I think its a lot more difficult than that.

So, to save all the long drawn out metaphorical bullshit. The tunnel is my vagina and the light is, well, not my vagina.

***

“You seem a little tense.” The gynecologist old woman from a few episodes back said to me. “You’re worried about your test results?”

“I cried on the bottom of my best friends floor.” I said, laying back on la table de doom.

I had worn crappy shorts and a t shirt to this appointment. After the last one, I’d figured it was pointless to wear nice clothing just to take it off and let some old woman invade my hoo-ha. I had also regained my ability to speak during the said appointment. It was an interesting conversation.

“Everything seems to be  ay-okay sweetie. Except, well-”

She continued to probe me with the metal claw thing. It was cold, like her soul.

“Well what?” I stammered, hoping I didn’t have some form of Atheist Immaculate Conception. 

(I still wasn’t having sex.) 

“I can’t seem to find your cervix.” She said, a tone of muted concern washing over her voice.

“Oh good. I guess there is a good circus caree-

I felt the metal claw invading the bottom of my stomach, or something in that general vicinity.

“There it is.” The old bastard exclaimed as my toes curled and I clasped the sides of the table. My legs were shaking in the stirrups. “You cervix is the farthest back I have ever seen any cervix go.”

“Oh good,” I exhaled. “That’s something I can probably put on my resumé, right?”

The nurse, midwife, doctor woman laughed hysterically, take a momentary respite from my vagina.It was the most unfunny moment of my entire life. I was basically getting a test to see if I had cervical cancer, and there I was doing stand up. Vagina stand up.

And my doctor was laughing.

Its a shitty tunnel, really.( Life, not my vagina.) It was only June of 2010. Nineteen year old Marissa was getting her first cancer test and cracking jokes. The tunnel was definitely a scary one (again, not my vagina.), but there was a light at the end of it, a sick, twisted light, something to walk towards.

At least as soon as I get the metal probe out of my vageen.

 DISCLAIMER: Just like the last episode I talked about cervical cancer, I will again mention that I do NOT have cervical cancer. I am perfectly fine and very lucky to be in good health. But you should go to a gyno anyway. Do it for me…and your vagina. 

It was my first day of work back at the jail.

(A jail? You ask.
Yes, a jail. I answer.
Isn’t it scary with all of those prisoners?
I’m sure it was 20 years ago when it was still sort of active.)

It was that time of year again where it was not yet summer, but hardly spring. I adjusted my five year old collared shirt with a handprint on the tit-tay. My face told the tale of a girl still not quite sure where she was; I was happy to be home, sort of. But I was also sad to leave school in the same respect. Boredom was the ultimate look upon my visage and I was ready to do work and get back into summer musicals.

The Jail had been my place of employment since the age of fourteen (basically illegal, I know.) I gave tours and dealt with annoying people (a story of its own right.) However, it was May, which meant an abundance of school children coming to see something sort of resembling history. (I probably shouldn’t give out a lot of information seeing as it’s a real place and we get enough goddamn psychos there as it is.)

A loud honk resounded from outside of my family home, and my cellphone buzzed in my pants.
Must be Casey.

Casey had been one of my good friends since high school. She was a year older, and about twenty years smarter. Her hair was always perfectly done (although she often said it resembled a triangle), and for some reason, always reminded me wholeheartedly of Elle Woods. A kind of…quirky…Elle Woods.

“Hi Casey!!” I squealed, jumping into her olive colored SUV. She was texting rapidly on her Blackberry, with her Coach sunglasses.

“Whompwhomp.” She replied wholeheartedly, still staring down at her phone.

Casey learned a new word.

***

“I never realized how much this place reminded me of my soul.” I said sarcastically to Casey as we walked in the side entrance of the jail.

It was cold, moldy, and dark. The sound of Irish step dance music played a cacophony against the walls that sounded something like a death march and mixed simultaneously with the sound of squealing, underprivileged children and Christine’s yelling.

“Whomp whomp.”  Casey responded.

“You girls are late” Mrs. McGroom yelled from clear across the gift shop. She was a small, ancient, mighty woman with a face like hell and an attitude like….hell.. “Christine already started the tour. Oh, its nice to see you by the way. So glad to have you home from college.” She half-ass smiled at us. “Now go in there and split the tour up. Oh, and Marissa, tone down your makeup next time, you look like a street walker.”

“Mrs. McGroom,” I muttered, (she still kind of scared me.) “I’ve been wearing my makeup basically the same way since I was fourt-“

“GO!” She yelled.

“What a bitch.” I murmered to Casey as we walked into the cellblock.

“Whompwhomp.”

See what I mean by quirky?

***

The tours were basically a shit show. I did a lot of yelling, and a lot of “If you keep talking I will lock you all up in the dungeon and never let you out. “ However, the kids were all at this awkward age when they thought they were really cool and felt the need to make the most obvious statements. They had been testing my patience all afternoon. It was as if a meter was set up inside of me. A meter that measured how long it would be until I did and or said something that would eventually get me fired. I started to set up the list as I and my gaggle of eight year old children and chaperones ventured into the basement.

1. I was late.
2. I look like a whore.
3.

“Its really dark down here.” A fat little boy stated.

“You’re really frigging observant!” I retorted, without thinking.

The look of horror that I then received was piercing even in the darkness of the dungeon. The chaperones looked thoroughly disgusted, and rounded on me as if they were shielding the children from my infinite anger and hatred.

Three.

***

At the end of the day, the brats were leaving, buying candy and handcuffs. (Every kid’s dream, right?) After every little girl made her purchase, they would look admiringly at Christine and say at least some variation of “You’re really pretty.”

Then I bagged their toys and handed them over, grudge in hand.

It was finally the glorious time of the day when one child was left in the store, mulling over her purchases. This particular child was a small, black girl with buck teeth who smelled distinctly of B.O.
She brought of an infinite supply of plastic bracelets and smiled at Christine as she rung them up.

“You’re pretty Christine.” The girl smiled and then turned to me. “And I like you because you’re pretty like me.”

I bagged her bracelets with a look of utmost disgust.

The store was empty and Christine looked at me, laughing hysterically.

“Of course, the only girl who says I’m pretty is the ugliest fucking black gir-“

“MARISSA.” Mrs. McGroom rounded the corner with Casey and the school’s principal in tow.

Did you ever get that horrible feeling in your stomach that you would be losing a decent source of income soon and everything else was swiftly going downhill?

“Whomp whomp.” Casey muttered.

We all look like assholes.

Drunk was the word that could describe Neil (the old man, in case you aren’t keeping up with this story. In that case, fuck you.) as I was packing up to leave behind campus and my sophomore year for summer vacation. He had been texting me incessant messages of infinite passion and drunken stupor.

“I just don’t understand. I feel like we have this connection.” (Not that you can italicize texts, but you get what I’m doing here.)

“Neil, you’re drunk and I’m leaving campus tomorrow.”

This had been a constant battle between the Old Man and I. For some god forsaken reason, he decided he loved me. Obviously I didn’t love him. I really didn’t like people in general. So, instead of concentrating on Neil’s actual message, I allowed it to become entertainment and a checklist of sorts in between tossing my belongings into suitcases and garbage bags.

“I just feel like we have this connection…”

Ethernet cord, check.

“..and you aren’t seeing it.”

Glasses, check.

“Marissa, don’t leave me.”
“Izzie!” I called across to my roommate, “Have you seen my box of tampons?”

***

I was almost completely packed; Neil aiding me along in the process, when I realized where my life had ended up. My sophomore year had been a constant battle of stupid classes, scary moments, awkward encounters, and chasing strange men away. I looked fondly down at the tampons in my suitcase.

Even my vagina kind of sucks.

It was the end of an era. A really douchebaggy era. I was happy and sad at the same time, in an infinite kind of loop. I would eventually see all these people again, but it would all be different. I’d be a year older; 20 years to be precise, and a junior. But I had a whole summer ahead of me. The world seemed kind of promising. Maybe I’d wise up by then.

Maybe I’d get laid!

Nah.

We All Look Like Assholes.

“Well, no but-”

“Then if you assume you have cancer one more time I will rip your face off. Now get up or I’ll drop this on you. ” Obviously I obliged, and stood up, still feeling a bit traumatized. “Besides, what if you do have cancer? There is nothing you can do about it. It is what it is. That’s life.”

“Destiny or some shit.” I mumbled, sitting  down on her laptop to check my crops on Farmville. I violently plucked the virtual potatoes from the ground as if they were the cause of all my anxiety.

“You don’t even believe in destiny either.” Christine rolled her eyes at me and continued to straighten her hair in the mirror.

“You’re right.”

***
The whole walk across campus (all three minutes of it) I thought distinctly about the idea of destiny or fate. Before I became an adamant atheist, fate had always been something that remained as a simple, yet very complex, comfort. Instead of channeling my success into something productive, I would constantly tell myself that there was “a reason for everything” , some divine voice that said “Don’t fucking do that, dipshit.” Now, the only thing that I felt comfort in was the fact that somewhere in cyberspace, virtual crops were waiting to be harvested by me, and me alone.

Night time on campus was always kind of dreamy and hazy (which is obviously what prompted by philosophical thoughts.) especially when summer vacation was nearing and the nights were becoming longer. People were always outside, usually in groups, and almost always in couples, just strolling through the grounds, talking about (what I can only imagine to be) frigging stupid things. I, on the other hand, was walking alone, and thinking about myself; my life that had suddenly become filled with anxiety for really no reason.

“Some fate.” I said to myself as I walked through my dorm’s doors.  I was tired and lazy, so I beelined for the elevator . I stood there, again, totally by myself, waiting for the goddamn elevator to reach the terrace floor. It finally beeped, and opened its doors. The elevator gave me the distinct feeling that it felt sorry for me. Almost like it kept its doors open just to say “Maybe someone will come along and you won’t be a loner. Ha ha ha.” However, the doors gave up on me and began to close, as I heard, in the hall:

“Hey wait!”

An obnoxiously tall, blonde, pasty looking guy hurried towards the elevator. He was seriously one of the tallest people on campus, at least 6’4″ and towered above me. He smiled a precious little smile for a vaguely deformed human, and said quite demurely “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I started babbling, like always. I could never learn to keep my fucking mouth shut. “I waited for this frigging elevator for like fifteen minutes.”

“These things are so obnoxiously slow.” The tall man guffawed, displaying his awkward adorableness.

“Like seriously.” I started. “I have homework to do and crops to fee-”

Why did I just say that?

“-homework to do.” I finished lamely.

The elevator dinged to let tall man out of the elevator. “Farmville?” He smiled. “I have like a whole field of watermelon that needed to be harvested an hour ago. I feel your pain.” And then he left.

I slumped backwards onto the elevator wall and facepalmed myself.

“Crops to feed?” I asked myself. “Crops to feed?”

***

Dinner the next night was shared between Christine, myself, and our mutual friend Christian. I spent most of the evening attempting, with no avail, to balance my cereal spoon on my nose. I was an utter success at being mature, especially according to Christine, who I had told about my run in with tall, farmville boy the night before.

“Maybe it was fate Christine!” I said, laughing, the previous night.

“Marissa, put the spoon down, we’ll never marry you off at this rate.” Christine put her hand up to remove the utensil from my nose, but was interrupted by a towering shadow of awkward tallness that approached our table.

“Hi Christian!” Tall, Farmville boy ‘s voice bellowed from way up in the clouds.

“Hey Damien!” Christian replied cheerfully. “This is my friend Christine and, um, this is Marissa.”

I turned around, spoon on nose, and awkwardly waved. “We’ve met.” I said, while the spoon fell ungracefully off my nose.

“I remember.” Damien laughed and sat down next to me. He took the spoon from my lap, and puffed two quick breaths on it. “Try that.”

It stayed.

***

Long story short, Damien found my phone number through Christian, and texted me. For about a week, he went on walks with me around campus at night. I still thought about fate when I walked with him, even when he was talking. (He wasn’t the best conversationalist.) Perhaps it was fate that I had met Damien. Perhaps he had this larger purpose to help me get over the anxiety that I was dealing with. Maybe fate was real.

“You know,” Damien said as we neared my dorm. “I kind of want to-

And then he ducked down and kissed me really really aggressively. And not in a good way.

In my head, this moment, on the romantic scale, should have been a ten.

It was not a ten.

His tongue was legitimately clogging my airways, and I felt like I was drowning in pheromones. (Again, not in a good way. Like in an “I’m dying” way.) Oxygen was becoming less and less accessible before I pushed his really obnoxious frame away. I smiled, half-assed.

“So I guess you don’t want to come back to my room then?” And he winked. So what did I do? The thing I always do when someone winks at me. I did the goddamn fonzie thing and said, as if I had known this answer from the get go.

“Nah.”

And then I gave him a quick sort of jump/kiss on the cheek and walked back to my room. The idea of destiny flew through my mind again. All I could do was laugh to myself. If my fate was to be stuck with a really fucking bad kisser, or cancer, it really sucked in every sense of the word. Nothing was controlling my life besides me.

And farmville.

“I don’t know Miss, they’ll call you back after lunch I’m sure.” My mom tried to reassure me with no avail via the phone. “They said that it was nothing to panic over.” so don’t panic.”

“Mom, you know I’m going to panic.”

“I know, just don’t google anything.”

“Mom, you know I’m going to work-study and will be sitting in front of a computer all day.”

“Just don’t panic.” My mother said, more sternly this time. “I’m sure everything is fine down there.”

I walked along the pathway to the building that I worked in, humming that “Land Down Under” song and feeling a very ominous feeling coming from my stomach, or maybe my ovaries, I’m not sure. I worked as a secretary in the “Office for the Vice President of Student Life”; a very prestigious title for a girl who sits on facebook all day and attempts to do homework. It was a surprisingly simple job, mostly scheduling and filing, not much of anything else. A simple job for the every day college girl. That is, however, if she can get past the three-headed dragon that was Ethel.

Ethel was the Vice President’s Executive assistant, which essentially was a fancy title for ‘Really Fucking Annoying Secretary”. In reality, I worked for her. She was short, fat, had spiky orange hair, like the flames of hell, and she resembled the fuck out of a toad. A germaphobe,  obessessive-compulsive, and a very small aptitude towards people in general, Ethel hated most of her work studies.

But she loved me.

The three headed beast sat in front of her desk, all decked out in a chintzy cheetah print polyester number. She looked up at me and gave me a half-ass smile and a wave, observing me from head to do. As per usual.

“Hi Ethel.” I said, somewhat somberly that day, as my mind was more focused on my vagina. “How are you today?”

“Oh sweetie,” Ethel sighed in her ‘I quit smoking about an hour ago’ voice. “I’m not feeling so well, but you just look gosh darn awful today.”

“Thanks Ethel.” That was my absolute fucking favorite. I loved when people told me how awful I looked, especially a sixty something piece of- “Is there anything you’d like me to do today?”

“No.” She sighed, leaning back in her swivel chair of ultimate power. I draped my coat on the back of my non-swivel chair and took out my statistics books. However, before I could even open to a chapter and stare at it with no goddamn ideas in the world, Ethel hobbled her stout self over behind me. “Actually, I need you to look something up for me on the internet.”

“Sure, what site?” I asked, almost hesitantly. This happened about twenty times a week.

“That medical one, you know.”

Just then, the crazy, hypochondriac Marissa came bursting out of me. I kept repeating to myself what my mother had told me before on the phone.

“I need you,” Ethel whispered. “to look up bloody stool.”

Only three hours and fifty-seven minutes to go.

***

“Bye Ethel, hope your bowels are feeling better!”  I essentially sprinted out of the office that afternoon. The phone number to the doctor’s was already typed in on my cell. I pressed the dreaded dial button. Basically, the conversation was a long, drawn out process to tell me that my test results came back with an “Abnormal Squamous Cell Count.” or something like that. I had stopped listening to the nurse’s voice as opposed to the dull thud of the blood pulsating through my body. My paranoid self however, did hear this last  part. “Squamous cells can eventually lead to cancer in some rare cases, so we will have to check you, but it’s very unlikely.”

The only word I got out of any of the conversation was “cancer”.

***

“Christine!” I wailed, laying on the floor of her dorm room. “I’m dying. Everything I’ve done is an absolute sham. Nothing matters anymore. I’m good as dead.”

“Marissa,” Christine looked over, or well, down, at me from behind her laptop. “You’re not dying. WebMD is saying you have little to no chance of having cancer form.”

“Christine, what do I do?” I asked, tears rolling down my face, not listening to anything she just said. “What if I really am dying?”

Christine then came over, reached out her hand, and pulled me off the floor.
“You’re not dying.”

“What if someone is trying to get back at me? What if this is all just a ‘HA HA FUCK YOU!’ from god or something? For not believing in him all this time?” When the words finally escaped my mouth, I realized how delusional I was starting to sound. Yet, I continued to talk. “What if this is Karma for being a terrible, cynical, mean person all those years? I’VE TAKEN PRIDE IN THOSE TRAITS CHRISTINE! PRIDE!”

“Marissa, what terrible, awful things have you done in your life?” Christine was always so level-headed. Its one thing I always loved about her.

“Well,” I sniffed. “I like making dead baby jokes. Oh, and I always make fun of black people.”

Christine stared at me.
“and Mexicans, and Asians, well and Italians that one-”

“You’re not dying. Even if you were, I’m sure karma wouldn’t be out to get you for a few nig-”

I cleared my throat.

“-a few black people jokes.” Christine finished. “Plus, you’re an atheist, I’m sure god wouldn’t even care about that.”

“Maybe I need to just build my Karma back up.” I sniffled.

“You don’t even believe in Karma.” Christine retorted.

“Well, then maybe I’ll just do nice things for the hell of it. And I know exactly where to start. “

Christine smiled.

“Do you think you could quick google ‘ Treatments for bloody stool’ ?”

*I do not actually have cancer. This is just depicting my overreaction to the situation. For more information on the above condition, look it up on the fucking internet.*

Now, it isn’t often I lose my sense of feminist independence, but that day, my hair soaked in a cold, icy slush and a broken piece of $500, I wanted nothing more than a friendly old man to look at my computer, say “Aha.” (Because aha simply means anything.) and fix it right then and there.

I approached the help desk, which was essentially, a hole in the wall of the ancient library with a window separating the computer people from the outside world. No one was there. It was two in the afternoon and no one was at the goddamn help desk. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I rapped frantically on the window. I knocked until, suddenly, a portly looking guy with glasses and a baseball cap came up to the computer. He was actually a guy who I recognized from around campus;  the same ages as me. Fanfuckingtastic, I thought. He opened the window and said quasi-professionally,

“What can I do you for, miss.?

“My computer won’t do anything. It won’t let me on the internet, and it just shut down on me like five minutes ago.  I really need you to help me.”

“Well let me take a look see here.”

First of all, I hate when people make goddamn idle small talk. Just fix my computer, I don’t need a narration. I handed this strange looking man my laptop. He pushed a few buttons, clicked a few things, and looked up at me. “This is really bad.” he said, looking apologetically up at me. “I know that.” I said slowly, becoming more and more impatient with the lack of student assistance my school had. “That is why I brought it here.”

I’m not quite sure if it was my distinct hatred for men that day, my head soaked with rain and snow, or the sheer anger I had over my broken computer, but the boy gave me a look of utmost nervousness. “Look, I’m not in charge here. I’m just a work study.”

Well, I could have told you that.

“Then could I speak to the person who is in charge?

“Yeah, sure, I’ll go get him.”

Finally, someone with experience, I thought, sighing to myself. Perhaps this man would have an “aha” moment, hand me back my computer, and give me a lollipop. You know, real service.

“You fucking douche, chick probably just has a virus and you couldn-

As I stood, tapping my fingers on the help desk counter, a blonde, slightly bearded, slightly taller than me, twenty something year old man approached the window. As he noticed I was standing there, his eyes widened, and he ever so eloquently said, “Oh, hello there.” The cocky arrogance that he displayed walking into the room now faded as I purposefully shoved my laptop in front of him.

“Please help me.” I said, in the most innocent voice I could muster. The man looked at me, smirked, and opened up my laptop. “What seems to be the problem, darlin’?  I then went into a drawn out montage about the problems my computer had. Computer Man, however, was not too keen on listening, and continued to click buttons instead. “Hey, Rob,” Computer Man called into the back room for, what I could only imagine, was the strange-looking little hobbit man. “come look at this.”

“Hey, could you maybe tell me what’s wrong with my comp-”

Rob, the hobbit man, came hobbling along side of Computer Man and gazed complacently at my laptop.

“I’ve been trying to open the internet for the last ten minutes and it won’t even load.” Computer Man laughed, all too hysterically.

“Oh my god,” Rob snorted. “this is like a Windows 95!”

The two of them were nearly doubled over in nerd hysterics.
This is what I’m paying $30,000 a semester for.

“Listen guys,” I started, “I don’t want to break this little jokefest up, but I have class in like a half hour, so if we could just move things along that would be great.”

Computer Man looked up at me as if he’d never seen anything like me in his entire existence.

“What class do you have darlin’?” He asked. The ‘darlin’ tick was getting old.

“Stats.”

“I love stats!” Rob interjected.

“I hate stats.” I replied frankly, glaring at Rob. He had made fun of my laptop, I was insulted.

“I hate stats too.” Computer Man agreed, an almost automatic tone to his voice.

“Yeah, great. So it would be really cool if you could fix my computer. For free. Now.”

Computer Man sighed. “Go sit down at that table out there, we’ll talk this over.”

Essentially the following conversation was a basic discussion between computer fixer and computer illiterate girl. He tried, with what I can imagine with all of his might, to explain to me that there were a lot of excess files that I didn’t need on my laptop that needed to be deleted.

“So, what you’re saying is I have a lot of shit on my computer.”

Computer Man looked up at me from the page of files he was trying to sort through. “You’re funny.” He laughed.

“I try.” I said, smiling. He was actually kind of nice for a nerd.

“Listen,” Computer Man said softly, almost secretively. “For insurance purposes, I’m really not allowed to go through your com- Whoa.”

“What?” I looked at the computer screen. Computer Man had pulled up one of Tom’s RPG games that he had left there from over the summer. “You play this too..?

“I, no, its- wait, what time is it?”

“Two o’clock darlin’.?”

“OH FUCK.” I jumped out of my seat, causing Computer Man to look completely unnerved. “I have to go to class. Thank you for your help. I have to come back because I have no idea what you just told me to do and-

“I left my phone number in that list of programs darlin’. Don’t be afraid to call.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“My name is Gabe by the way!” He said loudly as I was darting off to class.

“Oh yeah, I’m Marissa.”

And out into the cold.

***

That night, I sat in my room with Rose, finnegling with my computer, hoping that, the more programs I deleted, the faster and more efficient it would run.

“Shouldn’t the help desk have fixed that?” Rose asked, staring at herself in the mirror.

“Well, I went there, and the guy didn’t exactly tell me what to do before I left. He talked and I pretended to listen. “

Rose then said something else, but I wasn’t paying any attention.

My brain was in a constant cycle of “Right click, delete, right click, delete, right click delete.” However, the cycle was abruptly disrupted by the dreaded blue screen of doom. The laptop made a horrible crackling noise and I started to panic.

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!” I whined, searching frantically for Gabe’s number, the only thing that I thought could be potentially helpful in this situation. I found it buried deep within the confines of my top desk drawer and started dialing with shaking hands. This is how the conversation ensued:

Him: “Gabe Mitchell.”

Me: “Hi, Gabe, its me, Marissa.”

Him: “Ummm…”

Me: “The girl with the really slow computer.”

Him: “OH! And the really nice ass. Whats up baby?”

Me: “Are you drunk right now? Really?”

Him: “I’m just a little tipsy. What can I do you for?”

Me: “I think my computer just blew up.”

Him: “Business. Aw damn it, I thought you were calling for a date!”

Me: “Seriously?”

Him: “How about you stop by tomorrow, and I’ll fix that computer for free just to see that pretty little face of yours.”

Me: “You dick.”

Him: “It’s free.”

Me: “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Him: “Oh, and before you go. I saw that secret porn file on your computer. You are one kinky motherfu-”

And then I hung up. Tom, and any sense of pride I had, was about to die that night.

We all look like assholes.

“Who is this?“

I sighed, pacing around the tiny enclosed laboratory. Tom, my younger brother, had, after his recent accident and subsequent memory loss, taken to playing around with the minds of others.

“Your sister, Tom. The only sister you have. Now where’s mom?”

“Oh” Tom laughed. “She’s at work. Sucker.”

I rolled by eyes. “Well could you just tell her that I need her to look for the paperwork that came with my labtop. I must’ve left it at home. My stupid ass computer is acting up and I want to see if the warranty is still good.”

“BLACK PEOPLE” Tom yelled. “I didn’t listen to anything you just said. Bye.”

“That sounded successful.” Christine snarkily remarked. She was sitting on the counter of the lab we both worked in, next to the official graduate assistant in charge, Edward. It is probably worth mentioning that I have worked in this lab (under two different faculty advisors) for two years. This year’s lab, however, was purely focused on Human Information Processing. A whole lot of explaining that no one wants to hear about. We had recently been published in a psychology journal, keeping all of our heads indefinitely large. The HIP Lab (get it?) was a group of characters; essentially a bunch of nerds in one room with internet access and permission to test human subjects. My kind of people.

“Who was that anyway?” Ed asked, spinning around in his chair. He and Christine had spent the last hour trying to find YouTube videos that sufficiently caused Christine to dry heave.

“My younger brother Tom. He’s all muscle and very little bra-”

“All muscle? Who’s talking about me?”

The deep voice had resounded from the surrounding hallway. My face, along with Christine’s, flushed with an immediate sense of girlish delight. It was the fucking hunk of man that was Landon.
Landon was the HIP lab’s corresponding flight instructor (Don’t ask questions, just follow along.). He was twenty-five, tall, muscular, shiny white smile, and training to be a marine. He was everything I hated in a man.

“Hey buddy!”  Ed shouted. Christine and I giggled, while simultaneously rolling our eyes. Landon was dressed like an absolute douchebag; polo, khakis, aviation hat.  His muscles were looking unusually large that day.

“I just got back from the gym.” He said, almost like a valley girl, if the valley girl was a big, stupid man.  His eyes got wide as he saw the video that Ed and Christine had been watching.  ”Gotta get ready for training tom- What are you guys-They aren’t eating that…oh GOD.”

Ed turned off the video. “So what’s up Landon?”

“Oh, I just decided to come see my buddy and my two favorite ladies.” Landon looked at me and winked.

First of all, I never know what to do when people wink at me. The only action I could muster up was snapping my fingers like Fonzie and winking back. Landon guffawed almost too wholeheartedly. “Oh I love you crazy psych people. Always doing weird psychological things.”  He waived his hands in the air to emphasize the point.

Landon was an idiot. A good looking idiot.
But an idiot.

“Well,” I said, standing up out of my stupor. (Sometimes I go stupid when I see good looking men.) “I’m going to go get some coffee, I’ll be right back.” I stood up, and just to be an absolute ass, turned around looked at Landon, and did the Fonzie maneuver. “You all have fun now.”

The hall was buzzing with students rushing to and from classes. I spent my time dodging Neil (the old man) who worked in the same building. It was as I was walking to the food place that I was stopped dead in my tracks.

“Hey Marissa! Wait!”

Oh fuck, Neil found me.

I turned around, as if it pained me a great deal. I was trying to calculate the most efficient escape route. However, when I flipped around, I was met with a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. Landon stood there, in all of his beaming toolness.
“Damn, you walk fast.”

“I really like coffee.”

“Oh, I like coffee too.” Landon said. He stepped in front of me and leaned, suavely of course, against the wall. “So, maybe we could-”  He flashed a big white smile “-get some coffee together.” He was, what I could only imagine to be, smoldering. No one had every tried to smolder me before. I was thoroughly uncomfortable, but vaguely excited. I had literally never been asked out in such a manner. This was like one of those movies, except he was a hunk and I was still awkward.

“Uh, yeah that would be fun.” Were the only words I could muster. This had to be a joke.

“Okay cool.” Landon immediately stopped the smolder. Apparently he had caught his prey. Or well, you know, he thought he did. “But, thing is, I don’t actually like coffee. I just made that up.”

Have I mentioned Landon was an idiot?

***

Izzie was far too excited that I was going on a lunch date with the infamous Landon, despite  making fun of me endlessly along with her boyfriend John.

“I AM SO EXCITED FOR YOU!” Izzie jumped around the room. “What are you going to wear? How will you do your hair? Where are you going? Is he picking you up?”

“I-I don’t know Izzie. I think I’m just going to look normal and he is picking me up. This is a date, isn’t it?”

Izzie smiled “DUH!”

My cellphone buzzed, my stomach dropped. It was a message from Landon “im here” it read. Just like that; no capitalization, no punctuation. “Here we go.”

***

Landon was surprisingly polite and, not surprisingly, talkative.  He had taken me to a local Thai food place. It was completely empty except for the workers and the two of us. We sat down and he looked at me with that vacant look of his. His vacant expression then turned into one of pain. I stared at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Landon groaned. “It’s after this tanning bed business. My ass is toasted!”

Did you ever have one of those moments where you felt like your life paused and you were the only one moving? This was one of those moments. I realized how out of my element I was in this situation. I was on a date with a goddamn tool. I didn’t even understand tools. I was Snookie for Halloween once, but that was my closest encounter with real life toolitry.  Here I was, the awkward flat-chested nineteen year old girl, sitting across from a 25 year old, buff, idiotic man. Whatsoever was I to do?

“Are you homosexual?”

Landon looked thoroughly disturbed. “No I’m not homosexual. I like vagina. Lots of vagina!”

“But you seem pretty gay. And trust me, I know a lot of gays.”

If you can’t join ‘em, lower their self-esteem, that’s what I always say.
Needless to say, I gay bashed Landon the rest of our lunch. It was fantastic food, but horrible company. He payed and all of that nonsense, but it wasn’t even worth my spare time.

“Well,” I said as I hopped out of his very large, I-have-a-small-penis jeep. “That was fun, but you know, I have class and stuff.” I gave him a hug, became overwhelmed by his immense amount of cologne, and walked off. “Have fun in the marines, kiddo. SEMPER FI HOORAH!” I punched my fist in the air.

I slunk off, giggling to myself. Sometimes I say the darndest things. I left him standing there, still looking pretty stupid, and still rubbing his burnt ass.

When I eventually made my way back to my room, I hopped on my laptop, seeing if it had somehow repaired itself on its own.  Izzie, Marie, and Rose attacked me with questions about the “date”.

“Guys, he’s a Republican.”

“Oh, so you aren’t going to see him again, are you? Izzie said, looking thoroughly disappointed.

“Not if my life depended on it.” I sighed. “I wonder what kind of weird guy is going to make his way into my life next?”

It was then that my laptop made an awful cracking noise, and a blue screen appeared, telling me there was a hard drive error. Tears filled my eyes.

“Well guys,” I picked up my piece of shit computer in a fury. “I’m going to the school’s help desk. I’ll see you later.”

We all look like assholes.

I had never gone to the gynecologist before.(What did you think this episode was about, sicko?!) And, in all honesty, I had never had a problem with any visit to the doctors. However, the prospect of laying back and allowing a person I didn’t know scope out my nether regions was the most nerve wracking thing I could ever imagine.

So, obviously, I asked Christine to come with me.

My mother had left me a note (our only form of communication when I was home) that read “Make sure you tell the doctor everything.” I went through the list of “everythings” a gynecologist would want to know. I decided that I wasn’t saying anything.

I had dressed far too nicely for the occasion. Part of me felt the need to look presentable, as if I had to impress these vagina people. So, I literally went to the gyno in the nicest outfit I could scrounge up, just so they would not immediately judge me and my, you know.

I picked up Christine, after taking about a half hour to cross town. My heart was pounding like a hooker in the Great Depression, and I could not concentrate on anything else. Christine hopped non-nonchalantly in the car with me.

“Why are you all dressed up?”

“I-I wanted to make a good impression.”

Christine looked at me as if she had never seen me before in my entire life.

“You’re shitting yourself right now, aren’t you?”

***

The office was barren. The white floors echoed with a hostility unbeknown to anyone but me. Christine pointed out the wall next to me. It was covered with pictures of tired looking women holding new born babies.

“Let’s hope you aren’t one of them any time soon.” Christine murmured and buried her head in a parenting magazine.

The vomit was slowly rising to my throat.

“Marissa Miller!”

Christine looked at me over the top of the magazine. I looked at her. Tears filled my eyes. A smile filled hers.

“Good luck!” She giggled.

It was as if I was walking to my own execution.

They weighed me ( I don’t want to talk about it.) and sat me down in a blue room. The nurse took my blood pressure and looked at me in a concerned type of way.  She handed me a blue robe.

“Take everything off and put this on, ties in the front.” She said stoically.

“Everything?” I was taken aback.

“Everything.”

“But you mean, everything?“

“You have to be completely nude.”

“So,” I started pathetically. “can I keep my socks on?”

***

I sat on the table, clinging tightly to the sides of the hospital gown. It was cold in the room. I was debating running away. My heart still beating out of my chest. The stirrups sat looming in front of me, mocking me. This was like something out of a horror film, or a badly done porno. I couldn’t decide which was which.

However, before I could even think of a potential title for said porno, the gynecologist, or whatever she was, came barging into the room. She was short, old, but friendly looking. I couldn’t help but think that she looked like one of the nuns I had in grade school.

“Nervous, kiddo?” She asked, smiling.

“Ah-ha ha ha.”

This was the strangest phenomenon I had ever experienced. I wanted to say so many things; clever things, vagina jokes, sex jokes, whatever. But, despite my attempts, nothing came out of my mouth but laughter. Wild, uncontrollable laughter.

This is how the examination ensued:

“OK, now lay back, I’m going to check your boobies.”

What I thought: “Did she just say boobies? Is that professional? Oh my god, she’s touching me. RAPE!”

What I actually said : “Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Now put your legs in the stirrups, giggles.”

What I thought: *Jaws theme music*

What I said: “Hehehehehehe!”

“And I’m just going to use a little lubricant…”

What I thought: “OH MY GOD! CHRISTINE! HELP! GET ME OUT GET ME OUT!”

What I said: “Oh, ha ha, take me out to dinner first!”

She looked up at me, with a blank stare. She didn’t really smile. I was mortified. The first fucking words I could get out of my mouth, and what did I say? “Take me out to dinner first.” Good first impression.

“Now just relax.”

What I thought: ” I wonder if anyone gets aroused from this. This must be a gross jo- OH MY GOD. WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN?”

What I said: “HA HA HA HA HA HA!!”

“And we’re done, sweetie. You survived your first pap smear. But I’m just going to ask you to get changed and wait here. Your blood pressure was off the charts when they checked you. Maybe it was just bad timing, but we can’t let you leave.”

Cue Jaws Music.

***

So they eventually gave me my birth control and let me leave; blaming my high blood pressure on severe “White Coat Syndrome”. One of the nurses recognized me from seeing me sing somewhere. I ran out of the room faster than lighting.

Christine was still sitting in the waiting room, reading another parenting magazine.

“All done?” She said, as if I were a small child.

I stared blankly ahead.

“She raped me Christine.“I held my paper with the number for test results in my trembling hand. She took it from me and handed me my keys.

“Well good, at least you got some action today.”

We all look like assholes.

I am not one of those women.

In fact, I’m under the distinct impression that not many of those women exist at all. Women are constantly in competition with each other, it’s true. But in the real world, most women cannot ‘eat whatever they want’. We have to near starve ourselves for the perfect standards set by men.

Jesus, you are so smart.

“-and I just don’t understand why he had to make things so awkward when I slept over your house at Christmas.” Christine had been talking about this for nearly ten minutes, but I was too caught up in my Marxian- feminist agenda to care.  We were sitting in her room, after having exhausted ourselves at the gym for about an hour and a half. Neither of us were the type of women who could eat what we wanted and be 110 pounds. Christine was a bit more dedicated to the idea of weight loss than I was; she was also apparently just as dedicated to finding out the minute details concerning her recent “breakup” of sorts with Dan.

“Why are you so worried about it?”

“…I’m not..”

“Oh, ok, so then can we stop talking about the lavish affair between you and my brother? It’s gross.”

Christine rolled her eyes and looked at me expectantly, as if saying If I can’t talk about that, you better damn well have something good to talk about.

“Listen, I don’t have any old guy problems to cry abo-”
That was a lie.

“How is Old Neil? Still asking you out after English class?”

I hated her. Neil, the thirty something from my English class, had been almost incessant about taking me out. We hardly talked, yet he claimed to think we were “made for each other”. My typical response was “Fuck off.”

He usually only heard the word “fuck.”

“He won’t leave me alone. He’s old and vegan and I’ve told him I’m not intere-

“He isn’t old.” Christine interjected.

“Just because you banged a 28-year-old doesn’t mean-”

” I didn’t bang him.”

“I’m sorry, just because you engaged in heavy petting with a 28-year-old does not mean that I would also enjoy the same.”

For once in her life, Christine was speechless.

“I hate men.” She murmured.

“Me too. I sometimes wonder if it would be easier just to be a lesbian.”

***

Later in the evening, well actually, very early the next morning, Izzie, Marie, and Izzie’s boyfriend John sat around talking heatedly about nothing at all. It was an interesting conversation, as opposed to the usual unintelligible mutterings of my not-too-bright roommates. ( They’re all idiots).

“Rose has been gone a long time” Izzie said, in reference to my third roommate. Rose is probably the hot head of our room. She indulged, more often than I, in great amounts of alcohol at odd times. I had never personally seen the girl drinking in action, but knew I was hoping to avoid any kind of  a glimpse tonight.

“She’s probably out fucking some old guy.” John laughed, looking directly at me.

I stared deadpan at him.

“She asked if you were sleeping here tonight.” Marie said matter- of- factly.

“Where the fuck else would I be sleeping?”

“I have no idea.She’s been acting very strange lately.”

“Whatever.” I said. I usually didn’t listen to Izzie or Marie when they spoke. Mostly they said a lot of stupid at a very fast rate. My brain never functioned in that way. “I’m going to bed. It’s like two in the morning and I need sleep. Rose just better keep her drunk self quiet. Goodnight guys.”

***

That night had passed in an almost still stream of nothingness, despite one odd dream that I had. In my dream, Rose had drunkenly stumbled in the room, incessantly shh-ing someone and giggling. There was, however, another giggle; more of a feminine guffaw, really. The pitter patter of their drunken footsteps combined almost rhythmically with their slurred speech. I heard the clinking of jars, lots of “oopses” and “shhh”.
And then silence. The silence was almost an omnipresent character itself in the cast of my dream. I could make out the visage of the other person in the room, a stocky, blonde girl with an uncharacteristically  low voice. I had never seen her before. Even in my dream state, I knew that it was odd to ever see a person in my dream who I had never seen before in real life. My Freudian-obsessed mind was thoroughly confused, about as thoroughly confused as could be in an unconscious state.

“I know we aren’t lesbians,” The strange girl whispered. “But let’s take our bras off.”

“Okay” Rose giggled. The last noise to be heard was clothing hitting the floor.

***

“Unnf.”  I rolled over to face the window from my top bunk. It was dreary and my ass hurt. At least my gym time had been somewhat successful. Five billion ideas raced through my mind, mostly the idea of being forever alone; one of my usual early morning thoughts. I then questioned why I even cared about men, and finally realized this was far too existential for eleven in the morning.  Walking down the ladder, I hardly noticed anything around me. I made my way to the bathroom and stepped in an odd gooey something.

“Whathefu?” I whispered to myself. Looking down at the floor, I was met with a most unusual sight. Jelly, and I’m talking grape jelly, was intermittently slopped across the floor, now stuck to the bottom of my foot.

“This is fucking gross.” I muttered. “I’m going to kill her-”

What met my eyes next was the most goddamn unnerving moment of my life so far living with a roommate. Rose was curled up in her bottom bunk, mouth agape, drooling, This was normal. In fact, even the jelly wasn’t that big of a deal. It was the half naked, blonde, stocky girl curled up next to her that struck me as a bit odd. The worst part was, the only way my mind was functioning was by repeating the same phrase over and over.

“Rose+butch girl+jelly =?

I guess women can eat whatever they want.”

We all look like assholes.

***

The (sort of) dress that I had thrown on with tights made me feel inevitably sassy, even with my unkempt hair and look of indifference. I observed myself from the back, front, and then…the side. The fabric was drooping pathetically in the chesticle region.

The sassiness dissipated.

I’m an A cup. Literally “A”, not “AA”, just A. For most of my pubescent years, I had shopped for bras in the child section. (Why in god’s name young children were wearing bras was beyond me.) This was another reason I hated being anywhere with me family. I lived in a familial world of D cups and (in the case of my Blonde Bimbo Aunt Mimi, fake DD cups.) I however, missed that genetic bus.

Whatever.

I walked downstairs and was immediately met with my mother’s raucous disapproval and the overwhelming smell of cooked onions. Thanksgiving, really.

“Isn’t that dress a little short?”

“I have tights on, Mom.”

“Still.”

“Mom, the only thing I have going for me is my butt. “

“You’re right. Take this out to the car.”

Tom snorted from the living room. “YOU’RE A DUDE!” He yelled, ever the eloquent speaker.

It was then that the dormant chime of the doorbell went off. Christine had arrived.

I opened the door to what would clearly be the downfall of my confidence, my partial view of Christine,  as well as Dan’s balls. Christine was dressed (well, she had partial clothing on.) in a short skirt and a low-cut shirt that did far too much justice for her chest region.

“Hi!” She said. “My mom told me I looked like a whore so I need to come get a cardigan.” (Did you notice my lack of commas? That is what it sounded like.) My own mother chuckled from the kitchen. Christine clicked (in her six-inch heels) through the hall and into the kitchen where my cardigan was for her. I nearly through it at her, mostly because she looked so goddamn cold.

“Hi Mom! Where are my brothers?” Christine giggled, and then started laughing so over abundantly that I was vaguely frightened.

“Well Zach is in the room playing video games. and DJ (at the mention of DJ, Christine started adjusting her boobs.) is upstairs doing something, let me call him do-

“NO!” I yelled, sending them both into a state of shock. Christine was previously looking manically and hadn’t even attempted to put the cardigan on.

I knew what she was trying to do. I got up from my chair.

“Well Christine,” I said, pushing her towards the door. “We have to go to Aunt Lily’s and you have to go see Momom. Bye!” Before I shut the door on her, she smiled.

“I know what you’re doing and it’s gross.” I groaned.

Christine giggled.

This is when I became uncomfortable.

***

Thanksgiving was uneventful. My family didn’t like seeing me very much, since they believed I should stay at college and never come home. In fact, when I walked in, my Aunt Lily smothered a fake, half-ass kiss on my cheek and exclaimed “Girl, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in school? Why are you home? Don’t you have friends?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, Aunt Lily. I don’t have a choice.”

(“Fuck you fucking prick. Fuck fuck fuck.” Went my brain.)

I was also given no wine, as the previous Christmas I had imbibed a bit too much. Coincidentally I was seated right across from Joan, who made snide remarks about eating carbs as I piled mashed potatoes on my plate. The obviously taught her to eat differently in the anorexia ward. She also insisted on being a psychopath and taking pictures of me only to mention that she was only “testing her camera on me and they would be deleted right away.” Stupid whore.

And that was my Thanksgiving, in a fucked up nut shell.

***

It was after Thanksgiving that was certainly most memorable, and not for a particularly good reason.

I was sitting on the couch with my mother, watching something pointless on television, when my dad stumbled drunkenly through the door. He walked into the room where my mom and I were. He gave my mother money for no apparent reason. He handed me a $20 bill. “I’m sorry for the other night.” He said, insincerely.

“Thats cool. Give your money to someone who cares.”

He paused, clearly unable to think of any sort of way to comprehend why anyone would refuse money.

“Well fine.” He said calmly, and then the storm ensued.

Mostly my father said “Fuck” a lot, and mentioned how I was “A piece of shit and that I should leave and never come back.”

A bit repetitive, really.

I went into animal mode as adrenaline pumped through my veins. I felt that my heart was going to burst out of my chest. My mother, on the other hand, sat there an did nothing.

“See, people actually like me in this house. You are useless and immature. If I moved out, they would care. And really, no one would care much if you left forever.”

I walked somewhat calmly up to my room and did that human expression of emotions that I pretend I never do, so I won’t mention it. I called Ron who talked me to a calm state and kept me from stabbing my father to death. My breathing returned to a normal pace, and I hung up the phone with Ron, half wanting to just leave and sleep at Christine’s house. Until I received a message on facebook, one which left me in a state of happiness and would continue to influence my emotions even until today, writing this.

I smiled, snot running out of my nose.

We all look like assholes.