Xanax: A New Type Of Poisoned Apple


Xanax is a magical substance akin to pixie dust or unicorn tears. Only, in recent months my drug of choice has become more like Snow White’s deadly Poisoned Apple than anything else Walt Disney has dreamt up. In truth, Xanax’s effects are incredibly similar to that of a Poisoned Apple (sans true love’s kiss), and though I adore the blissful cloud-like coma I enter each time I take 10x my prescribed dose, my family and friends no-longer support my Xanax abuse.

My most recent Xanax coma happened during my last blood test. Like any normal white girl, I dread blood tests. I don’t need more reminders of my own mortality and as my therapist knows after ten-years of on-and-off treatment, I have blood-needle-injection phobia. Some might say it’s a gift (I’ll never become a Heroin addict, though I can see the appeal of Heroin’s own blissful sleeping-spell), but for me, it means that medical procedures are extremely vexing. I avoid anything that is not mandatory. While being poked and prodded with an IV is less than exciting, it’s something I can tolerate occasionally; having my blood drawn, however, is it’s own beast entirely.

For one, it’s the phlebotomists themselves that scare me. What kind of person enjoys extracting blood all day? If I learned anything from Twilight it’s that Vampires are bat-shit crazy and I want nothing to do with anyone that sparkles unless he or she is a unicorn. And second, they never believe me when I say that I really don’t like getting my blood done (just like AAA doesn’t care that I’m having a panic attack after I lock my keys in the ignition). Normally I can handle blood tests after some heavy meditation, but a recent memory of the scene my last phlebotomist created after I collapsed has left me with more of a phobia than I had to begin with. The Phlebotomist screaming “I didn’t hurt her,” to the entire office when I broke into hysterical sobs and couldn’t stand was possibly more traumatic than catching a glimpse of the sixteen vials of blood that had been extracted from my blue-blood veins. No, Xanax became my only option for future tests.

It had been a year since said traumatic event and I knew I was due to check on some of the things that can fuck-with a twenty-three year-old’s health (STD’s, Thyroid issues, etc.). My doctor called in the order and I was told I could have my blood drawn at any time. Any time was the problem, since everyone knows that infinite choices only make one more indecisive. I knew that unless I was semi-buzzed, I would never be able to follow-through with the procedure. So I tried to be responsible, I got the day off work and got a line-up of friends who would be available to drive me to my appointment (and supervise me). My drug of choice would, of course, be Xanax (since cannabis would only make the procedure more uncomfortable), and I swallowed two 2mg bars (twice my prescribed amount but well in-league with what I normally take to ignore my problems). The 4mg I took initially was not my fatal flaw. No, my poisoned apple came in the form of a trifecta of prescription bottles (Xanax, Ativan, and “mystery pills”) that I brought with me to the appointment in my inebriated state. “Just bring them all,” I had told myself, like a hoarder afraid of parting with her precious possessions.

Despite my light inebriation, I continued to pop the pills. It was more of by habit than conscious thought and my awareness began to dwindle. I was scared. Terrified. And nervous. Who’s to blame a girl for trying to calm down? In all honestly I have no idea how much benzos I took, I’ve only been told by my friend Tauro that I was popping them like tic-tacs and had absolutely zero chill. I also wanted to pick up my glasses, he told me, and I dragged him to the fourth story of the Kaiser Hospital to pick them up. What I neglected to mention, however, was that I was also going to try on every single pair of glasses on display. That took an hour, according to Tauro, and he was less than pleased when we finally travessed the halls in search of the Phlebotomists’ layer. We found it, apparently, though Tauro said I asked five people for directions (two were the same person). Honestly, has Tauro ever babysat? Everyone knows not to let a two-year-old lead the way (and Juanita is essentially the same thing).

When we got to the lab I loudly asked the woman at the counter for a number. Tauro said that pointed to a stack of tickets and asked me to wait my turn. I lost my number twice and kept asking when I’d be called. When it finally was my turn, the Phlebotomist took my blood. I, of course, bore him/her with the story of my benzo inebriation (assuring him that I was prescribed) – I’m a very vocal and honest person if you haven’t noticed by now. I am not sure if this made the Phlebotomist laugh, (as Tauro did not find this ordeal amusing when he retold it to me) though I assume that any other human being would find an inebriated girl getting her blood done absolutely hilarious and in need of some Kardashian-like attention.

I was understandably disoriented (I asked the Phlebotomist if he/she had taken my blood yet after he/she bandaged up my arm), and he/she gave me a cup to pee in for the remainder of tests. Tauro said that I was in the bathroom for fifteen minutes before finally emerging; and, when I did, I had thrown the cup in the trash and said I couldn’t pee. Tauro had been force feeding me water by now and was less than pleased (he was late for work by this time), so I hurried back again, promising everyone that I would not throw my cup away again. But I did. Again, I emerged unable to urinate, and the process repeated. After my third mis-attempt they finally kicked us out of the laboratory and told me to do the test at home and bring it back. This, I imagine, only further added to my belief that Phlebotomists are mean, scary, terrible people who will burn in hell for the remainder of eternity. No, I am not being over-dramatic.

This particular Xanax coma was a wake-up call for me, mainly because Tauro was absolutely livid with me (rather than just thinking it was hilarious which would have most-likely been my reaction with Roberta). Not to mention I had only planned on a few wasted hours of my own time, not a full 24+ hour blackout (I woke up in the wrong bed with my glasses on and no recollection of anything except hopping into Tauro’s truck). This simple errand had turned into a forgotten adventure, a broken friendship, and two days off work.

Which brings me to this awesome product, a Fidgit Spinner, which can greatly curb anxiety. No, this is not going to eradicate all your mental health issues. Not even tri-weekly therapist visits can do that (trust me I’ve tried — Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy only go so far). But this wonderful little contraption can easily distract you enough to momentarily stop the racing and horrifying thoughts ruminating under your perfectly contoured face.

Don’t believe me? Try it next time you ever encounter that bitch of a Phlebotomist. No need to thank me, just write a review.



Pizza is My Favorite Food Group

Pizza is it’s own food group. If you disagree with us you are either a recovering anorexic or the annoying bitch who asks her friend’s if they’ve “gained weight” whenever mother nature calls. As any self-respecting white girl (who’s called her favorite pizza joint at 3AM, sobbing hysterically since they refuse to deliver since they are “out of territory”) knows, Pizza = life.

Just as some girls choose their boyfriends over girlfriends (red-flag by the way, those ass wipes don’t respect themselves), we choose Pizza above all other food, carbs or otherwise. It is the holy-grail of God’s edible creations (cannabis, perhaps, being the one exception) and is a super-food full of all the anti-oxidants you want to make up on the spot (seriously just make that shit up it’s not real).

In fact, Pizza is a vegetable (according to congress), which is enough for us all to stop starving ourselves for three days after every over-indulgence. NOTE: If you haven’t consumed an entire pie by yourself in one sitting, you can’t sit with us. In fact, go fuck yourself and your unrelatable sense of self-control.

Pizza is the reason why we don’t judge fat people. Regrettably, we think they’ve made the right decision. They’ve put their love of pizza and other indulgences over their health, which is the ultimate declaration of love.

So, next time it’s 2AM and your roommate is judging you for ordering an entire pie of Hawaiin Pizza, tell her to go fuck herself because she’s going to die alone while your gorge yourself on full-fat deliciousness. Pizza is the only friend you need. Bonus points if you screw the delivery boy. Honestly, does that even happen? We’d like to know

Hugs & Kisses,

When In Doubt, Call Your Uber Driver Mohammad.

If there’s one thing I like doing, it’s fucking with people. No, I’m not saying I liking fucking people. Well that too. Certain people. Like my flavor-of-the-moth boy-toy. But I also love to push people’s buttons. I’m like the OCD kid in your kindergarten class: I won’t stop clicking my pencil, pulling your hair, or eating paste. It’s just what I do. 

So, one of my favorite types of people to mess with are cab drivers. First of all, I pay them so it makes me feel less bad about how much of a bitch I am if I’m annoying. And second, I can tip more if they put up with me.

So, last night while I was taking Olivia/Oliver back from the cat hospital in an Uber, I thought it would be über fun to engage with the driver. So, I hopped in the back seat and pulled Oliver’s carrier next to me. Now, the cool thing about his carrier is that it looks like a duffel bag. It’s a Sherpa, under the seat carrier, and is made to fit under airplane seats. Conveniently, nobody ever realizes I have an animal unless he starts meowing or they look closely. Something I’ve learned is that if people rarely look closely, they see only what they want to see. 

So I got in the car calmly and asked, “Oh my gosh, like what’s the weirdest thing that’s ever happened in your uber car?” And the driver gave me the typical story of a drunk bitch (*cough Roberta cough*) who threw up all over the place. I thought the car smelled like too much air freshener… So then I asked, “What’s Uber’s policy on pets?” 

And he said, “No pets, except service dogs,”

And I said, “Well, what about service cats?”

And he said, “Service cats are not a thing, this is a company wide policy. I mean, when was the last time you saw a cat on a leash.” (For me, not too long ago. Oliver has a leash for special occasions).

So, I smiled: perfect white teeth — adorable pony tale, crazy I’ve-been-up-for-too-long eyes — “Oh my gosh, you are so funny. Like what’s your name.” He pulled up to my apartment, like right in front because I refused to get out of the cab until I had the shortest walk possible to my door. “Wait, let me guess. Mohammad?” Ding. Ding. Ding.

I mean, I felt really proud of myself. But then again, out of the 350 Uber’s I’ve taken in my life, I have had three woman, and 300 Mohammads.

He looked back, healthy-well-groomed beard and gave me a wink. “Say bye to Ollie,” I cooed, and showed him my adorable ginger pussy(-cat, get your heard out of the gutter).

“Oh, uh… I love kitties.” He responded, but I could tell he was quite uncomfortable.

Juanita 1. Cab drivers of the world 0.


Why I Turned Down The Bachelor


In early July, I got a random call from Los Angeles and excitedly got ready to annoy a telemarketer. Only, the man on the other line was not Indian; instead, he was a producer for the Bachelor. It’s every girls dream to be considered for the Bachelor and surrounded by the romance of fake-reality. But I would never be able to be on the bachelor. I’m way too filtered for reality television. Producers would have a field-day with my honestly and I’m way too unfiltered to have cameras in my face.

But there was no harm in getting my ego stroked and I answered all of his questions in true Roberta fashion. For example, when he asked if I was ready to get married I told him the truth, “My greatest fear in life is never getting married.”

I own my feelings. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’d rather die than be thirty-five and single. How embarrassing, settle already. Juanita disagrees, but she comes from a broken home (divorce) which means her understanding of “happily ever after” is very tainted. “Do you have any children,” came the next question. “No but I’m giving some eggs to my gay friend and his dog walker.” He didn’t respond and I really didn’t feel like explaining my crazy.

After some back and forth and the producers realizing what a gold-mine I’d be for their ratings, I had to let the dream of being a reality-TV star go. The world isn’t ready for Roberta.


Stay Away From Married Balls


He’s not my typical type. Not a doctor. Not a lawyer. Not a politician. And no, not a trust fund kid. He hasn’t even won the lottery (unless I count cause I’m the jackpot, baby).

Instead, he’s is in the service industry. Gross. Except, that can be pretty special. I didn’t realize it before, but being a waiter is hard. He works pretty damn hard and knows how to milk it for tips. I asked him if he’d wait on me but apparently I’m pretty needy.

It’s 2017, since when is it considered “needy” to want a hamburger at a restaurant? I don’t care that you’re a Greek Restaurant, we live in America. Girls, do not let boys boss you around and tell you what to eat. Listening to men will only shame spiral you into marrying a narcissist. Nothing’s worse than a man trying to get you near their balls. Despite telling Andres incessantly that I did not want his special “off-the menu” meatballs, he kept bringing me free wine and eventually I gave in. I tried his damn balls. Except, they were a lot different than I had expected.

While I had expected to be presented with the two sacks of his scrotum, his off-the-menu testicles actually referred to FDA regulated lamb-meat. It was tasty, and Andreas kept the restaurant open late for me to get drunk and inhale balls (though, the only thing that kept coming was the wine and food). Talking to him was so natural, I almost didn’t care that I was eating my weight in calories.

He was perfect. Greek. Tall. Dark. Handsome. For a moment, I didn’t care that he was in the fucking service industry. We clicked and all I wanted was for him to service me. We exchanged numbers and Andres added me on FB — where I swiftly figured out he was married.

That bastard didn’t even try to hide it. Were all Greek men this blasé about infidelity or had I found a gem? Either way, I never went near his balls again.


It Tastes Better on the Screen

Good food. Good sex. Good friends. The three ingredients to a happy life. But three time a day really is not enough (we’re talking about food you pervert).

I’m what they call skinny-fat. I really have no muscle, but then again I have no fat. Juanita gives me a lot of shit because I occasionally eat like a fat person and could easily win any hot-dog eating contest (I’m good at putting things in my mouth, sue me). But honestly, eating like a fat person takes a special skill set. People don’t give fatsos enough credit.

The other culinary art-form I take part in instagram. Other than salivating over a well-crafted menu, the first thing I ask the waiter at any restaraunt is always “what’s the best dish to order for an instagram pic?” This will occasionally take a server off guard (though any Michelin starred venue is used to this request).

For example, last time I visited the ‘rents over the holidays (Columbus Day), Carmen and Gerald took me to their favorite restaurant. I know it’s totally selfish that they didn’t let their only daughter pick the restaurant, but sometimes you have to let things slide. I tried not to be too angry with them since people are more likely to spend a lot of money on you when you’re nice, and Gerald hardly bat an eye when I ordered the $75 steak. Carmen might have flinched, but it could have just been that her botox was wearing off.

Greasy, Fried and Fatty. The three ingredients to a diabetic coma.

I would never actually eat this. Not even if I was pregnant with demon triplets or adopted into the Kardashian clan. The whole “eat whatever I want” whale-approach to pregnancy might work for Kim and Beyonce, but I’d rather not have to photoshop my entire existence. My fat-person eating habits do not include things that actual fat people eat.

Was it worth it? Of course. This steak was more photogenic than my three-year-old disabled maltipoo (he’s an internet sensation, look him up). And I wanted the whole world to see what grease and good lighting could do.



When Your Vaginal Drought Is Worse Than California’s

There is something terrible that happens with breakups. No, I am not talking about shoveling 32 pints of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food and Half-Baked Ice Cream into your sperm free mouth and the following 7 pounds of guilt-induced fat. I am talking about sexual hiatus.

tumblr_myk2a9hJfF1r8a327o1_500When you have a boyfriend, your private parts fit together like PB&J. Sex is easier than figuring out your doordash order. There’s something magical about a relationship’s guaranteed sex-clause that makes non-available girls happier. It’s called serotonin, released in copious amounts after coitus. Something single girls can not get enough of.

So there’s Tinder, and Hinge, and The League, and Bumble, and Pokemon Go. But no random penis will make you “oh” like the pink specimen that has been gyrating around your who-ha all year long. So you might coyly attend some bang-fests, maybe be extra forward at a bar, text some old hook-up buddies. But the end result is the same, you are never satisfied. Like Angelica Schular from Hamilton, “a woman who can never be satisfied.” So you might as well move to where drought is the norm. Which brings me to California.

I’ve tried all these dating apps, trust me I have. Considering I was a total whore in college with a number well above my age, you’d think I wouldn’t have reservations about fucking questionably homeless/hipster men with man-buns. But here’s the thing. Relationships change you. Emotional intimacy was never my thing, so it’s not that there’s something I’m running from. The fact is, I’m lazy. I don’t want to try. I don’t want to play games, I don’t want to be wined and dined. I want to be fucked. Good ol’ fucked. But I guess there comes a time when you’ve got to swallow your pride and do what all the other girls are doing: taking risque snapchats and posting questionable instagram stories.

But all I’ve got to say to the sluts out there who have secured a man: fuck him til you can’t, because the drought that follows will last longer than you think.