To Do

I had a doctor's appointment at Planned Parenthood after work tonight. Don't worry, mama ain't a mama, but Planned Parenthood is like the drive-thru of anything and everything vagina. In and out, quick and easy, and pun absolutely intended. I switch birth control each year mostly because I'm easily bored and just want to try new drugs. One might call that a "unique hobby" and I might call one who feels compelled to care a "unique asshole".  I've tried knitting and book clubs. They're boring. I like playing with medication and eating Chinese food in my bathtub. Different kicks for different chicks, you dig? So instead of calling my real doctor and having to wait 6 weeks before I can see her, and then upon seeing her, having to answer stupid questions like, "Any big life changes we need to talk about today? Are you sad? Tell me what makes you sad." or "You've gained weight since your last visit. Have you considered adding a brisk morning walk to your workout routine?" Instead of having to deal with that shit (the answers to those questions always being the same, 1) You make me sad and, 2) No, I haven't considered that. Also, I won't.) I go to Planned Parenthood where you make a same day appointment, whiz through the standard exam,  get asked if you're currently banging someone who shoots with needles and if you need 75 complimentary condoms in your to-go bag.  You answer correctly (no and yes...or is it yes and no? I can't remember the correct order exactly, but you've got a 50% chance of hitting the bulls eye so just spit something out and hope for the best) and they'll hook you up with patches or pills or rings or whatever else your warped little ovaries desire. 30 minutes later, you walk out the door and hit up the Chipotle around the corner for a burrito the size of a real-life baby and the only baby shaped thing you'll have to handle for a long time to come.  Everybody wins!

Anyway, the reason I bring up the visit is because getting to the particular clinic I fancy is a pretty long train ride from my office. I hopped the T around 6pm to make a 7pm appointment about 20 minutes into the trip, I realized I was bored to death by everything on my iPod and that book I've been reading wasn't doing much for me either (probably because I'm not reading a book...). I started looking at other stuff on my phone - like 100 pictures of George Michael doing nothing, or 100 pictures of food stuffs I should've never been eating (I orally assaulted a White Castle on a recent road trip), or 100 pictures of shirtless gay guys dancing (I don't know), and maybe one picture of me pretending to breast feed a bag of chips. When that strangely exciting, and simultaneously really depressing, activity was exhausted, I remembered I had created a to-do list for the upcoming weekend. The fact that I even put a to-do list together, much less recalled its existence is beyond out of character. I don't do lists. I don't do calendars. I don't do anything that might actually be helpful to the order of my life. I prefer chaos and mayhem. Or, maybe that's not true, but it's the only way I function and understand my place in this world, so I roll best with instability. I imagine my brain to look like the insides of a hoarder's garage. There's stuff everywhere, 99% of it completely useless, but I know everything that's hanging around, where it came from, and how to find it. You can come in and try to teach me how to purge and file and clean and organize, but the second you leave, I'm pulling it all back out and throwing in a new collection of stuffed animals and old VHS tapes just because I can. So lists and the like are generally lost on me. This list was likely created during a meeting to trick people into thinking I knew what we were talking about and I'm sure I said something like, "Hey team, just logging some info for my follow-up matrix graph worksheet spreadsheet matrix." Something like that...

What I loved about this list when I first saw it again was how absolutely pointless and seriously juvenile it is. If these are the things I have to remind myself to do this weekend, if these are the tasks that are central to the being that I am, then the issues run much deeper than originally thought.

So I have a haircut appointment tomorrow. And after that I have to get my bikini and legs waxed. Awesome that a decent portion of my most urgent needs revolve around my excessive body hair. I also quite enjoy that at some point this week, I thought the perfect gift for my friend's upcoming birthday was a mask. I have no recollection whatsoever of coming up with the mask idea, or seeing a mask, or her ever saying in the entire time I've known her that she has any desire to own a mask. But I think we have a winner.

I most definitely am considering the purchase of a goldfish. I think the question mark just means I haven't decided if I'll get him this weekend or next weekend. But yeah, I'm getting a goldfish. And no, I don't really know why. I have decided  I'll be calling him Rose.

Finally, since I obviously listed stuff in order of its importance, I noted my taxes. Which I still haven't done and reminded myself again today to do by writing, in black Sharpie on both hands, "TAXES!". It's almost midnight now. Safe to assume the reminders didn't work.

If I were to make a separate list of the 24 hour period that began at 7pm tonight and will end at 7pm tomorrow, it would include a trip to Planned Parenthood followed by a trip to Chipotle followed by the updating of a blog that 3 people read (me, someone that got here on accident, me again) followed by waxing my bikini line and finally, buying a goldfish. Oh, and not doing my taxes. This is the list I should start referencing more often than not. If for no other reason to be reminded that I need some new hobbies. Which I will start seeking out just as soon as I pick up Anna's birthday mask.

Happy Weekend. I like Mobb Deep - Shook Ones, Pt. II. Do you?

Later.