You know what really chafes my ass? Hemorrhoids.
I’m naming this one Artemis. I’d estimate he’s about the size of a semi truck. I know, I know the God was a chick, but it’s my hemorrhoid and I’ll decide what his gender is. And HE is a total dick. Ergo…
Of course, all the over-the-counter stuff used to treat these flaming balls of agony says “Do not use while pregnant.” So I suppose you can add a mark to the cancer column on our “pregnancy vs cancer” comparison chart. At least when I’d get them during chemo, I could turn to pharmaceuticals for help. The only thing I can find at this point is witch hazel.
And here’s an important fact for those of you that lack a vast knowledge of all things witch hazel. No matter how much it might look like rubbing alcohol, smell like rubbing alcohol, taste…no I didn’t try that (wrong kind of alcohol) – they are NOT the same thing.
So one really should never, ever, EVER set them on the same shelf of the poorly lit medicine cabinet and try to apply some while in a hurried, sleep-deprived state.
Because then one might have to explain to her husband (when he rushes in at the sounds of her screaming, “Bring the fire extinguisher!”) why she’s crouched in front of the bathroom sink with her ginormous target panties stretched between her ankles, fanning her crotch with one hand and flinging handfuls of water onto her *ahem* region with the other while muttering, “Now I know why it’s called witch hazel – fuckers.”
Then one might need to spend the next several hours horizontal, limiting any movement to only occasional moans of agony.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
One might instead choose to store the rubbing alcohol in another place entirely – like a basement den of torture, for example. Also, one might not be able to sit in this desk chair any longer. Again, hypothetically speaking. *whimper*