Docalicious vs. Docavicious

Oh my swoon! I had an appointment with Docalicious today. It started rough though, not gonna lie. I wasn’t having a very smooth go of things and had pretty high anxiety, mostly because right before my appointment I realized I was a bad person when I flooded the women’s bathroom at Krispy Kreme. (And get your mind out of the ED gutter. It was via another dirty deed. Indeed.) Anyway so I was really distracted and stressed out, I was trapped in a bathroom for 15 minutes until my mom could come rescue me and so on and so forth, so I wasn’t looking my best, I’ll admit. Also I was distracted because on my way there I distinctly remembered wondering to myself if I was a sociopath, and I had good reason to, but now I can’t remember why, and as far as I can surmise it didn’t have anything to do with a el bathroom incidento. I think.

So anyway when we were going back to the examination room he touched me on the back. SCORE! Then when I started going all in descriptive, excruciating depth about my allergies, (think MUCUS and STICKY) he was actually interested. And concerned.

When he wanted to listen to my asthmatic lungs, he helped me onto the table thingy. TOUCH NUMERO DOS!

And then he asked me how the tube was going – weight gain, et al. And I told him what ya’llsies know – that as long as I drank 3 Evil Satan’s a day (Boost) and followed my meal plan; I’d hopefully gain weight on my own and not have to be tubaged again. He said he was so HAPPY to not see me with the tube, and he was HAPPY I was doing my best, and I had a long way to go weight gain-wise, but even when I reached my goal weight, I’d be STUNNING. Yeah, he said that.
About me.
And, he TOUCHED ME TWICE.

Swoon City.

But then – ah, then. Then is when things started going downhill. See, he was giving me a referral to see an allergist because OBVIOUSLY I have some sticky, mucus-y problems. He wants to get a scratch test done to see how many other things I’m allergic to other than cats ‘n dogs. He knows I have cats, and we’ve argued before because he insists I should give them up and I tell him NEVER. So we were in the same argument, when he suddenly says, “I HATE cats. They’re like Satan in fur. Seriously. They’re like the devil incarnate to me. It’s like a psychological thing with me.” And I asked him why. I ASKED HIM WHY. Why did I ask him why??

Guess what he told me? Oh, just that he’d killed a cat when he was eleven. KILLED A CAT. He said his friend’s Siamese lunged for his neck and before he knew what was happening he grabbed its tail and slammed it down. Now, at this point in the conversation, (and let me tell you I've drastically edited the story) I was politely looking down so he wouldn’t see the Judgment Daggers coming from my eyes. And yeah, Siamese cats are a daunting enough breed to deal with for even the most devout of cat lovers, but you’re eleven. Not three, not five, or even ten. Pretty sure you could’ve got through the cat “attack” just fine on your own, doc, without killing it.

So it was at this point I started crying. The story tipped me over the edge, guys. All my Krispy Kreme and sociopathic and work anxieties that I’d been holding in, waiting until I got home…slipped…and landed in his lap. His cat killing, feline loathing, Siamese abhorring lap.

Is he Docalicious or is he Docavicious?
And also what do you do when you have a cat killer on your hands?

I don’t want to like him anymore. And yet…
HE LISTENS TO ME TALK IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL ABOUT MY SNOT, GUYS.
MY ALLERGIES.
SOMEBODY IN THIS WORLD FINALLY CARES. CAT KILLER OR NOT, I NEED HIM ON MY TEAM.

So, I’ll try to tone down the Judgment Daggers and instead say THANKYOU FOR THE RECOMMENDATION OF IMMUNOTHERAPY. I HIGHLY LOOK FORWARD TO TWO SHOTS A WEEK FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE IN ORDER TO NOT BE ALLERGIC TO MY FURRY LOVERS ANYMORE.
AND NO, YOU CAN’T COME TO DINNER.
MY CATS WON’T HEAR OF IT.

[edit: I really only have eyes for my hubby. I just think Doca(v)licious is cute. But I love my hubbster with all my might, mind, and strength.]