The Over-Educated Nympho

I pulled up in the empty parking lot by Sweetie Pie’s apartment. I called her, “hey I’ve got it. Come down. I’m in a hurry.” While I waited I took the bottle of pills out of my purse and poured it into an empty sandwich baggie.

When I looked up I saw Sweetie Pie walking toward me with a big shit-eating grin on her face. I leaned over to unlock the passenger door but instead she came up to my window. I rolled it down and held up the bag of little blue capsules. Her eyes grew huge.

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I found a list of famous people with ADD/ADHD. It made me feel a lot better. A lot of them did poorly in school (which makes me feel better about my disappointing SAT scores that my mother won’t let me forget about). Many of them are creatives: actors, writers, composers, artists, comedians, inventors.

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For the past couple weeks I’ve been trying out Ritalin for my ADHD. Until today I had noticed no change whatsoever. I considered looking up the number on the pill to make sure the pharmacist hadn’t given me anti-diarrheals and pocketed my precious controlled substance for herself.

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I saw Dr. $300 a couple weeks ago for my A.D.D. He briefly thought I was bipolar (I told him he was wrong, and nearly burst into tears), then he decided that I have 1) an excitable do-or-be-damned personality and 2) A.D.H.D, which is the hyperactive version of ADD. It means I can’t sit still, especially if I’m bored. I always thought the fidgeting, shaking leg, twirling in my desk chair, and dancing feet under my desk were normal. Most of my family is the same way, of course I thought it was normal, asshole. Give me my money back.

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Who knew having casual sex would be so good for my stats? Shiiit. Yesterday I had a new record–1152 hits in one day (cough cough PERVERTS), and judging from the hourly charts it will be even higher today [it was: 1298 hits]. Does this mean I can legitimately say that having sex is good for my writing career? Can I write off lube as a business expense?

So you like the super sexy posts, eh? And all this time I thought you loved me for my brain. HA. All of you would probably stone me if I posted anything else before finishing the Sugar-Coated Sex series, wouldn’t you? But I have good news and I want to write about it!! I GOT RITALIN!! I WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY FUCKING RITALIN!

Oouf. Okay, that was The Pussy. She kicked me from the inside. Fiiiiine I’ll talk about the dirty whore sex. Check back later tonight.

[Oh I feel I should mention that, um, in all seriousness–people with A.D.D. have a hard time finishing things they start. Heh. heh… HEY STOP THROWING SHIT AT ME.]

Jeez, horny people are so mean.

I know all you pervy readers want the dirty details of last night, but I can’t make any promises–I’m home for an hour to eat and re-Vixenize before going back to the office to get stuff ready for a huge meeting on Friday.

In addition to getting laid last night (BOOYAH MOTHAFUCKAS), there is much to spill about all those other things in my life now that the quest for cock (cockquest? anyone think that’s as funny as me? no? okay then, suck it) has calmed The Pussy down. In other words, there are things haunting my mind that are distracting from the post-sex glow of triumph.

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Last night a bunch of the people at my office went to an industry lecture. During the reception I was shooting the shit with a couple coworkers. I wasn’t completely paying attention, so when Shitfuck Coworker asked me an industry question, I gave him an answer the likes of “seven” when the appropriate response would have been something more along the lines of “garlic chicken.” I do this a lot. Most people chuckle and that’s the extent of drawing attention to my dumbassery.

Not Shitfuck. He smirked and then proceeded to say, “So, you went to a smart people college, right? There are many very brilliant people who come out of that program, right? I mean, absolutely brilliant, and yet…” and he snickered at me.

I’m friends with the other two coworkers who were present at this conversation, and at this point I saw them exchange looks and then draw back in fear. They know I can go from normal to UFC in two seconds.

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I admit it. I’m messy. I’m a pack rat. My place looks like the worst of bachelor pads, and I’m a fucking chick.

Just a tittily bit embarassing. Although in proper bachelor fashion, most of the time I don’t give a fuck. I’d rather spend my time reading or writing, not doing dishes.

The only thing that can make me really clean my apartment properly? The chance of getting laid. (Are all of you keeping your kegels crossed for me? Here’s hoping that the guy at Barbie’s party comes through tomorrow night.) Again, in total bachelor fashion.

The last time I was single there were many a time when I only cleaned my apartment right before a date or a hook-up. By “cleaned,” what I really mean is: hide dirty dishes inside oven, shove dirty clothes under bed, vacuum just enough to get the little lines in the carpet, rinse out wine glasses, and make sure that the only underwear lying around is of the lace variety. Oh, and that there was beer in the fridge. But by “beer in the fridge” what I usually meant was “good scotch in the pantry.” (Last time I was single I really hated my job and that’s when my alcohol tolerance began to improve/worsen dramatically.)

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I’m still seriously considering the idea of a tattoo.

I still like the idea of QUOD ME NUTRIT ME DESTRUIT as a tattoo, but I’m going to change it up a little to make it more mine. The translation from the Latin is “what nourishes me destroys me” and is a bit negative and would just be enabling me to feel sorry for myself for having depression/ADD and being hyper-sexual. Which is not the way to go at all. I’m trying to remind myself that being a nympho is a GOOD thing, an AWESOME thing, that having depression makes me a stronger and more introspective person, that ADD makes me creative as hell and good at multi-tasking. But as you can see, some days those things just make me want to self-medicate into a forgiving numbness.

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Yesterday was my last day at my job. I saw my therapist Dr. Fixer Upper the day before that. They go hand in hand well. Work makes me sad. Dr Fixer Upper makes me happy. Even though I’m quitting the job I hate, it still got to me. It still broke my spirit. And so I thought it would the perfect time to see my therapist.

That, and I needed more Happy Pills. Before my current insurance got caught off.

Between having chronic depression and ADD and some really bad bouts of anxiety where I almost made myself puke, I’ve tried tons of medications over the years. I can cluck off the names of anti-depressants like a child can name Santa’s reindeer. Prozac, Paxil, Zoloft, Perexa, Celexa, Lexapro, Wellbutrin, Effexor, Serzone. I’ve tried nearly every single one of them. Actually, no. As of this week I HAVE tried every single one these, because my psychiatrist gave me some new samples to try. Then there’s the ADD meds, which I’ve had much less success with. I’m still looking for The One that will complete me. I know it’s out there, I just haven’t found it yet.

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I’m terribly sorry I didn’t write yesterday, my first day back home. And I’ve started about six posts today, but none of them were funny, witty, enlightening, or even remotely amusing. I think I forgot my sense of humor abroad.

Besides the general unfunniness, I’ve been wallowing in self-pity over my depression, possible ADD, and other faults obstructing my life from going anywhere. So while in such a mood, I will keep the pity party to myself and report back tomorrow with hopefully anything besides the crap I threw up in my mouth today.

Mom just called. Phew, she’s in a good mood. Thank holy fucking god, mama’s in a good mood. She was calling to ask if she should get ice cream while she’s at the store (duh, mother, YES). I’m so relieved she’s in a good mood. Mom can be absolutely hysterical is she’s in a good mood and/or drunk. I’m incredibly relieved. So we’ll actually have fun tonight and there won’t be any passive-aggressive snarking going on.

But here’s the good stuff from the phone conversation:

Mom: Did you see Dr. Phil yesterday?
Me: No.
Mom: Well luckily I have it on TiVo, so we’ll watch it when you get here. It was really good.
Me: Why?
Mom: He talked about the real reason you may be depressed.
Me: Oh goodie…
Mom: So it’s another genetic disorder you got from me
Me: Well, shit. You know mom, the intelligence isn’t compensating any more. Now you’re just in the red.
Mom: What? The depression isn’t THAT bad.
Me: I was talking about my bad knee, that huge operation six years ago that wasted a whole summer? That surgery with all the pins and things on my x-ray?….
Mom: Oh shit, I forgot about that. Well now I feel bad! It’s my fault, those are all my bad genes!
Me: Mom, it’s ok, really, I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad
Mom: I know, but you got all those bad genes from me! The bad knee, the depression, and now this… and your intelligence isn’t making up for it any more, is it?
Me: No, I think you max-ed that out with the knee surgery
Mom: well shit. Ice cream?
Me: Ice cream helps
Mom: So Dr. Phil. I’m going to go buy a book he recommended on this.
Me: Will you spare me the suspense and just tell me what’s wrong with me now?
Mom: Undiagnosed A.D.D.
Me: Hmm. BF does accuse me of that all the time. I just tell him he’s too boring to keep my attention, but it could be ADD.
Mom: I think it is. Your father accuses me of it all the time.
Me: I know, so have I. So we have it?
Mom: yes, apparently the two key symptoms of undiagnosed ADD in women is anxiety and depression, both of which you have, and the anxiety is especially bizarre because you’re not in school and you’re not working and you’re still just as stressed out as always.
Me: Hmm, that’s true… ADD isn’t really out there as a possibility… and we do have bad genes
Mom: I’m so sorry about more bad genes honey. They’re all my bad genes.
Me: But Dad gave me the creepy toenails.
Mom: Ew, you DO have weird toenails.
Me: Very weird. So you and Dad are even. Although it still doesn’t make up for all the damn pills I have to take.
Mom: What if I let you eat ice cream for dinner?
Me: And strawberry daiquiris?
Mom: Would that make you feel better?
Me: Absolutely. But BLUE BELL, Ma, none of that generic ice cream crap.
Mom: Sure sweetie. I’ll see you in a few hours.
Me: Ice cream and Dr. Phil, it’s a date. Bye Mom

Aren’t we sweet? Oddly enough, yet another genetic dysfunction makes me feel closer to my mother. Awwww.