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MedicatedLady: who let the dogs out, bindo?
Bindo: I love dogs and sunshine and butterflies. I welcomed the sun’s light this morning and rejoiced in the sound of birds’ singing.
ML: What? Are you okay?
B: I love puppies!
ML: You’re using exclamations points these days?
B: For the sake of puppies, yes! You have a right pretty Poppy-dog.
ML: Thanks. Are you planning to murder puppies?
ML: Come down from the roof, bindo. You don’t need to do this.
B: Don’t make me do it because I will.
ML: Just calm down.
B: You drove me to it. Fine, here goes, I’ll say it. I’m a reasonable facsimile of happiness.
ML: You disgust me.
A fun excerpt from the life and times, baby.
ML: I was the innocent victim of a wasp sting.
ML: [indecipherable words strung together with inappropriate pauses]
Bryan: Hey, you—
ML: mrph [unimaginable babbling]
B: So, basically, you sound just like Person X when he has neurological reactions to migraines.
ML: How do you feel?
“Unnamed Person”: Much better. I was a human geyser. But I’m looking damn good today in my skinny jeans and white belt.
ML: Is it called a human flute? Flue? A slat? [the word ML was looking for was “funnel”]
B: [indecipherable response as ML tries to think clearly]
B: Girl?
B: Call me if you need an am-bu-lance. It too expensive to actually call the am-bu-lance.
ML: meep
B: [pretends to understand and obviously didn’t hear ML]
ML: Stoppit
B: Cheerio, chappie
ML: I will have to execute a name change on new doggie if I get her. Obviously, I like maggie but she looks just like an Emma to me, too. Or Emmie. What is your reaction to having it be a fatty cyst?
B: Please I ain’t Karen. I have superpowers and the ability to communicate with the dead.
The long-awaited video debut of MedicatedLady and Bryan Borland – together:
*The poem read by MedicatedLady in the video is “Disappointment” by Mike Topp.
Guest blog post by Bryan Borland, in MedicatedLady’s absence
Dear Readers,
I was honored when MedicatedLady asked me to write a guest-post in her absence. Well, not so much honored as burdened. And she didn’t ask me so much as I demanded. Such is our relationship.
MedicatedLady is, at this moment, touring our nation’s capitol. Her trip is unrelated to the House’s recent passing of healthcare legislation, though, even so, a group of teabaggers resolved not to pay for MedicatedLady’s medication through public funding and took to protesting her visit. MedicatedLady did happen to snap a photograph of one of their crudely-drawn signs (Damn those Republicans!):
In other news, MedicatedLady would like for me report that the closest she’s come to an intimate encounter with a man while on this trip was when she entered a taxi to discover the cabbie had recently completed an intimate encounter with himself. To distract MedicatedLady, he then proceeded to blast the news at eardrum-bursting levels and got snippy with MedicatedLady when she couldn’t hear or understand his probing questions (which, no doubt, were meant to fuel future self-gratuity). Being the gracious woman she is, MedicatedLady simply stared straight ahead and shook her luminous hair until she arrived at her destination.
For your further entertainment, I will now provide a sampling of text messages I’ve received from MedicatedLady in the last month or so:
My dog just peed on me.
Say to yourself, herbs! With an audible “h.” This will bring you joy.
OMG severe storms make my ovaries and left knee hurt.
You can expect more of our mutual charm when MedicatedLady and I finally video-blog together the first weekend in April. We’ll be handing out advice to you, Dear Readers, so if there are any problems in your life you would like us to address, now is the time to send in your questions. For example, are you having trouble with the menz? Do you suffer from paraurisis, the disorder that makes urination in public places near impossible? Are you allergic to love and love byproducts? Did your cleaning lady break your vacuum cleaner? Do you have trouble spelling the word vacuum? Do you hate MedicatedLady because she has a cleaning lady? Does your dog shit on the floor and grind it into the tile to spite you? Does your mother hate the purse you carry? Did you lose your virginity to a mode of transportation? Do you constantly get mistaken for a 12-year-old girl? We can help you out with these issues and more, so don’t be shy.
We certainly won’t.
Bryan
Someday we are going to have
two point five children.
This is how they’ll be: myopic Caucasians
with updraft hearts and thistle carpets for hair,
curious challengers to the world at large
who will know the truth
about where half their chromosomes came from:
sitting in a lab with an issue of XY, Kleenex, and
a paper cup.
They will have a succession of stepfathers
and an uncle who is closer than the others
who pays child support.
They will know the story of your disconsolate womb,
and how I pressed warm washcloths on that
meadowed belly, pair of us holding hands
watching chick flicks under a lavender afghan,
talking about these future offspring over ice cream,
far-flung and foolish hopes of children
until the day we were serious.
On the unimportant holidays, maybe I’ll arrive
with belated birthday gifts in hand,
tousle a few heads. When they’ve gone to bed,
we’ll sit with lacrymatory mugfuls of spirits,
uncertainly thankful for
the shapes we take.
I know I was jilted because of my freckles, at least once.
Two, maybe four, times for my hair.
They always said they liked short girls but when you’re trying to get laid, that’s probably the thing to say.
Let me reiterate. Air Force John was a douche. His hobbies included cuddling, talking about a possible mental breakdown, and watching Wifeswap. I give him respect for getting drunk with a priest.
Any insecurity you have is the exact
reason you’ve been jilted.
Trust me, it was the gargantuan zit you had on your face that killed it
for him.
This other guy, he fished all day and called himself self-employed. He lived off his father and got fat. His picture was super old, which led to unbearable disappointment. His hobbies included swatting away giant roaches that were on the booth I was sitting in and spouting on endlessly about his political viewpoints, which were not favorable to Hil (I set him straight).
Seriously, don’t make excuses for him.
It’s all you.
One guy was a decent date aside from his gaunt appearance and bulging bug eyes. I’m not sure what his hobbies were because the two times I saw him, I kept thinking of words that rhymed with his last name (Ooouly). I didn’t come up with anything. Another guy ate a raw steak he did not want (spent the whole dinner grimacing and choking it down despite my helpful suggestion that he could send the plate back), ate all foods with his hands, and got hammered enough that I drove myself home in his car. I didn’t want to know what his hobbies were, but clearly he was breaking up with me in the form of my breaking up with him.
It never matters who’s actually done the jilting.
It’s your terrible foot odor and your misaligned posture that did it in.
You’re not graceful, as evidenced in your many, many injuries resulting
from painful, full-scale fall-downs.
This is all your fault.
I felt trapped in a parking lot downtown after a so-so dinner with this one dude. Nice, but no thanks. His hobbies included sticking his cold dead fish tongue down my throat and not anticipating that when kissing a girl, you should keep in mind that her mouth is not the size of a horse’s. Don’t worry. For his efforts, I bit him.
All of which bring us back you (and me).
I support the anti-bullshit; you’re not that pretty.
If you think you are satisfied in your relationship, I suggest looking at
the cellulite in your thighs one more time.
It could be the end.
Bunny and I met recently through Bryan and we’ve fallen in love. He’s also our Asian love child, which has a little bit of an Oedipus-esque twist minus the shame and eyegauging, and I am happy to share the fruits of our love with all of my dear readers.
I. From dearest Bunny Belletryst.
Careful, my medicated lady, for if
you prescribe, know this, a narcotic, is what
you’ll imbibe.
A bunny leaps,
reads the label, but what it should say,
is a bunny takes you, takes you,
may lead you astray.
Should my jolly roger affect you lightly, pop a few like jolly ranchers…
Should my taste suit you, a Pavlov-drooling, babbling, witty banter…
take more. take more. take more.
What’s your dosage, my lady?
Can you take the bunny-pill pledge, Lady?
If you think the shoddy design on the old bottle is faded,
just read the poem,
the inscription, get jaded.
A bunny leaps and leaps and leaps.
And so will you, come, creep
to my bottle, hold out your hand.
Look before you leap,
or you may never understand.
II.
From MedicatedLady to Bunny.
An indelible duo
of heart and head
Your Honey to my Bunny.
Twenty-four hours is too long to decide to love.
Let’s make it snappy
and I’ll give you double snaps
and a freckled smile
not much to give
but what I have.
It’s not that I think I’m good
it’s that I know you are
and I’m happy
to follow you
wherever your bunny trails may lead.
See Bunny’s blog at http://brbelletryst.wordpress.com/.
No shit. This is the whole of my love life.
Nerdy military guy (NMG): Wink
ML: wink
ML: where you be?
NMG: I been reading. My life is GREAT!
ML: Oh
(long, long pause as ML contemplates the greatness of NMG’s life)
ML: Whatche reading?
NMG: Reading bout ‘Nam
ML: Sweet. I like death.
NMG: Call me if you get bored.
ML: Okay, I’ll call you soon. BTW, you know my given name isn’t my screen name, “sassyso-and-so,” right? Are you interested in my real name?
NMG: Okay.
Update: NMG sends me the most intimate text I’ve ever gotten…”hi” Like, we’re so close that we don’t need punctuation or more than one-syllable words anymore. LOVE is Good!
IF HER NAME HAD BEEN ERICA
*Poem written by poeticgrin
If her name had been Erica,
things would have worked out
differently.
In fifth grade
the stylist would have given her
a Hollywood hairdo
rather than
a too-short perm
and
JC would have noticed her then,
and invited her
to watch him play
football.
He would have fallen
madly in love with her
and written
JC + ET = 2gether
4Ever
on the inside
of his trapper keeper.
He would have spent
Saturday nights
at the decrepit old one-screened theater,
and held her hand
like he was never letting go
at least until
seventh grade
when she’d break
JC’s heart
and stamp him out
like
a fire
burning
a photo
of a girl
named medicatedlady.
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: