Pharmacy Question

This past Sunday I worked for the first time at a pharmacy down the block from my apartment. It was kind of exciting because it was at a pharmacy that my Father has worked at on-and-off as far back as I can remember in the town that I was raised in. It was also not very exciting because it was 9am Sunday morning and I had to work my “real” job the very next day. Low and behold, it was quick easy money, and I didn’t have jack shit planned to do anyways.

I get there 5 minutes early and the 21-year-old kid that will be my technician for the day greets me in the parking lot. He’s a nice Italian guy who I’ve previously met, and I know that he will basically run the entire store while I stand in the background, check to make sure he’s typed the right instructions and picked the right drugs all while trying to look semi-intelligent. He doesn’t know it, but he’s my hero for the day. On top of that, to the unintelligent customer, he looks older than I am. Oh well.

So we walk into the pharmacy, and he turns on the lights, computers and all that. I put my jacket down and try to pick the junk out of my eyes. The phone rings for the first time and it’s a doctor calling a prescription for Plan B, otherwise known as the morning after pill, for a local customer. I’ve taken calls similar to this at several different pharmacies, and it’s always resulted in a nervous woman rushing in shortly afterwards. “Great”, I think to myself. Mind you it’s 9:10am.

At about 9:20, the woman walks in. Not a bad looking broad, but a bit older for my taste. She hastily walks up to the counter and asks, “Can I speak to the pharmacist?” I walk up to the counter, and I’m not a mind reader, but her facial expression basically read, “Fuuuck!!” like she just stepped in a pile of shit on an otherwise perfectly clean sidewalk. Yeah, I look like an 18-year-old Chinese kid to some people, but I figure the glasses should make the customer think that I’ve at least read a book or two in the past.

“Can I help you?” I ask her. When she realizes that I’m not kidding, she takes a deep breath and gives me the details. And boy did she.

“Exactly how effective is this pill?” she asks me, hoping that I’m going to say “100%”. She thinks it’s 80%. I tell her, “I’m pretty sure it’s higher than that, but why don’t you tell me what happened so I can get a better read on it”. She explains that she’s not regularly active, but last night she was gettin’ freaky deaky with this dude and the condom slipped. She gives further details. “It wasn’t full on ejaculation, it was just you know, pre-cum.” (“Eww” I thought to myself) “But it was a lot of pre-cum” she continues. (“Double Eww” I thought to myself) “He wasn’t that big down there”. (“Damn, talk about a bad night” I then thought)

“Ok, well. . . pre-cum isn’t bad because it doesn’t have as much sperm in it as regular ejaculation, so that’s a good thing” I answered her.

“Yeah, but it was a lot, and this guy is FERTILE” she responds, punctuating the Fertile part with a pump of her fist. (Damn, I didn't even drink any coffee yet!)

“What do you mean by that?” I ask not really wanting an answer.

“Well he’s done this before, and gotten people pregnant”. She tells me. Ok, now I’m thinking, “how the hell do you know this?” and more importantly, “if you know this, why the hell you fucking this guy?!?!” I was hoping my facial expression didn’t reveal my inner questioning, but I think it did.

She then asks, “Well I’m 38. If I am pregnant, and I get an abortion, do you think that will ruin my chances of having kids in the future?” As she finishes her question, her eyes begin to water. (“Fuuuuuck” I think to myself). She asks for a cup of water and I get the technician to get her one.

I tried to be reassuring, and supportive while sticking to the facts. I tell her that 38 isn’t the optimal age to have a kid, and having an abortion isn’t the healthiest thing to do to your poon-tang organs, but as long as you take care of yourself, you still have a fighting chance to raise some normal kids. I also tell her that taking the pill within 24 hours of the slip-up makes it approximately 94 percent effective. Right after I tell her this, she slams the pill back with the cup of water like tequila during spring break.

“Well there you go”. She gave me a smile. I assured her that she was doing as much as possible, and that there was no use in worrying because whatever’s gonna happen will happen anyways, or something positive like that. I can tell she felt better leaving the pharmacy than when she walked in and it’s kind of crazy to think that I played a part in that. However, if she does wind up with a bun in the oven, I’m sure she’s gonna be screaming, “Damn that Chinese kid!!”

It just blows me away that when put in certain situations, people will put a ton of trust into someone that they would think is a stupid kid if they just walked past them on the street. Funny how all of the sudden, when you have too much to drink the night before, and fuck around with Mr. Fertile Pre-Cum man and the condom slips, and you see me behind the counter early Sunday morning, you’re magically at my mercy!! I shoulda been like, “Yeah! What now bitch?!?! Take that!!!” Ah, but I digress. . . on to the next post.

Ode to Summer's Eve

I remember quite distinctly having to work so many hours in a Rite-Aid pharmacy deep in the ghetto of West Philly where I would be bombarded with people yelling at me to get every medication possible for free through well fare. There were very few things funny enough to get me through the day. Among them were counting how many times the front end of the store would get held up, the patients getting Valtrex for their herpes, dudes nonchalantly buying condoms, the hot chicks who would pick up their birth control pills, and of course the women who would ultra secretively throw a Summer’s Eve underneath their deodorant, newspaper and pack of M&M’s at the register. Depending on what mood I was in, I would have some fun while ringing up these particular ladies. If I felt like being an asshole, I would ask for a price check over the loud speaker or punch in the price on the register while holding my nose (just kidding, I swear!!)

Oh Summer’s Eve. Has there ever been a product, or anything in general for that matter, as synonymously linked with foul smelling vagina then thou? I mean seriously. Do you really think that the females that use this stuff, do it because they think it smells good, or because it’s a great moisturizer?

I know it’s sooo childish, but it is a little bit funny. I mean, no one can expect a part of a human body that stays warm and moist most of the time, and collects a mini portion of blood that will sit over a span of a month to smell like fresh laundry. It’s not going to smell fantastic, but then again, I know that it is possible for it to smell like garbage on a New York City Street during the summer. How do I know this? NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!! My point is that if you require the use of Summer’s Eve, you’re either very anal, and trying to prevent the impossible to avoid, or you just have a wildebeest of funk living between your legs.

This all brings me to a particular story that took place while I was in pharmacy school in Philly. I was living with my girlfriend at the time along with two of her girl friends (please spare me the Jack Tripper jokes). It was a three bedroom apartment, and there was only one bathroom. At first I thought it was a bit awkward at first, with all the different make-up, hair products and maxi pads taking up the shelves in the bathroom, but I got over it. That is until I noticed something different in the shower one faitful afternoon. There it was, standing right next to my Pert Plus bottle on the shower ledge. I remember it quite distinctly. White bottle, and a light purple top. Summer’s Eve ‘feminine wash’. “Ewwww” I thought to myself out loud. I knew for sure it didn’t belong to my girlfriend. I immediately began to think of which one of my other two female roommates was the owner. I convinced myself it was a girl named Jin, who just happened to be my friend Gary’s girlfriend (and future wife). Since no one was in the apartment at that time, I decided to park this little instance into the back of my mind for future reference.

I think it was two days later, after getting high as hell in my bedroom. I came out to see my girlfriend and the other roommate, Lillian talking and watching TV in the living room. I sat down on the couch next to them and began to zone out. I then remembered the mysterious feminine wash in the bathroom and became amazingly eager to share my discovery with the girls. I don’t remember exactly how I brought it to their attention, but I think it was something like, “Oh My God!! Oh My God!! Guess What!! Jin got a stinky coochie! Jin gotta funky poonani!!! Damn!! My boy Gary is going out with a dirty girl!!!!” (yes, very mature I know). The girls tried desperately to calm me down then they asked me how I knew that she did in fact have a “stinky coochie”. I then gracefully pulled the two girls off the couch and into the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain and loudly screamed, “Boo yah!!” as I pointed to the coochie disinfectant labeled as Summer’s Eve. (Mind you, I’m still pretty high at this point). My girlfriend had a slight grin on her face, but more of a look of disbelief. Lillian on the other hand just kind of looked at the floor, which didn’t make much sense to me at the time. “Isn’t that crazy?” I asked.

“Well,” Lillian slowly muttered. “It’s not Jin’s” she said as her face slowly turned redder. It took a couple of seconds for me to comprehend this, but she made it completely clear when she answered, “its mine”.

“DAMN!!” is all I could think to myself as my face turned bright red, and my stomach felt like I just swallowed a bowling ball. I looked over to my girlfriend, and she gave me this furious look like smoke was going to come out of her ears. I immediately switched to excuse mode. “Um, yeah, that’s cool Lil. I always see people buy this stuff at the pharmacy. You know, it actually smells pretty good!” I stuttered trying desperately to pull my foot out of my mouth. “Ok, I’m going to go take a nap now”. I said really fast as I walked quickly back to my room and jumped in my bed and pulled my pillow over my head. A few minutes later, my girlfriend followed me into the bedroom and gave me a serious tongue lashing, and I was on her shit list for almost a week. Yes, just another instance where my big mouth got my ass in big trouble.

Pee Pee On The Floor

In order to keep a semi-healthy body, I drink a lot of water at work. This almost always results in me having to hit up the mens room several times in a work day. I usually like to take the urinal in the corner because there's a wall to the left of it which leaves only one side that I have to protect my Johnson from people who go to the bathroom looking for the truth to the “Asian-guy-Penis myth”. (This myth is actually true for half of us, sadly to say. But, mother nature is a fair lady, so she has blessed the other half of us appropriately. I won’t say which half I fall into though).

Anyways, about 2 months ago, I went to the bathroom as usual and was about to pull down the zipper of relief until I spotted a nice puddle of piss in front of the urinal. I thought to myself, “Damn old men that I work with. They should really run to the bathroom like 2 minutes earlier just to give them some leeway”, as I moved to the urinal to the right. The next twenty something times that I went to that urinal, I saw the same puddle of urine and I had to think of different excuses for the guy(s) who keeps peeing in front of it. I mean, I know the janitor comes in at the end of every day and mops the floor clean. He must be thinking the same thing that I am. Like, “what, you can’t hold it for like 10 more seconds?” or “is your aim that bad? It’s not like there’s a freakin’ goalie in front of the damn urinal!” or “stop thinking about work for 30 seconds and pee IN the damn urinal, not in between your feet”.

I personally think that the guy(s) that does this all the time just thinks that he was born with king-kong’s dick and has to stand back like an extra foot so the tip doesn’t touch the back of the urinal wall.

Well, I’d like to be the first to give him the rude awakening. YOU’RE NOT FEAKIN’ KING KONG MAN!!!! That imaginary extra 6 inches that you think you’re packing, is exactly that. IMAGINARY!! Walk up to the damn urinal and drop your load into it! You’re not 2, and your not 92! You’re a big boy that should be able to get it in. It’s not like you’re standing at the free-throw line at the NBA finals with thousands of angry fans screaming for you to miss. It’s a simple calculation that you should have been mastered years ago. If my Prada shoes step into another puddle o’pee pee in front of that damn urinal, I’m going to either paint a damn bulls-eye on the urinal cake, or install a mini camera in front of it, and hunt down the fucker myself!!!

Thank you for letting me to get that off my chest.

Officially a Fuck-Up

So the stunningly attractive girl that I was seeing read my entry the other day and had this to respond:

Would that make you feel special to know that he even knows he hasn’t bothered to go all out for you. In 5 months you would think that something spontaneous or special would happen. Sometimes its my fault because I am just ok with to many things. Now I feel like I have more choices, choices that will go out of their way for me. Like this weekend math guy is taking me to see Madama Butterfly since he says our first date was a crappy movie. So I am excited and not sure where orchestra premium seating is. He says I should bring a change of clothes since the show is at 1:30pm so we can do something after. It should be really nice on Saturday and I am looking forward to it. I think I was just hurt when last night I got off the phone with math guy and he told me about our plans. He came up with different plans just in case I had already seen madam he was ready to sell the tickets and do something else. I just wasted myself on someone who really wasn’t worth all my effort.

The last line hurts the most, especially since I know about people not worth my effort. This is one of the very few times that I'm on the other end of that statement, and being the sensitive pansy that I am, it hurts like a bitch. I feel sick like I swallowed a multi-vitamin the size of a basketball, and tasted the tablet all the way down. Again, I'm such an idiot for not treating this girl like a queen, and yet it's always the "shoulda, woulda, coulda" that will kick you in the ass. I hope these guys that are taking her out are complete gentelmen, and do make her happy. If they were rude, or crass in anyway, I'd want to beat the living shit out of them, but do I even have a right to feel like that? If I wasn't supposed to drink anymore, I'd go drown myself into a stupor right now. Damn. Well, maybe I'll drink anyways, but I won't drive afterwards this time.

Such a fuck-up am I.

Big Booty Ho

Ok, so I work with a bunch of middle aged women. No, I do not work with the cast from ‘Desperate Housewives’. Think more pre-golden ‘Golden Girls’. (not even that pre-golden). One lady’s name is Fanny. She’s a British lady in her early 40’s. When I first looked at the phone directory and saw her name, I thought, “ha ha, her name is Fanny”.

One day, I had to ask her a work-related question, so I walked over to her desk, and said, “Hi Fanny (pronouncing it just as its spelled). Can I ask you a question?”

She formed a stank-ass look on her face while turning away from me. “My name is Fanny!” (she pronounced it like Bonnie, but with an F instead of the B). Her reaction almost made me forget what I was going to ask her. I’m sure she had a hard time growing up with a name like that, but it’s her momma’s fault that her name sounds like butt cheeks, not mine! I mean, if she wanted to get all fancy with her name, she should have switched it to Derriere (it just sounds fancier). My Moms isn’t very creative, (I share the exact same name as my Father), but at least she isn’t cruel enough to name me Cock and Balls. And on top of all that, she doesn’t even have a nice ass worthy of a name like that! From now on I dub her “pseudo-big booty ho”. Bitch.

Fuck-Up or Good Candidate?

I swear I’m like freakin’ two-face from the Batman comics (yes the one played by Tommy Lee Jones in the movie, and yes, I thought that was a horrible choice of actor). Sometimes, and I’m thinking this is more during my younger years, I think of myself as a good boyfriend/husband candidate. I remember distinctly how my girlfriend in college would always get compliments on her wonderful boyfriend was. “Oh girl you so lucky. John takes such good care of you. You better hold on to that one.” I would hear this on several occasions, which would make my girlfriend smile and squeeze my arm tighter, and make me blush and feel like I’m the man that I planned to be. The guy that finished his doctorate degree, makes a descent salary, listens to his girl, but doesn’t let her run his life. He dresses really nice, and doesn’t hide his emotions, enough for people to think that there’s a 10% chance that he’s gay, but still can kick it with the guys any night of the week and blow you away with his sports knowledge so then those same girls think, “oh yeah, he’s not gay. As matter of fact, if he was my man, he’d be making me hollar the second we got home”. That is who I wanted to be since the age of 16. The person who you can count on to say something that would make you laugh hysterically enough that you make snorting sounds with your nose and pee in your pants. The guy you can call at 3am, when you had the shittiest of shitty days in the month of Shittember, and know that if he doesn’t have the correct answer, he’ll at least listen to you, and give you some assurance that even though things are bad now, they will somehow get better. The guy who doesn’t go out and start fights, but if shit goes down, he’s got your back even though he only weighed 140 pounds at the time, and was wearing glasses. It’s true that at a very young age I set out to be the guy that I would want to date and eventually marry if I was a chick. (If I didn’t throw chick at the end of that sentence, it would have really sounded gay, but it still holds true).

In some ways, I am that man, but now that I’m reaching 30, I look in the mirror and doubt myself. I still say funny things off the top of my head, but yet there have been a ton of shit that flies out of my mouth that is just downright corny, and I know this, and yet I still say them. I have always been pretty smart with my money, which is good even when you make descent money, and yet, I have more clothing than I have shelves, I have video games that have yet to have their security seals broken, and have like 35 pairs of sneakers that have never even been laced up. I have been dating this stunningly attractive girl, who cracks me up, and looks at me with through a pair of eyes that make me feel like I’m worth my weight in platinum, and yet I haven’t put nearly enough effort as I have in the past. “Why” do you ask? I’m embarrassed to say that I have no explanation. Is it because she’s not the same race as me? That may make things more difficult if we decided to get married, but that never stopped me before. Is there something wrong chemistry-wise or are you not sexually attracted to her? I can confidently answer “NO”. But still, I can’t make plans for things for us to do, think of places for us to go, or things for us to try besides spending random free time at my apartment. What is the damn problem? Has my previous psycho relationships left that bad of a taste in my mouth? Am I scared of trying to please someone who will eventually turn psycho and make me want to change my cell # and email address? Yes, but not every girl is a psycho. Am I buckling under the pressure placed on me by my family, my job, the government and myself? Possibly, but I refuse to use that as an excuse. Every person has stress, even white people who ride yachts wearing popped up collars on their polo shirts while sipping crystal. Stress, no matter whether it’s coming from external sources or from that little voice in your head, must be dealt with and dealt with quick. Apparently, I’m a little late in that department, but that only means I have to catch up.

I’m just sick of my current position in life and I think the time to improve is way overdue. I think I must use the “baby steps” approach like in the movie “What about Bob?” because any change too drastic never lasts. I must moderate my drinking, which has caused too many hang- overs, extra inches on my waist, and almost landed me in jail the other night for a DUI. (There are very few things more sobering than flashing police lights while you’re sitting on the curb with a cop looking through your car and checking your record. More on that another time). I must get a new job, one that still pays pretty good, but something that’s more interesting and enjoyable (haha, good luck with that, sucka). I must stop buying sneakers!!! (no matter how dope they are). I must organize my schedule a lot more. (A friend of mine told me that she would not date anyone that didn’t own a planner, and bitched out her ex-boyfriend for not having one. I laughed at her and thought she was an anal psycho, but now I think she may be on to something). I must write more, even if it sucks, even if it doesn’t make sense and it takes up more of my free time. I just have to do it. And I must put more effort into the people who put effort towards me. Yes, it maybe too little too late but I have to try anyways. I just think that there are so many people out there that are willing to take a shit on your shoes before they smile and ask you “how are you doing?” and actually mean it, that you should be emotionally obligated to go out of your way for the people who actually give a damn. Even if I don’t marry that girl, or she decides to never acknowledge my presence on an empty street, she is one of the warmest people that I’ve met. She has endured more pain than you’d wish to experience, and I’m a complete idiot for even coming close to adding to that pain. She at least deserves more than the shitty flowers that I sent to her office using a discount service (Note: DO NOT USE FTD.COM. Trust me).

I must be “that guy” again. That feeling of knowing what you’re doing is right felt so good back in them days. It gave me such confidence every where I went. That confidence is severely lacking right now, and I think it shows in almost everything that I do. What’s done is done, and unless you overdose on drugs, or get hit by a car, you should be able to do something better tomorrow. Or at least try to. I am going to try again. There are no more excuses not to. Maybe if I’m “that guy” again, girls will smell the confidence wreaking from my pores and pay me some attention. Maybe if I’m “that guy” again, their girl friends will give them compliments on being with me too. Only time will tell.

Caught Myself Bitching Again

Today did not start off so hot. Shall we run down the reasons?
1) I had a meeting last night that didn’t allow me to get back to my apartment till 1am.
2) Said meeting was held on the 6th floor of a historic building that only has air conditioning on the 19th floor, and I had to wear a tuxedo (and it wasn’t even my wedding or prom, eww).
3)When I got back, I couldn’t help but check email, ebay, and sports till 2am.
4) Somehow forgot that I sweated my ass off and needed to take a shower still at 2am.
5) Woke up from only sleeping 4.5 hours feeling like a load of shit with two throbbing knees from running like a mad man in central park on Tuesday.
6)Walked to my car then suddenly realized I didn’t move my car yesterday so I got a parking ticket (which should mean $10 down the drain, but for some reason states it’s $25 down the drain).
7) People driving either like reckless idiots or retired old people on I-95 made the commute excruciatingly frustrating.
8) Had to park waaay on the other side of the parking lot because of said commute making me late.
9) Finally reached my cube and turned on my computer and thought, “well at least it’s Friday”, then looked over at my calendar to realize that it’s actually Thursday. (crap!!)

As I held my head in disgust, my cubicle neighbor, this overweight woman who usually tells corny jokes and laughs at the weirdest things mumbled something to me. “What did you say?” I asked her.
“My mother would have been 85 today had she been alive” she answered. “She passed away when she was 69.”
“Oh I see. I’m sorry to hear that.” I muttered feeling like an idiot for making her repeat her statement.
“It’s ok” she answered without the slightest bit of sorrow. “She always said that she didn’t want to outlive her hair or her teeth.” she said with a chuckle. I couldn’t help but laugh with her.
“If I lived by the same policy, I wouldn’t even make it close to 40!” as I pointed to the hair that I had left on my head and numerous fillings in my teeth. She laughed back at me. “I’m sure your mother has nice hair and teeth up in heaven right now.”
“Thank you John” she answered seemingly touched. I then called my Momma and Dad, and told them to drive carefully on their early weekend trip and that I loved them.

I really have to stop bitching so much.

Epistaxis: Never A Good Time

Why do bloody noses always happen at the worst times? I can never understand that shit. Is God really just an angry bitch that wants me to feel guilty for not having a period every month?It’s like there’s a sensor up in my nostrils that detects awkward moments and releases the flood gates when the alarm goes off. The alarm just so happened to go off today, while I was at work, talking to my boss none the less. I was asking a question about a certain report that I was working on, and then I notice my boss focusing more so on my nose then the words coming out of my mouth. “Oh shit, do I got a booger or something?” I thought to myself. “Nah, it’s worse dude” is what my brain should have told me.

My boss answered, “I think your nose is bleeding John”. Damn, and I thought the fluid building over my lips was just clear snot. As I lean my head to look down, I notice a juicy drop of my own blood falling in slow motion towards the important report that I was asking my boss about. With cat like reflexes, and the thought of losing my job if I don’t catch this blood, I stick out my hand and catch it. With equally cat like reflexes, I run out of my boss’ office and yell, “be right back” on the way to the men’s room.

This also happened one day a few months ago in my sleep. I woke up the next morning all groggy as usual and stumble to the bathroom to start the daily ritual of getting ready for work. When I look in the mirror, I screamed like a bitch because it looked like Rocky was looking back at me after Apollo Creed beat the crap out of him. Really sucked too because I had just changed my bed sheets the night before.
I decided to google “causes of bloody noses” today because I was both curious and bored. Here’s a few causes that I found: nose injury and blow to the nose (Duh!), nose picking, (my own personal #1 cause), allergies, nasal cancer, cocaine, dry air, menopause, high blood pressure, watching too much TV, and going to church. (Ok, so maybe I made up the last two). For some reason, I did not see loneliness, losing someone to the dreaded “friendship zone”, or being a retard during my 5-minute research expedition. Although I have no medical evidence to back these causes, I would like to submit them to the World Health Organization anyways