel as if I ought to go back to the doctor. my health insurance kicks in whenever the good state of California says it does, so in the mean time i have one free follow-up appointment i might as well cash in on. i drink a cup of really weird-tasting coffee and put on something that says “i’m sick, but i’m still trying to look presentable,” and go.
the Hollywood Walk-In Clinic is the most packed i’ve seen it. probably because it’s Monday and all these motherfuckers are too sick to do laundry. i sign in and the nurse recognizes me. i tell her i need to use the restroom and she instantly hands me a cup to pee in. it’s labeled “STERILE.” just like me.
question though, why am i pissing in a cup? i think the last time i had to do this i was being drug-tested for employment at the Ritz-Carlton in South Orange County (in a previous lifetime, seriously). am i in trouble? you want an accurate reading of how much fun i’ve had in the last 72 hours? no. probably not. this is the exasperating thing about being a woman and going to the doctor. no matter what you come in for, they have to make sure you’re not pregnant first. because the unborn fetus that doesn’t exist inside of me that has neither cells nor soul might be endangered if i have to get antibiotics or steroids in me that make me throw up (doesn’t actual pregnancy make you throw up too? isn’t this basically a zero-sum game?)
"so what brings you back today?"
"my throat hurts."
"are you pregnant?"
"no i’m not pregnant."
"do you feel feverish?"
"off and on, yes."
"when was the start date of your last period?"
"i’m on my period right now."
(from the depths i cry JESUS FUCKING CHRIST DUDE I AM NOT PREGNANT!)
"oh! so you’re not pregnant. let me just have a look at the lab results to confirm."
yes. thank you. please confirm with me i’ll be here dicking around on my phone in protest.
you guys wanna guess what my urinalysis HCG hormone-level pregnancy test said? it said nothing!!!
it said i had a sore throat. it said i had a sore throat and i should take Tylenol and come back if the pain worsens. so we’ve established the two things i knew concretely before visiting the doctor: i’m have conceived any children as of the year of our lord 2014 AND my throat still hurts really fucking bad. SCIENCE!!!!
thank you, medical-industrial complex. if you need me i’ll be trying to get the California health care Marketplace website to stop crashing in my browser so i can enjoy you EVEN MORE.
since i thought the saga of sickness was behind me, i decided to go out and get fucked up with my boyfriend on sunday night. i felt like a million perfect, healthy, American dollars. particularly after the 5 am salt scrub Mia treated us to at the Wi Spa. i was a new woman. what a wonderful opportunity to abuse myself on public transportation.
we took the bus to West Hollywood with the intention of making a pilgrimage to the Rainbow Room to observe the old rockers and weirdos in their time-honored custom being out in WeHo since like 1980. having severely miscalculated our bus route, owing partly to massive scotch consumption and also to the mobile bus app being completely uninterpretable, we had to walk several blocks up Fairfax to catch another bus.
45 minutes, one flask of scotch and 20 oz of flat Tecate later we arrived at our destination. i was feeling kind of sniffly but not thinking much of it. too distracted by the 90s goth dude with the feathered nose ring and cake makeup asking Mike something indecipherable in the highest-pitched voice ever. people whose voices don’t match their appearance is my Achilles heel. this dude looked like an extra from the Dope Show video but his voice sounded like Michael Jackson on Adderall. i was dying. we drank more whiskey.
people at the Rainbow Room really do look like they are from another time. the bartender in her sandblasted flared jeans, the dudes who look like they were part of the cast of Airheads, the dudes in womens’ jeans and metal core t-shirts. (if anyone ever discovers what metal core actually is, please feel free to never clue me in). anyway it was such good people watching. and that’s to say nothing of the sketchy bus ride home. some dude fell on me twice (twice) bellowing “sorry, i’m drunk!”
sorry, you’re drunk?! that’s no excuse dude! everyone on this entire bus is drunk, or something. let’s just put it this way if you are ON this BUS you are DRUNK or WORSE, GET OFF ME.
what an exciting bus ride.
i woke up the next morning (you know, four hours later), and my throat was sore again. OF COURSE. no party for the wicked. no consequence-free party for the wicked anyway. back to the doctor i go. and that is a story for another time. like in 5-10 minutes.
- Sophie, 1985 [photo by Cybele via Cybele R’s flickr]
I made this in an hour because I was pissed.
IN AN HOUR
IF I MAKE YOU FURIOUS, WILL YOU MAKE MY WEDDING DRESS?!
CAN I LIVE WITH YOU AND LEARN YOUR WAYS
you could start business called angry apparel
party in a corner.