“Ah, Geez!”

What are you ashamed of? Probably at least a few things, I’m sure, and reading this blog is certainly one of them, but you, just like most people, are probably ashamed of a few of your other habits as well. Is it smoking? Is it chewing your fingernails? Is it shooting heroin? These are all examples of bad habits, although some are worse than others, I will grant you. Heroin? Not great for your body, and I’m pretty sure it’s illegal, but you may have to check with your local sheriff’s department. Chewing your nails? Good luck finding a job with your beavered-up hands, you degenerate junkie. Want to know how to quit the keratin? I’ve actually developed a 12-step plan to help people like you! It’s “JUST FUCKING STOP” written 12 times on a chalkboard. You disgust me. I’d give you a disapproving look right now if we weren’t interacting through written words on the internet, and if I hadn’t shot up heroin ten minutes ago. Don’t worry, I checked with the sheriff, it’s not illegal in my state! Besides, he’s the one that sold me the dope in the first place! All jokes aside, if you’ve read my blog, then you know that I’m a perfect human being with just a single bad habit, which the people in my life know as “Ah, geez!”. What’s that habit, you ask? Or more accurately, what’s that habit I ask rhetorically, for you, for the sake of advancing my narrative? I’m very glad I asked that for you. As a veterinary technician, I have a duty to remain supremely professional in very unique, dangerous, and unprofessional settings. More specifically, my employment contract prohibits me from swearing in front of clients, despite the fact that the nature of my job places me in many situations that call for a choice “SHIT ON A SHITTY PIECE OF SHIT!” or “FUCK ME AND EVERYONE FUCKING I KNOW!”. For instance, once when asking an owner about the urination habits of the cat laying calmly on the table next to me, the fucking demonbeast, like a goddamn KGB sleeper agent, was triggered by the phrase “And how would you describe his urine color?” and he suddenly sank his claws into my arm. I wanted to scream swear words, but I also enjoy having a job, so I overrode my initial response and uttered through gritted teeth “Ah, geez!”. I scruffed him, but not before he managed to flex his paw enough to push his curved claw deeper so that it started pushing my skin upwards from below, a phenomenon in my field known as “getting hooked”. I was filled with horror in that moment. Not because of the fact that I would have to drag the claw deeper into my flesh before I could extract it, no, but because my tame utterance in response to my injury would make a middle-aged suburban white woman proud. Such a woman once needed to use our restroom once while Lil’ Jon’s “Get Low” was playing in the employees-only area, where the restrooms are. “ALL SKEET SKEET MUFUCKAAAA! ALL SKEET SKEET GOD DAMN- AGODDAMN!” She asked “Are they saying ‘skis?”. Ah, geez. I couldn’t believe that of my prodigious “naughty words” vocabulary, I resorted to “Ah, geez” in a crisis. I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve internalized my job requirements so much that I don’t swear in front of clients anymore! Yes, you read that right. I’ve changed. I’m lame. It’s true. Is this what coming out of the closet is like? I feel like this is harder. Worse, I can’t stop! Once, a dog repeatedly bit my dominant hand due to a disagreement over the necessity of his preventative bloodwork, once even to the bone, and all I could summon was a somewhat-disheartened “Ah, geez!” for every bite. Dog vomits on my shirt? Ah, geez! Cat thrashes too hard when I’m trying to draw its blood and it punches the needle straight into my arm? Ah, geez! Anal glands sprayed on my lips? Silent “Ah, geez!”. I’m so lame now that I’ve decided to buy a bunch of sweater vests and talk about the most boring NPR segments with my neighbors. I’m so lame that the rheumatoid arthritis TV commercials make me nod and rub my knuckles as I watch. I’m so lame that I’m thinking about opening a 401k. How do I combat this? How do I come back? Do I need to drink Patrón tequila and krump to Get Low until I puke? Or should I grow a mullet and sing karaoke on weeknights? I don’t even know how to not be lame anymore! Ah, geez!