Also, don’t forget to comment in order to be entered into the drawing for my mystery giveaway.  Its totally better than if Andy Dick were a hooker, but not as good as if Angelina Jolie was.  A hooker.  Because she’d probably be like the most successful hooker ever.

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Recently, Jill Pilgrim bravely told her story of her struggles with mental illness and her climb to wellness.  She also, very courageously, did so without joking, giving it the seriousness and respect it deserves.  I’m going to copy her (because I want to be Jill Pilgrim when I grow up) and tell my own story.  I, however, will be taking the low road*.

I have had many many many years to reflect upon how my craziness came to be.  I’d have to say that my anxiety surrounding my health started at about five.  At five years old, I developed an allergy to soap.  Yes, soap.  The stuff that takes the stink off of most kindergarteners caused me hives all over my body, and hives so bad on my hands and feet that they would just swell like clown feet and baseball mitts.  I complained to my parents, but they didn’t take me seriously until I was literally crawling around on my knees and elbows (not sure why I needed to elbows; I’m sure just the knees would’ve sufficed).  So this taught me health anxiety lesson number one: “be dramatic.”

Fast forward to eight years old in Sunday school.  The teacher was teaching us about leper colonies.  Now mind you, she left out a LOT of information.  For example, antibiotics have come into being since biblical times, so leprosy no longer equals a death sentence.  She also left out that a disease that “eats your skin” is characterized by nasty, itchy sores.  (This will be important in a minute.)  The sum total of my knowledge about leprosy was this:  Get leprosy, a disease that eats your skin, and you get sent to a colony where everybody dies.

So later that day, I get in the tub for my bath.  I get out, and my fingers are pruned and wrinkly. And…peeling!  OHMYGODIHAVELEPROSY!!!!  So I did what a normal child would do – cry to mama?  Nah.  That would make sense.  I laid on my bed and sobbed, convinced I was going to die.  This brought me health anxiety lesson number two: if you don’t have enough information, fill in the blanks using your imagination.  The worse, the better.

Then fifth grade.  Scarlet fever resulted in a fainting spell in the hallway at school.  So.  Embarrassing.  BUT, my parents fussed over me, friends fussed over me, and when I didn’t finish my homework during my absence? my teacher fussed over the fact that I was all better, so it was ok that I didn’t do it.  Health anxiety lesson number three: sickness = attention.

Add to that one parent with severe health anxiety and another with generalized anxiety disorder and occasional panic attacks, and you get me: One fucked up piece of equipment.

Effexor is my hero.

*disclaimer: humor is my coping mechanism, although in hindsight, this post isn’t particularly funny.  I take mental health very seriously and am an advocate of mental illness awareness and education.

Within a week of getting my license, I hit a UPS truck.  A parked UPS truck.  A gigantic truck that was not moving, which I had plenty of room to move around.  How does this happen?  Allow me to illustrate.

So, I was driving about 40 mph and thought that I had enough room to get by the truck.  Turns out I was wrong.  I ended up hitting the truck with my sideview mirror.  My mirror smashed into a million pieces and I just kept on driving.  Because I am both stupid and dangerous.

Ben really took the UPS incident in stride.  He was totally nice about it.  He fixed the mirror and hugged me and told me that it was okay, but warned me to be more careful.

After that, Ben still trusted me enough to be the designated driver when we went out.  Or, if you’re cynical, Ben would only get in a car with me driving when he was drunk.  He always looked very scared.  And he made a lot of sudden movements towards the wheel when he was afraid I was going to hit something.

So, a few months later when I backed into some dude’s car in a parking lot, smashing my rear tail light and denting my bumper, I was afraid to tell Ben what really happened.  I was like 99.9999999% sure he was going to take my keys away.  So I told him I backed into a pole.  This seemed rational at the time.  Ben was awesome about it, fixed my car, hugged me and told me to be more careful.  He did not take my keys.

This weekend, while having dinner at a friend’s house, we got on the topic of my horrible driving skills.  At which point I thought it would awesome to tell Ben about that accident I had lied to him about.  During dinner.  With our friends.  It went something like this.

Danielle: So, Jill is kind of an awful driver.  I am never getting in the car with her again.

Ben: Ahaha, yes, remember the UPS truck incident?  Since then she’s been good though.

Jill: Hey actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you.  You know that accident I had in January?  I actually hit a guy’s car, not a pole.  Ahahahaha

::silence::

Jill: Ahaha

::silence::

Ben looked like this:

Everyone else looked like this:

I was slowly realizing this was not a good idea.

Ben: WHAT?!  Jill!  You hit a guy’s car?!  And you didn’t tell me?!

Jill: Um, yes?

Ben: Jill, what if this guy sued us?  Was he okay?  Was his car okay?

Jill: Oh, its fine.  His car was totally okay.  I started crying and he felt bad for me and he just left.  We didn’t even exchange information.

Ben: WHAT?!  I can’t believe you’re just telling me that now!

Jill: I was afraid you would take my keys!

Danielle: Would that have been such a bad idea?

Terri: Ben, let me tell you a story that will make you feel better.  A few years ago, one of my friends called me, and she was like, “Did you hear about the accident on Rt. 2 last night?  That was me.”  So she had hit this guy…

Danielle: Was the guy okay?

Terri: Oh no, he died.  But he was homeless and had advanced AIDS.  So, you know, he was going to die anyway.

::silence::

Terri: Turns out my friend had a brain tumor, so that was part of it.

Jill: See Ben, it could have been worse.

And then Ben forgave me, because I didn’t kill any homeless people.

In closing, thank you Terri.

Alternate Title For This Post?  Magical Stripper Juice

Here’s the thing, I have this friend Terri from the Internet, and she is fucking hilarious.  Terri is married to a gentleman named Marty, who is also fucking hilarious.  Evidence of said hilarity can be found below in Marty’s story of love (of strip clubs), and loss (of the ability to see a stripper without throwing up), and vaginas (with strange, fire extinguishing properties).

Marty’s Awesome Vagina Story

By Marty

This story is not about poo.  It is also not about piercings.  It is, however, about a vagina;  a vagina with a rare talent seldom seen in these parts (or in those parts – the vag parts – you get my drift).

So once upon a time, I was cajoled and pressured into attending a gentlemen’s club* with friends.   Now I like naked boobs and lady bits as much as the next guy, but ya gotta respect the ladies, ya know?  But in the interest of not looking like a big pussy, I went without complaint.

*by “gentlemen’s club,” I mean “really seedy titty bar in the crappy part of town where you can get cheap beers and look at the girls who didn’t make the cut at the “nice” titty bars.

Now let me tell you about one special “lady” in particular who was employed at this lovely establishment.  We’ll call her Wendy, because I always thought Wendy was kind of a skanky name.  But I digress…Wendy had a special talent.  Wendy was able to lie down on her back, spread her legs and BLOW OUT a PACK of matches with her cooter.  True story.  Just blow them right out.  Not just one match, mind you – we’re talking the ENTIRE PACK. 

Well, being the curious guy that I am, I had to see this up close and personal.  So I throw a few bucks on the bar (I’m no cheapskate!) and gesture for Wendy to come on over and show me how it’s done! (for scientific purposes, of course).  So Wendy comes on over, assumes the position, and waits for me to light the matches.  I did, and sure as shit, she blew out the entire pack.  And when she did, something liquid. HIT. Me. In. The. Face.  

And that, Jill’s friends, is about when I quit drinking.

And since Marty was kind enough to share this story, I wanted to give him a picture to commemorate this special event.  You’re welcome Marty.  You’re welcome.