Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Sunday, May. 04, 2003 - 5:56 p.m.

So, my last entry was #100, making this one 101, one of which is surely a Diaryland landmark, though which it is, I'm not sure. You'd think 100 would be, since that's a nice round number, but it seems to be de rigueur here in the Dland universe to post the ubiquitous "101 Things About Me" list with entry 101. However, I sorta blew that way back around entry 25 or so, so that's clearly no way to celebrate my 101st entry. And 100 was a really bland thing about the new X-Men movie, because I didn't want to spoil it for anyone and was really kinda bored having tied my hands with that decision, so really, aside from marking me a geek, the entry did little other than to say "Go, X-Men."

I should stress I have never read an X-Men comic. I am not that geeky.

Bygones.

Coupled with the fact that I seem to have blown the big 100/101 thing already, I am PMS'g with a vengeance, and my life is exceedingly boring at the moment. Nobody wants to hear about the struggles of a starving landscape design student this [] far away from certification, especially if the starving part is just thrown in for melodramatic tension. Which it would be, because so far, I am able to feed myself just fine. And TB makes sure I am not living in a cardboard box or begging for spare change down at the bottom of the eastbound Van Nuys exit off the 101...oo; serendipity: entry 101 and the 101 freeway, both in the same entry. Clearly, things are getting more exciting already.

The men among you are lucky to be men, btw. There are few things in life more incessantly and pervasively uncomfortable than having a 10 pound bowling ball lodged in your small intestine for 3 to 7 days every month, accompanied by a not-so-vauge feeling of ooziness, and a raging hormonal imbalance. And don't you dare launch into some woe-is-me story about the prostate and how, after you as man reach the age of 50 or whatever, you have to go in for that terrible prostate exam once a freaking year. So trust me, it does not compare with having to go in every six months of your entire adult life to splay yourself out on a table - with your butt hanging just so off the edge - while someone shoves either a nice cold metal clamp or a pinching plastic one up into your nether regions and then shines a flashlight up in there to look around, then takes an extremely rigid and pokey brush and scrapes the surface skin away from an area NOT MEANT to have sharp, pokey bristly things shoved into it, all the time telling you to "relax." YOU relax, toots, I am the one undergoing the massive humiliation and violation of my privacy right now. I do not for the life of me understand how women go to male gynecologists. There is no way in hell I am EVER volunteering for that little adventure, and you can write that down in your book right now. And you do all this from the age of 17 or so, right through the part where you stop having your period, at which point you get the additional fun and joy of menopause. Hot flashes, night sweats, raging hormones from the bowels of hell that take over your heretofore peaceful existence, so that you want to tear into tiny little pieces the person sitting in the car next to yours in traffic for breathing too loudly, because now you have superhuman senses, and they're all overloaded with the most annoying sensations EVER. All while still having to go in twice a year to get poked and pinched and splayed to make sure you don't have cervical or ovarian cancer, even though you don't need your damn cervix OR ovaries anymore. Yeah. You and your whiny little prostate exam. Shut the hell up.

Bygones.

I didn't even bring up breast exams.

Peace out,
Katie

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