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I am a swine flu survivor. (High fives to all my brethren out there. That was the worst.) And one time I got a strand of e.coli that hadn’t been seen in 8 years or something, so I was stuck in isolation in a hospital for a week with a zillion IVs and blood work every two hours, and public health came into my room, basically in Hazmat suits, to interrogate me. And when I was finally discharged my arms were covered in what looked like track marks, and it was the summertime. So as I walked down the street in my drug-heavy city passersby were not thinking “Oh poor girl who clearly just survived near-death by shits.” They were thinking, “I thought heroin was supposed to make you skinny.”

Kate Moss in a 1990s Calvin Klein ad


Not even if I was an e.coli-riddled heroin addict with a gluten allergy

So remember the ringworm/hives/leprosy/flesh eating bacteria situation? It’s all still occurring and so I made doctor’s appointment number 3 and this time I was told that it’s all just a stress induced skin rash that they can diagnose by name, but they don’t know what causes it – they think some sort of virus – or why it goes away. However, despite not knowing those critical things they DO somehow know that it will clear up on its own within the next two weeks. Oh, and only 0.1% of people will ever be affected by this maybe-virus in their whole life. Awesome. I’m disintegrating.


Apparently God’s plan for me is to be a testing ground for new plagues.

ANYWAY, as if being itchy and seriously ugly wasn’t enough, I had to go get blood work done. The lab was empty except for one phlebotomist who was hot and hilarious and we quickly got into an awesome banter that would have made the Gilmore girls proud. But the whole time I was just all, “Too bad you’re testing me to figure out why I look like I have leprosy.” Also, the beginning of our magical time together went like this:

Him: Limes Disease. Mono. Oh. Syphilis.
Me: *shocked horrified terrified look on my face*
Him: No no, don’t worry. It’s standard that we test for syphilis in these cases. We have to. You don’t have syphilis. Probably.

He didn’t actually say probably, but it was implied because if they knew for a fact that I didn’t have syphilis they wouldn’t be testing me for it. So basically I’M DYING OF A 15th CENTURY DISEASE (until someone tells me otherwise).


Because in a past life, I must have found *this* sexy.

After this horrible exchange, we bonded over Fifty Shades of Grey and our belief that porn would be more efficient, tattoos, and the fact that he had to use an infant needle on me because I hyperventilate and am a pussy. We had a beautiful moment where he gently stroked my arm with his gloved hand. He called it “looking for a vein.” I never knew latex and blood could be so sexy.


Oh wait. Yes I did.

UPDATE: OMG YOU GUYS I was stalking myself on twitter and look what I found:

I’m like a goddamned profit.