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First, a happy and hearty WELCOME AND FELICITATIONS to all of you who found me through my post on Freshly Pressed!  Thank you very much for stopping by and commenting, and following. I’m sorry I haven’t replied to all comments yet, but I will. I make it a point to respond to every single comment on every single post. Which sometimes takes a while, but it’s a good problem to have.

Second, a new post will be coming soon.  I don’t like to publish anything new until I’ve replied to all comment on my previous post(s), hence the delay.  I won’t tell you what the new post will be about, but I’ll say this much: it will be Hot and Dead.

Third, please pardon the wonky appearance of my blog. I seem to have fucked up my headers and wallpaper. It was a well-intentioned but ultimately ill-fated effort to clean up some unattached and duplicate files in my media library. Order will be restored as soon as possible.

So I’ll see you soon. By the way, you look hot today.

What you don’t see

Madame Weebles —  January 8, 2014 — 282 Comments

The other day I was minding my own business, waiting on a subway platform. Three girls, about 15 years old, were about to pass me, and they were looking my way. One of them pointed at me and said, “You’re FUNNY looking!” She and her compatriots roared with laughter because this was the most hilarious thing ever.

Fortunately for them I was caught off guard and I didn’t react. If I had, their delightfully charred remains would have been scattered across the third rail. Alas, I hadn’t expected to be zinged by a trio of idiot adolescents, so I was unprepared. I just stood there, speechless and confused.

I confess, I do not have a thick skin. What can I say, I might be foul mouthed and full of piss and vinegar, but I’m also a dainty little blossom. (Fuck you, stop laughing.)

And because I’m a delicate flower, my first instinct was to cry big sobby tears and hide my face in shame.

"Hello. My name is Madame Weebles. I am very pleased to meet you."

Hello. My name is Madame Weebles. I am very pleased to meet you.

My second instinct was to come out swinging.

"I'm funny looking how, I mean, funny looking like I'm a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh, I'm here to fuckin' amuse you? What do you mean funny looking, funny looking how? How am I funny looking?"

I’m funny looking how, I mean, funny looking like I’m a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh, I’m here to fuckin’ amuse you? What do you mean funny looking, funny looking how? How am I funny looking?

But by that time it was too late to do anything. The train arrived and that was that.

For the record, I don’t think I’m funny looking. I don’t have any extra limbs, and my eyes, nose, mouth, and ears are all in the proper places. I don’t notice too many people shrieking and recoiling in horror when they see me. However, I am almost criminally self-conscious about my looks and I always have been. Critiques of my appearance, whether insults from strangers or insensitive comments from people I know, wound me deeply. It’s my Achilles’ heel. I’ve battled with it for as long as I can remember.

I know that looks are the least important thing about a person when it comes right down to it. But for so long, I truly believed that my appearance rendered me inferior, that my value as a human being was directly proportional to my physical attractiveness. I’m fully aware, incidentally, that my mishegas is insignificant in comparison to the difficulties of those who are judged because of their race, disability, sexual preference, or something else that people shouldn’t give a fuck about. And this incident got me thinking about how freaked out I get. It also reminded me of this fantastic post written by the divine Jen Tonic back in 2012, in which she listed five things she loves about herself. It all started coming together for me as I tried to think of even one instance where I benefitted from someone approving of my looks. And you know what? There aren’t any.

I know now what would have been the appropriate response to those silly little creatures. I would have started with a sarcastic slow clap and then launched into my reply:

That was an amazing jab. Well done. You are shockingly clever. Really, congrats.

I don’t give a flying fuck if you think I’m funny looking, dear. I don’t know what you see when you look at me and frankly, it doesn’t matter. Because here’s what you don’t see:

I have a big heart, and I’m caring and kind. So kind, in fact, that I’ve decided not to shove you onto the tracks. I’m a loyal and fierce friend and if you hurt someone I love, I will cheerfully cut out your heart and jam it down your throat. I’ll help people whether I know them or not. I’ll offer my time, energy, money, or a sympathetic ear and/or shoulder to cry on. I don’t care which. Whatever helps, I’ll give.

I’m successful. I don’t mean that in a financial sense. I mean that whenever I’ve put my mind to something, I’ve done it and I’ve done it well. Sometimes I fly by the seat of my pants, but my pants have always landed me in the right place because they’re very good navigators. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, both personally and professionally.

I’m funny. Not funny looking, just funny. Whether I’m writing or talking, I can make almost anyone laugh. I take great pleasure in this. I have a good sense of humor and great comic timing. By the way, your fly is open. Ha, made you look.

I’m smart. As in, answering all the questions on Jeopardy! smart. Finishing the NY Times Sunday Magazine crossword puzzle in pen smart. I know a lot of shit. And if I don’t know it, I learn it really quickly.

I’ve worked hard to improve myself. I learn more every day about what’s important, what isn’t important, and what I’m here on earth to do. I should add that a lot of the credit for this goes to my therapist and to Ben & Jerry. The value of the insight found at the bottom of a pint of Chubby Hubby cannot be overstated.

So go ahead and have a laugh at my expense, Miss Thing. I have a good life and wonderful friends, and I’m going home to my comfy apartment to see my adorable cats and my fantastic husband who loves me no matter what I look like.

And even though looks truly don’t matter, I’ll have you know that strangers often stop me to compliment me on my hair. I have pretty eyes, a hot rack, and an engaging smile, and even though I’m 46, I have not one wrinkle. NOT ONE. Let’s see if you can say the same when you’re my age, little girl.

So put that on your lollipop and suck it.

If you were with us last year, you may have read about my experiences with dead people here, here, and here.

This wacky stuff started about 5 years ago, for reasons unknown. It escalated after I became a reiki master. And it seems that I now have a bunch of abilities with things that are sort of…you know, odd. Unexplainable. Paranormal. Yeah, I don’t understand it either. But those of you who have firsthand experience with me on this know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, I wanted to learn more about it, as in, am I losing my mind or is it a real thing? So I took a class on psychic mediumship. I know, it sounds nuts. Unfollow me if you must.

It was a small group, just two other students aside from myself, plus the teacher. We took turns trying to sense any non-corporeal people who might be present. And to quote Velma from Scooby Doo, “Jinkies!”

The first time I tried to “read” one of the students, I “got” the presence of a man and described him, and the student said it sounded like her uncle. I said I had the sense that he was a fisherman or a dock worker or someone who worked on or near water, and I had a strong feeling he died at work. Apparently her uncle was a fisherman, and he did, in fact, die on a fishing boat. So far so good. But later I worried that my brain was fucking with me because I was getting conflicting info. I said, “I’m thinking that he died of a heart attack, but then I’m also getting that he died because of an accident, they can’t both be right so I must be imagining all this.” She told me my read was correct; her uncle had a heart attack on the boat, which caused him to have an accident that ultimately killed him. What a shitty way to go. (But I was secretly glad that my impressions were correct. That makes me a bad person, doesn’t it.)

And then here’s what happened when I read for the other student:

Me: Okay, I’ve got a man, it looks like he’s bald, with a round face and sort of protruding ears. I’m getting the sense people might have thought he was a bit strange or off-kilter. Does that ring a bell at all?
Other Student: Yes. (She was laughing.)
Me: It sounds like an F name, maybe Frederick or Frank.
Other Student: His name was Frank.

At this point I’m thinking, “Seriously?? Wow. Holy fuck.”

Me: Was he your grandfather?
OS: Yes.
Me: On your mother’s side, yes?
OS: Yes.
Me: Do you have something of his, like a box, or something that’s kept in a very specific box? I keep getting the impression of a special box.
OS: He made my grandmother a carved wooden box, which my grandmother left to my mother, and she gave it to me.

NO WAY!

Me: I just heard “Te amo” in my head. Did he speak Spanish?
OS: Yeah, he was from Puerto Rico.

Whoa, this shit just got real. Also, hearing a foreign language in your brain out of nowhere is kind of unsettling.

Me: Okay, now I’m hearing “little flower.” Does that mean anything to you?
OS: Oh my God! He used to call me “Florecita.”

Grandpa Frank was speaking to me in English again, but “Florecita,” as you might have guessed, means “little flower” en español. By this time, the poor woman was a sobbing mess and I was casually freaking out.

And thus I concluded my first readings as a medium. Go figure.

Last year, the esteemed Panda from RuleofStupid came up with an exceptionally wonderful idea, Company for Christmas. I wasn’t aware of its existence last year but thanks to the splendiferous Rara, I am now enlightened.

The goal of Company for Christmas is to provide company and conversation to bloggers who might be spending Christmas day alone and would enjoy having someone to talk to. If you read my latest post, then you know this is exactly the sort of thing that scratches my itch. Using the internet to connect with people instead of disconnecting. A bunch of bloggers, including myself, are going to be around today to hang out and chat with whoever feels like dropping by.

My own page on C4C is here, and I’ll be serving virtual hot chocolate with marshmallows throughout the day.

Merry Christmas greetings to all who celebrate, and Happy Wednesday to all who don’t!

Lonely among us

Madame Weebles —  December 3, 2013 — 207 Comments

The holidays. For many, they’re not cloyingly sweet happyfests like on the Hallmark Channel. No, for a lot of people, ’tis the season to be lonely. Loneliness is probably as old as time itself but I suspect it’s more virulent now than in days of yore.

First, let’s get one thing straight: Being lonely is very different from being alone. You can be both, but not necessarily. You don’t have to be alone to be lonely, and you don’t have to be lonely when you’re alone.

Loneliness hurts, emotionally and physically. Several months ago, Mr. Weebles was telling me about a thread on an online forum he reads regularly. This particular thread was about doctors who work in the ER. One post was from a doctor who had a patient come into his ER at 4am with a triage complaint of “lonely.” That broke my heart—the idea of someone suffering so much that they needed to go to the ER. Were they in that much pain? Or were they desperate for someone to talk to, for any sort of companionship? Or both? I don’t know what happened to this person but I hope he or she is okay.

There have been times when I’ve felt so lonely that I thought it would crush me. Sometimes while I was living by myself, sometimes while I was living with others. I can’t decide which is worse. On the one hand, when you feel lonely and you live alone, the isolation adds to the feeling that you’re the only person left on earth. On the other hand, when you feel lonely and you live with other people, their presence only exacerbates the pain and disconnection. It sucks no matter what.

Technology has been a major contributing factor in making this modern scourge, this loneliness, so nasty. We’re competing for attention with iPods, smartphones, video games, and the internet, and we’re losing.

Admittedly, through the internet I’ve met excellent peeps I never would have known otherwise. The flip side is that although it can bring us together globally, it separates us locally. We stare at our phones instead of engaging with the humans around us (I have been very guilty of this). We play Candy Crush and send lives to our friends instead of looking people in the eyes and talking to them (again, mea culpa). Blogging, Facebook, Twitter and other social media, internet surfing, IM, texting, whatever. And how many of us have felt lost in the vast sea of statuses and comments everywhere? It feels terrible to be overlooked, and it can happen so easily when people have an unending feed of info. It’s a wild paradox, isn’t it, connecting with others and being completely disconnected at the same time.

Here’s another downside of the internet. It’s VIRTUAL. It’s as real as it can be under the constraints of the various platforms, but it’s not real life.

The virtual world gives you the luxury of portraying yourself as you want to be seen rather than as you are when you’re in the same room with someone, talking in real time. You can choose your words wisely. You can post only about the great things going on in your life (by the way, fuck you, humblebraggers), share inspirational quotes like you’re gunning for Deepak Chopra’s job, and craft beautiful bon mots that showcase your creativity and humor. They don’t tell the full story.

That’s the problem with social media. Unless you’re a witless putz or you genuinely don’t care how you’re perceived, you’re going to put your best foot forward. Anyone who has an online presence isn’t showing you the real deal, no matter how forthcoming they are. Because real life is messy and unedited. You don’t see them struggling for words and saying the wrong things, and you don’t have to experience their unpleasant moods. Take my posts, for instance—I’m generally not an ass online (shut up, I said generally). I may occasionally air my dirty laundry here, but I’m going to make sure it’s well-phrased dirty laundry, and I’m not showing you all of it. I still control what you see, even when it looks as if I’m baring a lot. Like a good strip tease.

Recently I saw a quote that said, “We shouldn’t compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else’s highlight reels.” But that’s exactly what happens: We compare our everyday lives with those highlight reels—the happy photos, the carefully cultivated personas, the thoughtfully written posts, the pithy tweets. It’s easy to start assuming that everyone else has it better, and at some point it might make you feel kind of shitty. And lonely. It’s not that misery loves company; it’s that nobody wants to feel like the only one not invited to the party where everything is amazing. We want to know that we’re not the only ones, that we’re understood and acknowledged.

As I said, the internet has served me extremely well overall. I’ve found so much wonderfulness in the friends I’ve made online, many of whom have become closer to me than people I’ve known for ages in real life. But technology facilitates feelings of rejection and neglect in a way that wasn’t possible before we were all connected by—and to—so many devices. So surf carefully, look around you occasionally, and take everything with a few grains of fleur de sel.

This has been a public service message from the Weebles Wellness Committee. Because Madame Weebles cares and doesn’t want you to wind up in the ER.

Here’s what I think

Madame Weebles —  November 18, 2013 — 201 Comments

My friends, you know how shy I am about expressing my thoughts.

Well, as of right now, I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m going to throw caution to the wind and say what I think, and I’m not going to sugar-coat it.  It feels strange and uncomfortable, like breaking in a new pair of shoes. So do me a favor, humor me.

  1. First, because the 50th anniversary of Kennedy’s assassination is almost upon us, I think Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I’m not much for conspiracy theories, generally. I don’t believe there was a second shooter on the grassy knoll, nor do I think Oswald was working on behalf of the Mob, Castro, the CIA, or anyone else.
  2. However, I also think that Marilyn Monroe’s death was not an accident. So maybe I believe in some conspiracy theories.
  3. I think Benedict Cumberbatch is creepy looking. But he has a phenomenal name.
  4. I’m sick to death of television shows and the media referring to female college students as “co-eds.” I think it’s patronizing and stupid. It’s not 1965. There is absolutely nothing new about women in universities. In fact, female students now outnumber males at college, and they have for some time. So any numskull that uses the term “co-ed” should have a giant clue pill jammed down his or her throat.
  5. Speaking of television, I think more networks and producers need to take a cue from American Horror Story: Coven. It’s a ridiculously good show, but more importantly, it stars not one, not two, not three, but four women over the age of 50 (Jessica Lange, Kathy Bates, Angela Bassett, and Frances Conroy). And all of the women in the cast are strong characters rather than dithering namby-pamby chicks with blandly attractive, vapid faces. Why can’t more TV shows and movies be like this? Why must we continue to be inundated with noxious fare that depicts females as hypersexualized stick figures with boobs, or victims, or weaklings who need men to take care of them?
  6. I think skim milk sucks.
  7. I think yogurt sucks too.
  8. I don’t know the identity of the first retailer to sell Christmas stuff in September, but I think that person should be publicly maimed and then strung up with Christmas lights.

So that’s what I think.

By the way, I also think it’s worth pointing out that this is my second consecutive post in which I haven’t dropped any F-bombs. I’m starting to cramp up.

Because I’m twisted

Madame Weebles —  November 13, 2013 — 161 Comments

I know, I know, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted. You know why? Because I didn’t feel like it. I felt like watching television and playing Candy Crush. Often at the same time. But one can ignore the siren call of the Blogging Gods and Goddesses only for so long. I mean that literally; a few of them sing off key so it really is quite difficult to ignore them.

(As an aside, you people are seriously way too prolific with the posts. I’m not even just talking about those of you doing NaNoWriMo/NaBloPoMo/Nano Poblano/Whatever. I’m talking about ALL OF YOU. Every day there there are roughly two million new posts. It’s ridiculous. Sure, I have insomnia, but even if I were to spend every waking hour reading posts, I still wouldn’t be able keep up. So cut it out. I mean it.)

With all the time I’ve been spending playing Candy Crush, my brain has been free to wander aimlessly and recklessly, coming up with ideas that make me think, “Yeah, that’s a little twisted.”

For instance:

  • I think it would be fun to have a phone conversation meant to be overheard by as many people as possible. Maybe a conversation where my half sounds something like this: “Mmm hmm…right. What? What do you mean? Where is it? Well how big is it? Eww, really? Hmm… Uh huh. Yeah. Yeah. What happens if you poke it? Go ahead, try it. What? Are you okay? Hello? Hello?? HELLO?!?” And then I’d hang up looking all concerned and worried.
  • Or I could go into a Home Depot at 3am and buy a shovel, trash bags, a saw, and some lime. Just to see if the cashier notices anything odd about that combination of items.
  • If I had a car, maybe I could rig up something to put in the trunk to bang against the lid so that it sounds like someone trying to get out. Except I’m afraid I’d get arrested by cops with no sense of humor.
  • Or maybe I could go into a supermarket and buy a dozen cans of cat food and a box of Triscuits or Wheat Thins. And while the cashier is ringing up my purchases, I could pretend to talk to someone on the phone: “No, I’m just picking up a few snacks, I’m having company tonight.” You know, to see who hears me and gets alarmed and grossed out. There was this one time when I really did unnerve someone at the supermarket along these lines. I was at the register with my usual zillion cans of cat food along with my other items, and the guy behind me said, “Wow, how many cats do you have??” I said, “I don’t have any cats.” I don’t know how I managed to keep a straight face, but I wish I could have taken a photo of his reaction.

Actually, now that I’ve written these out, they don’t seem that twisted. I’m not sure if that means they really aren’t that bad, or if my ability to detect twisted things is completely out of whack.

You be the judge. And by all means share your own twisted ideas.

Fuck you, Congress

Madame Weebles —  October 2, 2013 — 195 Comments

I wish I could say I had no words to describe the utter stupidity and insanity you’ve displayed. But oh, do I have words.

You scum-sucking vermin. You cretinous, moronic little monsters. You have no idea how much I fucking hate you. SO MUCH HATE.

Mr. Weebles said it best yesterday: You have no interest in serving the American people; you’re interested only in serving your own selfish agendas, inflicting your own ideologies on everyone, and screwing over the guys on the other side of the aisle. That goes for all of you, not just those of you whom I’ve targeted before.

And for you small-minded, bigoted bastards who will do anything to thwart any and all policies the president initiated—I know most of you are THIS CLOSE to calling Obama “Boy.” You should all become Satan’s girlfriends in Hell.

You can’t come to an agreement to keep the government running? Then you’re not doing your fucking jobs. So why can’t we eject all of you from your cushy little seats? I want to stop paying taxes. I want to fire all of you. I want to see all of you rot.

So many people depend on the government for their income, their livelihoods, and so much more. You’ve made it patently obvious that you don’t truly care about any of them. And all you mean-spirited jackals can do is puff out your chests and bloviate. Fuck you.

If you actually cared about your country, about the American people, you would have gotten it done. You didn’t. You should be fucking fired. All of you. Choke on those furloughs, motherfuckers.

As for you, John Boehner, fuck you especially for saying, “The American people don’t want Obamacare.” Is that a fact? Did you interview every single American citizen? I’m quite certain you did not.  You may be Speaker of the House but you absolutely do not speak for the American people, you demonic pus-filled slimeball.

Children would do a better job of running the government than you people. Even the kids from Lord of the Flies would do a better job. They’re not nearly as petty as you troglodytic* half-wits. Blow me.

You could have come to an agreement. You could have found some ground on which to compromise. But you all let your personal interests and your hatred of the other party blind you to the all-important fact that YOU WORK FOR US.

You failed. Miserably. I wish we could charge you with criminal negligence and throw all your sorry asses in jail. I cordially invite all of you to fuck yourselves as hard as possible.

*Apologies to actual troglodytes. You’re probably smarter.

——————————-

This Fuck You Rant was inspired by the government shutdown, and also by my friend Rants. If you haven’t read his stellar screed on Congress, you should do so right fucking now.

“You aren’t in your body.”

For years I heard this from therapists and healers. You aren’t in your body. What the hell does that mean?? What kind of hippy-dippy crap is this? Of course I’m in my body. I’m sitting here. You can see me. It’s not like I’m floating around in the ether. If I’m not dead, then I’m in my body. So why don’t you shut the fuck up, go eat your bean sprouts, play with your crystals, and leave me alone.

Go away.

Go away.

It took me ages to wrap my head around what “being in your body” actually means. It means being present in my body, using it mindfully to experience the world. The body isn’t a vessel that contains the real “me”—it’s part of the real “me.” I had wrongly dismissed it as nothing but a shell, an unwieldy blob I had to lurch around in.

See, I got tripped up by the difference between the body and its appearance. Its appearance has no bearing on my personality, intelligence, sense of humor, kindness, or anything else, but my body itself is part of what makes up ME. It might not look the way I want, it might make weird crunchy noises when I stand up, it might hurt from time to time. But it’s not a separate entity, and I should value it and take care of it. Because as we all know, it sucks when the body breaks down. As Count Rugen so wisely observed, “If you haven’t got your health, then you haven’t got anything.”

Bodies allow us to enjoy the sensual pleasures of this world, like food, sex, twerking, and this thing. So many wonderful things to experience. You can pet soft, furry animals, relish cool breezes on a hot day, feel sand squishing between your toes, see cheery, colorful flowers. But as with anything, there are pros and cons.

Pros

  • Opposable Thumbs. This could also be a con, because there are people who are so stupid they don’t deserve opposable thumbs. It gives them an unfair advantage over other, more intelligent life forms, like barnacles and algae.
  • Chocolate Pudding. I know I already mentioned food as one of the earthly delights, but chocolate pudding deserves its own category. That smooth, sweet, silky, creamy deliciousness. We couldn’t enjoy that without our bodies.
  • Ice Cream. See “Chocolate Pudding” above.
  • Crucial Communication Skills. Our bodies allow us to curse out people who annoy us. Or, if our mouths are full because we’re eating pudding or ice cream, we can flip them the bird. With both hands if necessary.

Cons

  • The Human Spine. If there was ever an argument against the existence of Intelligent Design, this is it. Otherwise some sort of update would surely have been pushed through already. Homo sapiens has walked the earth for a few hundred thousand years now, and we’re still only on Spine v1.0?
  • Bad Hair Days. I may not know my life’s purpose, but I do know that I was not put on earth to look like a Chia pet.
  • The Bra. BraNot the most comfortable item in the world. Also not the quietest. My bras creak like the hold of an old whaling ship. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t in need of so much structural support, but as it is, my undergarment situation is less than ideal.

I’d say the pros outweigh the cons, but ask me again when it’s humid, my back hurts, and my brassiere needs a shot of WD-40.

In the meantime, take your bodies out for some pudding and savor every spoonful.

The latest news in the House of Weebles is that I got a tattoo this past weekend. Many of you knew about this already because I haven’t been able to stop yattering about it.

For years I’ve wanted a tattoo but I couldn’t think of anything that was meaningful enough. Until the ideal subject occurred to me and it all fell into place.

So behold, my first ink, in honor of the one and only Pickles:

IMAG0020

Doesn’t she look annoyed?? It was her default look—her resting bitch face. Those ribbons are there because even though Pickles didn’t like the things most cats typically like, she loved those ribbons that you curl with scissors. They were like kryptonite to her, she couldn’t resist.

I can’t tell you how much I freaking love this tattoo.

And it was a great experience except that after a while, it hurt like a motherfucker. It’s on my right shoulder, about 4-5 inches in diameter (that’s 10-12 cm for my metric friends), and took about 2 hours. I was mostly okay for the first hour but during the final half hour, if I had any secrets, I would have sung like a canary. I was kind of disappointed in myself; ordinarily I have a pretty high tolerance for pain so I thought I would fare better.

I’ve been trying to figure out how much getting this tattoo hurt in the context of other painful things I’ve known. I don’t have kids so I can’t use childbirth, the mother of all painful experiences, as a comparator, but I’ve known other flavors of pain. You may have seen this pain scale:

Pain scale

I posit that this scale is not sufficient. I propose this slight modification:

Improved pain scaleAnd now, here’s the list of my Most Exquisite Pains, in no particular order:

  • Severe sciatica. During the worst sciatic pain I ever had, it felt like jagged little shards of glass scraping along my nerves. I’m not a fan of this particular sensation. I give it a 5. Maybe a 5.5.
  • Having a head wound stapled shut. As if the pain of the stapling wasn’t enough, I could also hear the staples pushing into my scalp. An audio track does nothing to make this shit any better, trust me. This one is a 6.
  • Slamming my thumb in a car door. This happened to me more than 35 years ago but I still vividly remember how it felt. It sucked. A lot. I give this a 6, plus another 6 for the excruciating nail drainage that followed.
  • Stubbing my toe. I do this often because I usually walk around the house barefoot. The pain is relatively brief but always at least a 5. If there’s ever a competition for hopping on one foot while stringing expletives together, I’ll be a gold medal contender.
  • Leg waxing (yeah, including bikini line). The only time this really hurts is when the weather is humid. In which case I have to white-knuckle my way through. Beauty is pain, people. It’s no joke. But maybe only a 4 at worst.
  • Upper lip threading (which hurts WAY more than lip waxing, by the way). A friend of mine recommended this hair-removal method and she said it didn’t really hurt. She’s a fucking liar. I cried like a little bitch. I give this experience a 4.5 on the pain scale. And a 10 on the embarrassment scale.
  • Various medical interventions. Some hurt more than others, but the worst of them was a 5 or 6. And if you ask me, patients should be offered general anesthesia for all procedures, even for things as minor as stitch removal, mammograms, injections, etc. Yeah, yeah, I know about the risks involved with anesthesia, but you know what? I don’t give a fuck.

So on my pain scale, the tattoo was a 5. But on the scale of happy I’m at about a 12, so it was totally worth it.