Monday Is The New Sunday

Sorry, sorry, I know it's a day late. I had an unusual Sunday, starting with an early shift at work and ending with me changing the hippy's car battery (which is about as impressive and manly and I'll ever be around her). There was also a lovely post Valentine's Day date which included cheap chocolates, Middle Eastern food, and Attack on Titan, which might be one of the greatest things in animation, ever. There's also the whole long work stretch I'm in. Eleven straight days of the day job, which is rather frustrating considering that I stepped down from management and took a $1,000 a month hit to have more time to focus on writing. As you can see, that's working out splendidly. I'm glad my superiors are still getting their days off though.

Okay, enough whining, here we go:

As we near the end of the month, the hippy and I are gearing up to move in together, thus ending our lives as a couple that never fights. Between conversations of who gets what bedroom (yeah, that’s right, we’re having separate bedrooms) and the general excitement of what we’ll do with the living room, we manage to sneak in conversations of how long term we see this going. (Outlook positive, shit yeah!) And with this has come talk of one day having children.

Since the two of us agree that yes, we would one day like to have kids, barring any major relationship troubles, I figured I might as well get tested. I was due for a checkup and, let’s be honest, nobody wants a chlamydia baby. So I scheduled an appointment and all of my confidence that I am clean drained away faster than my mother’s pride in me as she reads this post.

Growing up Catholic, I learned three things about sex before marriage. If I do it, I will go to hell, I will have babies, and we’ll all have AIDS. (It was the 90’s to be fair.) This later warning has been burned so deeply into my subconscious, that when getting tested is combined with anxiety and paranoia problems, every Queen song becomes less classic rock and more of an omen for a difficult future.

In summary, I am clean. (Shit yeah!) But there is one detail with getting tested that bothers the living hell out of me. After my doctor stepped out of the room to order blood work for my HIV scan and came back with the paper to take upstairs, she informed me that because of my tattoos, she ordered a Hepatitis scan.

Here’s what I wish I had said:

Excuse me? Look at these. No, really, look at them. See the detail? See that mother fucking detail? Does this artwork look like it was done in some creep’s basement with a needle he found on the floor of his van? (0r her van, let’s not be sexist.) No. No it does not. I clearly went all out on the quality of art, and with that came a clean shop. So take that hepatitis test, and shove it, Doc.

What I said was:

Okay…

It was my first blatant bit of tattoo stereotyping. I’m generally used to people asking me questions about how much it cost and if it hurt and “Is that a bird??” So yes, I am a little salty over it. But then again, maybe I deserve it, because I’ve been carrying that Queen joke around for a while, knowing full well that it’s in bad taste. Unlike this.

In writing news, She Sees Metaphors will be returned to me later this month by my wonderful editor. There are still a few quirks to work out after that, but with the ISBN and barcodes nearly in the bag, I do believe that it is safe to say that the novel will most definitely be released this summer. Let’s hope I didn't jinx that.

So yes, all is looking bright with my future, and as the days to come turn to the present moment, I would like to raise a glass to remembering that none of this is being taken for granted. Day job aside, I look forward to spending the next year with the hippy, reading as many books as I can, writing every chance I get, and making the best of it.

This entire post has been brought to you by Lexapro and That Shit Works.