Tuesday, December 2, 2014


Little bit of shameless self promotion. I've been making these luminaries for about a year now. I am opening an Etsy shop soon, mainly so i can make what i want instead of doing custom orders. This is where i'll be posting pictures of the ones i've made. Not all are available.

More to come...

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Disassembly Required

Fuck bras. For real.

This used to be my bra.

For several months, i have been wearing this bra even though the wire on the right side had snapped. My extra-clever good buddy, let's call her LadyButt, told me about a hack she saw where you cut maxi pads and stick them to the inside of your bra so the wire doesn't poke you. So i did that and for many months it worked. Earlier this week, however, the wire sort of started migrating and popping out in different places. Yesterday at work BOTH snapped ends not just poked me, but actually cut me in 5 places on my side boob and armpit. So i got pissed. Then i grabbed tools. I performed a wire-ectomy while laughing manically and ranting about fixing wagons. Then i put it back on to experience that "Ahhhh..." moment. Which promptly turned to an "Oh my fuck!" moment when i looked in the mirror. Now my tits are normal, which is to say somewhat assymetrical, HOWEVER, one wired boob and one unwired boob is a look that even i have too much vanity with which to walk around. So i had to pull the other damn side apart. 

Alas, the tit sling is useless. It makes my boobs squeeze all over in weird lumpy ways. It feels one million times better but when i look down and see that crazy little middle third boob strangeness, it does not call to mind the sexy alien lady from "Total Recall". I think of my friend Fish's mom who has tremendously large and pendulous breasts and how bras aren't made for that shit so she always had "3rd boobage overflow", as my high school girlfriends and i called it.  I don't want to go to there. All i want is a bra that fits AND isn't going to draw my fucking blood. Is that too much to ask?

And, in case you're wondering, my right boob has snapped every single underwire in every single bra i've bought since 2004. My titter will not be caged! Only, yes it will because i run the show. Got that, bitch tit? I sentence you to a new bra.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Wise Old Six-Year-Old

I work at a before and after school program. There is a game that, as far as i can tell, every 4th grade girl has played since the beginning of time: MASH. You know, M for mansion, A for apartment, S for shack, and H for house? [Interesting development: the S now stands for sewer, as of this week apparently.] Anyway, then you have all these catagories to fill in like who you'll marry, where you'll live, what your job will be, how many kids you'll have, etc. You or your "game master" or some combination of the two pick 4 or 5 things to fill in each catagory. Then all but one of each thing are systematically eliminated by counting by a random number and crossing off stuff and your future is no longer a mystery. Earlier this week i played and had the best future ever wherein i married Neil Patrick Harris (who is my spirit animal). Sure, we lived in the sewer but who cares? We also had 2 kids, which NPH already has so my vagina was a winner too.

Yesterday i played again with two little girls who somehow managed to predict a most vile future for me. I marry a coworker (he's actually a pretty good looking dude but he's 13 years younger than me - i have limits) and i become an astronaut, so it wasn't all bad. However, we will live in a sewer and drive a poop truck, his job will be "pooper" (lucky we live in a sewer then, huh?), and we'll have a pet alligator (also appropriate) and 60 kids. Sixty. At least we have a good sex life? They wrote a song then a rap and teased me about it all day. I was also hanging out with a little 1st grader who was terribly upset about the prospect of me living in a sewer married to a pooper and driving my 60 kids around in a poop truck. During the sing-song mocking she got very quiet. After i sent the twosome over to another coworker to share their beautiful ballad, this little girl turns to me in all seriousness and says the wisest stuff-

     "I have come up with 3 ways to make sure that never happens. If he askes you to marry him, say no. Don't go to astronaut school, ever. Don't move out of your house. No, 4 ways - don't ever sell your car. If you do, buy the same car again." And then, the kicker, "It's hard enough to take care of 3 kids. Just ask my mom. So never, ever have more than three kids. Oh, and do not buy an alligator. Five ways."

She kills me! But really, she's right. Next time i get all weirdy about where i'll be in five years all i have to do is think of the worst place i could be and just not do the things that will lead me there. She's going to run the world some day.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Cereal. Not cereal.

Ok, so, "Sorry. Not sorry"? I've been saying, "Kidding. Not kidding" a lot lately and a couple people appreciated it, but mostly i think people were just trying not to punch me. Well, now there's "Cereal. Not Cereal."

It's not something you say so much as a sad, sad part of being me. I eat a lot of cereal. But it's not cereal so much as two things, one solidy and one liquidy, that i mix up in a bowl and eat with a spoon, often when i'm very drunk. There's been partially melted peanut butter with chocolate chips stirred in, cottage cheese with crumbled doritos, saltines with alfredo (no noddles, man),  cheese sauce with tuna, and chopped up hot boiled eggs with perhaps a titch too much butter. There was the wheat thins in ranch. None of these are things i eat more than once. I mean, they are sickening while they happen and i only feel even worse later on. But last night i found a cereal, not cereal that i may have to experience again. Half a jar of turkey gravy heated till nuclear-hot with toast chunks stirred in. Actually, it was just bread because i was too impatient to wait for the toaster.

Or maybe, i'll just buy some milk and gawddamn shredded wheat because that's all i wanted in the first place.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Time to start quitting

I have no voice. Not figuratively. I cannot make any sounds with my vocal chords AT ALL. I am reduced to communicating via white board and crude, made-up sign language. This could not have happened at a worse time because i have a shit ton to say. I'm at the end of various ropes - have been for a minute.

First, Cousin Roommate has been using my car nearly every evening for just about 6 months now. Fine, whatever. He needs a vehicle and his piece of shit is broken all the way down. Has he taken it to be looked at? No. Has he helped me pay for insurance or maintainence? No. Is he saving to buy a new car? No. Does he have a plan at all that involves him not mooching off me for the rest of existence? No again. If he would put more than $6 a week in the gas tank, i might not want to punch his guts out. Every day he takes it, he says he's putting gas in right away. Every time i get in my car the tank is running on fumes. But he just bought himself a sweet new 2nd keyboard to compose on and he stays stoned pretty much 24/7, so bully for him! I guess i'm the asshole.

Then there's my house guest. Six weeks ago, a long-time friend of mine was in a situation up north that was not healthy. He needed to come home for a while. We all encouraged that. He, Thorton, asked if he could stay at our place for a couple (2?) weeks. Still here. No problem. I love the guy, of course i'm going to help him out. He helped me put together a custom work bench for my arting that fits quite nicely in my bay window - AFTER i rage cried in the bathroom because he and Cousin Roommate kept saying they would definitely help me in any way they could as they sat around getting lit, playing guitar and piano respectively, and generally not getting off their asses at all unless they were hungry. So i carried all the lumber to the porch and started doing it myself. At which point, a man certainly stepped because that's a man thing, building. Well, one man stepped in and the other ran to his room. That was 3 weeks ago. I've been able to use my new work space a total of two times. It happens to be behind Thorton's sleeping area. I have two lamp orders i cannot fulfill because the times when i'm not at a job, the space is occupied by mountains of whatever, a bed roll, or the man himself. Also, i am hosting a Halloween party this year and i need to get that room ready. I cannot do so and it's particularly more irritating as the date approaches.

And this work space thing...i spent a considerable amount of time before Thorton even got here designing it. It incorporates all my current furniture and allows for two work spaces and a sitting area. I moved all but one piece of furniture myself, as per usual. I cleaned for many hours and prepped for many more. I got rid of butt loads of useless materials and garbage. After my space was set up (although not organized, see above), Thorton says to me, "Now what i'd really like is for you to do something like that for Cousin Roommate." Exsqueeze me? Baking powder? No one did it for me. Why can't Mr. Humble Genius do it himself, other than being too high to function 90% of the time and utterly lacking any sort of motivation? But, in true door mat fashion, i was determined to figure a way to unfuck his rat-hole-studio using only the furniture i have, save for a custom built topper for my dining room table so it won't get ruined like everything else. I spent more than 3 hours coming up with a work space for two people (so he can have art night with his pal), a sitting area for watching YouTube videos of street fights and epic fails, display space for his paintings and sculptures, storage, AND a space for his keyboard (but now he has two, so that's fucked). I showed the plan to Cousin Roommate and he loved it. All i asked was that he pack up all the shit, clean a bit, and help me when it's time to rearrange. That was almost 2 weeks ago. What's been done? Not. A. Damn. Thing.

On the other hand, when i showed Thorton the plan, his response was, "Well, i was thinking someting more like this", scribbling on my design while explaining a thing wherein i have to get rid of 4 pieces of furniture and disassemble then reassemble 2 more and eliminating all hope of displaying anything or being able to entertain, "so that he has one big giant surface area so i can do animation." Ok. I'm sorry...Charles what now? My mind just sort of broke when he said that. If he thinks he's staying long enough to still be here when Cousin Roommate finally gets his ass moving on this, he better be drawing up plans for bunk beds in his bedroom. I want my gawddamn studio back.

Anyway, all of that was to illustrate how atypical my life is at the moment - and i'm going to quit smoking tomorrow. Because it's killing me. The smokes are killing me and not being able to tell people off is killing me. I'm getting my voice back, for good, even if i become a morbidly obese super bitch. Send good thoughts...please.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Me(at) vs. the Vegan I

That title probably makes it sound like i have an internal struggle with veganism. I do not. Even a little. I know what i am.

That said, what kind of vegan wears leather boots? Seriously?

I am at war with a "vegan" at my job. She doesn't know it. She doesn't know anything, apparently. I can't believe she's even real. This is the type of person i really do actually despise and it has nothing to do with veganism (which is something i don't believe in - probably because it's stupid or i don't understand it). I despise her because she is yet another example of someone who has nothing spectacular to share with the world and therefore has glommed onto an ideal which she believes makes her more interesting and better than others. In reality, she is a sanctimonious asshole who hasn't bothered to even read up on the thing that she says she is.

Vegans do not:
wear Dr. Martens.
eat 9 pieces of buttered garlic bread.
consume copious amounts of chocolate chip cookie bars while exclaiming, "These are TOO good!"
eat gummy anything.
lick the bowl of the meat-based pasta sauce i made and ask to take home any leftovers.
eat all the peanut butter and leave the knife gummed up with the stuff all stuck to the side of my sink - IF they like their patellas in their correct location.

And they certainly don't tell me how pretty my chicken salad is while lamenting that they cannot eat it after they just ate rice cakes containing FIVE animal by-products. ! And how very dare they say, "I'm a vegan with poor self-control."?! What you are, ma'am, is a dipshit who wishes she was a hipster with an angle. I say throw her to the real vegans - they'd gobble that shit up, EXCEPT real vegans don't eat animal by-products.

I'm starting all my soups with chicken stock this winter and finishing them with heavy whipping cream, so she'll have to pack her own lunch of gummy fruits, rice cakes, and chocolate chip bars.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Priorities, man. Music always wins.

In about an hour, i'm going downtown to watch my buddies' band play round 1 of a battle of the bands. They're awesome. You check them out - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Flannel-Season/305504089484374

Anyway, after they win that, i sleep. After the sleep is an hour and a half of work and THEN i leave for Riot Fest in Chicago. Holy shit. Best.

This trip is going to kick all of the asses. I'm going with the Queen of Roadtrips, Jewels. I will never get caught up financially after this and i don't give one FUCK. We have less than 12% of a plan. It's perfect. It's like when i went with Angeez to see Gwar in Chicago back in 19-tickety-7 (Gwar stole our word for ninety-BAM!), except better for several reasons.

1) I have approved time off from work. Back then i composed a note to my boss at Happy Joe's that went a little something like this: "Hey, J-----, Angeez has an extra ticket for Gwar tonight. I'd really love to work my shift but Gwar won't be there. They will be in Chicago, however, so off i go. I hope i'm not fired. I'll be in tomorrow if not. Thanks!" My employment was not terminated. At that time.

2) I have money this time. Some. Last time i literally had $2 in dimes. No spanging this time, boy howdy. No trying to write bad out-of-state checks. No following weird rich suburbanite bro-hams to some freaky mansion and doing shots while hiding from dude's parents. They took our $25 check and didn't rape us, so there's that. And no blowing tolls because we put $22 in the tank and bought a pack of smokes with the rest.

3) I am legally allowed to drink. However, i shall not do so copiously because i can't navigate 7 stages drunk.

4) I understand #3. At 19, i couldn't navigate just one stage. Anyone attempting to point that out would have gotten face-punched though.

5) Three letters: GPS.

I'm so stoked!

UPDATE: Flannel Season DID win Round 1. Muthafukkin straight!
Way to go, boners!!

Sunday, September 7, 2014


Yesterday i binge watched half of the second season of Spike TV's "Ink Master" while working on various art projects. Dave "Lady Lips" Navarro (which i call him because, honestly, he has the prettiest mouth) spends a lot of time on that show defining words like contrast and light source. Words that are basic as hell. I thought maybe he's really dumb. Maybe he spends so much time caring for his luxurious hair and trimming those atrociously weird "mutton burns" that he never got a chance to learn vocabulary. Maybe Spike TV doesn't expect their audience to be very bright, a fairly safe assumption considering most of their programming.

Anyway, after the binge, i sat around with three of my dude-friends listening to them talk. These are dudes who treat me like one of the guys, so i get an almost accurate sense of what they talk about and how they talk about it when ladies aren't around. And i was able to figure out why ol' Lady Lips tries to sound like a dictionary. It's not because he assumes other people don't know what a word like, for example, GRID means. It's because he's trying to sound smarter than he really is. Trying to establish authority about a subject that he actually doesn't know a whole lot about. Apparently, in groups, dudes do this all the time. All three of those guys did the same thing last night. None of them do that when talking to me one on one, mainly because i'd roll my whole head and scream, "Zoidberg!" at them. It's like faux-intellectual bullshit that irritates the fuck out of me and bores me to the point that i lose all interest in whatever they're trying to say. I don't need a definition from their dick-tionary because i have my own. And it's bigger.

I mean, LOOK at those LIPS!

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Really, i'm not using it

Free to a good home - or bad one, i don't care: One barely used uterus. Like a piano, the actual getting it out of where it is and to your place might be tricky - that part is up to you though. Seems to work fine, except for once ten years ago; however, since then, it has been perfectly regular. Requires meds two days a month. Answers to a variety of swear words. Pick it up today and i'll throw in two ovaries and a diva cup as a bonus.

Seriously, get this fucking thing out of me.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

15 Years

Apparently, even after 15 years a person can still experience Crumple Neck. Crumple Neck is a phenomenom i first witnessed and named after my brother Mike died. He was an immensely popular dude. There were a lot of people coming and going to offer comfort and to pay their respects. That moment when it hits you that someone is gone, after the shock wears off and reality sets in - that's when it happens. I saw it happen to each of my siblings and my dad and countless of his friends and family. The hands cover the face, the head falls forward like neck has given out under the enormity of sadness filling the brain, the whole body quivers for moment and then down they go. The body just collapses as if their bones have crumbled. All the times i watched it happen, the Crumple Necker was caught and mad hugging and sobbing ensued. It was horrible. I didn't experience it, or perhaps part of it is not realizing it is happening. I guess that could be.

I've been feeling not entirely like myself for about a month. I feel offended and slighted by completely innocuous things. I feel like i'm on the defense at all times. My brain gets fixated on stupid shit and won't let go like it normally does, like lakes and harmless off hand comments or a not-prompt-response from someone. My inner dialog and even what comes out of my mouth has been a nonstop stream of hateful bitchiness. I've been worried constantly about nothing in particular and seem to look for something going wrong to focus on. But everything is awesome - there's no reason for this. I love my jobs, my home, my friends, my city. My parents are moving back soon, the school year is about to start and the program this year is going to be bigger and better than ever and i get to work with two of my best friends, my art has been selling a little. All these things are great. So why do i feel impending doom? My anxiety has been getting progressively worse for a week straight.

Yesterday i realized that this is the exact way i was feeling in the weeks before my brother died. I kept having panic attacks and thinking everyone secretly hated me. I went to my doctor 3 times in the month leading up to Michael's accident. Every time all i could do was cry and tell him over and over that i felt like something bad was going to happen. I couldn't explain why or what, i just felt doom. After he was hurt, he was improving for two weeks and had one week left in the hospital before getting transferred to a care facility for therapy...and then he just died. He was fine, burnt but fine, and then he was dead.

When i felt that yesterday, that i was back to that place i was in before that all happened, i panicked. For real panic, worse than i have experienced in 15 years. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop and i'm absolutely terrified something terrible is going to happen again. Everything could go to shit again. I Crumple Necked. There was no one there and i went down like a ton of bricks. I went to the doctor, poor guy. He was only a general practioner, but he listened and was encouraging. He let me know that even if i watch for this stuff and do what i can to twart it, sometimes depression can get in there so intensely that before you know it you're bawling your head off, hiding in your bed or becoming a defensive über bitch and start having panic attacks. That is how my depression presents, and that way sucks because panic attacks can happen if i'm worried about having one or i remember ones i've had before. It's a sadistic disorder.

I miss my brother and i miss feeling normal. I hate my stupid brain for not knowing what chemicals to produce and when. I hate feeling like a fuck up when i'm doing the best i can. I hate feeling like i can't talk to my friends when i feel this way because i don't want to seem weak or bring them down.

This shit was supposed to be under control.

UPDATE: I didn't find this out until 3 days after i published this post, but on the day i had my freak out and went to the doctor, my oldest brother DJ was on a farm during a grain dust explosion. He was not hurt, thankfully, although there was a casualty at the site. Weird, huh?

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

The Story of Kasper OR Why I Never Trust That I Actually Know Anything

A long, long time ago, when i was in community college in Illinois, i had a classmate named  Kasper (obviously, that is not his real name). He was a mega-babe and by far the most hilarious man i had met since moving away from home to a place where i knew no one except extended family who lived 45 minutes from where i was working as a live-in nanny. The family i worked for was (still is) awesome, and while i was content with my living and working conditions, i was lonely. I had made no friends outside of the cul-de-sac and none of those people were my peers in any way. I just didn't do anything except work, create art in my hella sweet suite in the basement, write letters, talk on the phone endlessly with all the friends i had left in Iowa, and spend hours reorganizing my expansive Pez dispenser collection. In the first six months i lived there, the lady of the house kept encouraging me to go to college, to figure out what would come after being a nanny, to challenge myself and put my "obvious intelligence" to use in bettering myself. She convinced me to get an education and helped me enroll in night and weekend classes at the county college 20 minutes from our house. Oh, the perks of living with a brilliant school counselor...

I excelled at my first two semesters although i had a hard time relating to the kids in my classes. They were all several years younger than me and had all come from very different (far more privileged) backgrounds. Working in groups was like being thrown into a group of derelict aliens. After a year of not meeting anyone who i thought possessed any of the qualifications i require for friendship, and after about the Nth time some idiot 18 year-old boy said, "Cold out there?" while eyeing my chest as i came in from a snowstorm, i came to the conclusion that i was simply not going to make friends. And then, in Spanish class, i met Gata and in Math for Teachers i met Kasper - all in the same week. Gata was the funniest girl i had ever met and easily the coolest and most interesting person i had met in years. I had thought all the cool people were already my friends and that they all lived in Iowa and that people from Illinois were pretentious jerks. She proved me wrong and i am forever grateful. Now Kasper...he was funny too, but also kind of dark and mysterious. He had these brown eyes that i wanted to live inside of, or else rip from his face and keep in a jar. I would get so nervous before class that i almost felt like puking. He would come in, look around for me, and then take a seat as close as possible and proceed to ignore the lecture portion in order to show me pictures that he drawn or things he had written. If i came to class late, he always had a seat for me. We worked in groups or pairs together exclusively and talked about music and art and deep things. After class we'd go to the cafeteria or the commons and just hang until the school closed for the night. If i happened to be looking stressed or unhappy, he would go out of his way to make me feel better. We never talked outside of school but i thought about him constantly and talked about him to Gata even more. One weekend she and i had plans to meet some other friends at a bar to see a local band that did a pretty decent rock cover show. Gata convinced me to invite Kasper to meet me there. I somehow managed to ask him without throwing up all over myself or having a stroke and to my utter delight his reply was, "Hell yeah - i love their show. Can't wait!" And so Saturday could not get there quickly enough. I wish that the world had ended at that moment.

Saturday night i sat at our table breaking my neck to see the door. Eventually i started to think he wasn't going to show and gave up watching the entrance like a hawk. I was having a good old time with Gata and some other classmates when someone taps my should and i stand and turn to see Kasper...with a really pretty redhead on his arm. He introduces us (i can't remember what the fuck her name was because really all i could hear was the blood rushing out of my heart and brain and some voice inside me saying. "You stupid bitch. You really thought this was going to be a date, didn't you? You sad, sad stupid cow."). After the intro, the redhead says she's going to get a drink and Kasper leans in, all smiles, and says, "I can't believe she said yes - i've been working up the nerve to ask her out for months." I opened my mouth and heard, "Oh, how extraordinarily awesome that must be. Hope it goes well." Then i turned back to my table, drank my beer and Gata's, ordered shots and another round for everyone except the traitor and his red-haired hussy. I proceeded to get as drunk as possible as fast as i could. Needless to say, Kasper and his date found another table and spent the whole night gazing into each other's eyes and giggling with their heads together. They didn't even watch the goddamn band, the losers.

The rest of that night went as expected. I was feeling hurt and embarrassed, but above all pissed off. I was mad at myself for misinterpreting his friendship for something more. I was really honked off at him for spending all this time talking to me about everything in the world besides that dumb slut he brought ON OUR DATE. And i was incredibly angry that i had just looked so stupid in front of my one and only friend in the entire state. Gata was awesome about it though - she offered to cut his brake line or punch the girl in the face or follow Kasper to the bathroom and cut his balls off. You know, all the things a best friend does. In the end though, it was me who got punched in the face that night. I ended up getting jumped by 3 horrible cunts over a misunderstanding about the stupid drummer's sweatshirt. That's a story for another time.

Anyway - that is why i never actually believe anything that i think i know. My heart is a big mean jerk that can trick my brain into almost anything given the chance.

Monday, August 4, 2014

And it turns out...just another stupid fucking squirrel. So it goes...

My faith in humanity has taken yet another blow. For the past 18 hours i've been shaking. I threw up twice. I can't sleep. I haven't cried though...witch babies don't cry.

I've seen things. I notice stuff. I convince myself they are innocuous - that i cannot be interpreting the situation correctly. Internalize it. Forget it. Never mind that i am pretty intuitive and that things can mostly be taken at face value. Seeing a purple squirrel, for instance. A purple squirrel is just that - not a red and a blue squirrel standing really close together. (Listen, i seriously haven't slept. I'm in a place from which i don't know how to proceed. I obviously can't make metaphors at the moment.) Four times i saw that purple squirrel and four times i had myself convinced it was a red and a blue one, or that it was a trick of the light, or that i was hallucinating. But that purple squirrel showed itself to someone else and it can no longer be denied. It's like the hairy little fucking idiot ran right up to me, bit my finger, peed on my leg, and threw a piece of bark at my face. Upon the bark are scratched these words:

I'm a purple squirrel, but you already knew that. I've been a purple squirrel for years. I'm not exactly hiding it very well, i am? Being very still and pretending i'm not here never worked - you still saw me. But you were willing to ignore it. Thanks for that, but as idiots do, i forgot you were the only one who had spotted me and revealed myself to another. But i know you, you won't say anything. And if you do, i will present a blue squirrel and a red squirrel and make you look like the fool you are. So it goes...

Hey, squirrel, fuck you.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

I can smell it sneaking back - smells like chocolate chips and peanut butter

So depression and anxiety are trying to make their way back into my every day life. I noticed it the other night when, after the 4 hour nap i took when i wasn't even tired, i chose to eat peanut butter by the spoonful with chocolate chips stuck in instead of cooking the food i had bought. I noticed it last night as i was getting grilled about Riot Fest and, once again, made to feel as if my opinions about music are wrong (how many times do we have to go over that OPINIONS - even yours - are not FACT, so quit trying to act as though because mine differ from yours they are wrong) and as if my financial woes are anybody else's business and as if i'm a criminal for taking a night off work. I further noticed it last night during a discussion which was somehow deemed an argument into which i was only barely allowed to inject my perspective. And i noticed it today when i wanted to punch the face off of everyone i work with. Everyone.

This could just be my period coming on. I'm tired, i have a low threshold for bullshit, and the dullness of domestic work makes me want to scream and light shit on fire. Sounds like PMS - only this is beyond. I wanted to yell at a five year-old today for eating and talking at the same time. Talking with a full mouth is my biggest pet peeve in the world. This kid does it constantly. I politely remind him to chew with his mouth closed, finish chewing, and swallow before speaking. He doesn't get it. I finally convinced a teacher earlier this week to face his chair away from me, so that i at least don't have to see it, though i still hear it. So i'm hearing it today and i'm humming and trying to ignore it so as not to lose my shit when my boss comes into the kitchen area to get a burger, half of which she shoves into her mouth. And then...she starts talking. I'm standing there, knife in hand, watching globs of food fly out of her mouth and on to my food prep station - the station that is currently housing the food i prepared for the children to eat. Watching this grown-ass woman eat with no plate, standing in the middle of my work space, yelling to be heard over the kids, projecting the pure example of the heathen behavior we are trying to eliminate in the children, and spewing masticated food all over the freshly prepared plates of food i just spent 3 hours making. Slack-jawed i stared, loosely gripping my chopping knife, and over walks another teacher, mouth full of food, to converse with my boss. I put the knife down and left the room. I paced up and down the hallway chanting, "I hate this place. I hate these people. I hate my job. I want to die." for about 10 minutes.

This is not how i do. I love that job. My coworkers are mostly tolerable humans. I certainly do not wish to die. The kids are my favourite part. I may get frustrated, but i have never felt the concentrated hostility i did today. And now i am ashamed of myself, which makes me even more angry for some reason. And tomorrow i will be sad for thinking the things i thought and the shitty attitude i had toward people i really do like. Then i'll just want to sleep, which means i won't get things done, which means i'll get anxious and overwhelmed and i'll start being even shittier to the people i care most about. I am so sick of having to be hyper-vigilant  about my emotions. I wish i could have a couple days in a row where i'm just fed up and it's okay. But i know how fast this shit can sneak up on me and how quickly i can lose control of it. And i think i know why it started.

I went to Colorado two weeks ago to attend the wedding of a friend. I had a great time. True, i only went swimming once and that was in a pool and i didn't get to explore as much of the Denver area as i had hoped and all of the touristy things i wanted to do were impossible with the chaos of the wedding details. Not a big deal. The wedding was super fancy and i had a good time hanging with my friend and her family. Camping was a bust. For reasons outside my control, i only got to camp for one night instead of three. While it was the most beautiful night sky i had ever seen and the mountains surrounding us were breathtaking, i was disappointed to leave immediately in the morning without doing any hiking or even site seeing in the car. But i quickly got over it and enjoyed what was left of the trip. Since i've been home, though, i have stared for hours and hours at our campsite on the map of the Rocky Mountain National Forest. Just within 3 miles of where we were, there are a dozen little hikes that lead to mountain lakes - lakes which only a handful of people ever get to see. And i saw none. I had to pack up and just walk away from all that splendor. I realize that i am devastated and it is making me bitter and intolerable.

I suppose i should suck it up and figure out how to move past it or i WILL be battling depression because of my shitty attitude. No more peanut butter and chocolate chips for dinner. No more four hour naps. No more rants in the hallway. Time to hike up my big-kid underpants and move on.

Friday, May 16, 2014

This is my fist balled in anger

The next person who argues with me because i don't have a dick is getting kicked square in his.

This is a rant.

My toilet has been running for almost a week. I took the top off so it could be adjusted after flushing if the flapper didn't fall down correctly. The problem was simply that one of the rubber do-hickeys that connects the flapper to the arm dealy had torn so it was falling crooked and getting stuck. So today i went to a hardware store to replace the flap. I decided to get a hard plastic one so that this particular problem wouldn't happen again. (Fixing it myself is 20 times easier than asking my landlord to do it because he would call a plumber and it would cost a ton and then he'd raise my rent again. Or he'd think it was a bomb. He thinks everything is a bomb.)

Anyway, i picked the one i wanted and as i made my way to the check-out counter an employee goes, "Hey, little lady, are you sure you got the right thing there?" And i said, "Yeah. It should work fine." So he says, "I bet you have the wrong size."
"Looks right to me."
"No, no. Hardly any toilets use flappers that big."
"Mine does. This was the only size that looked right."
"I have more. Follow me. I don't want you to have to come back and feel silly."

Are you fucking kidding me? Little lady?! And that's just to start. I could've punched his lights out before he finished his sentence.

I follow him back to the aisle i had just left, seething. As i walked, i pulled up a picture on my phone that i had taken in case i needed to compare. He pulls down 1.5" flapper and i hold my phone to his face instead of taking it. "Well, i'll be. That's a 3 incher. You were right. Good luck fixing it though." Thanks, asshole. I hope he doesn't have any daughters. If he does, they probably can't even pump their own gas.

So i buy the hard plastic one and when i get home i realize it won't work because the hard plastic do-hickeys are too narrow to fit around the black tube ma-jigger where the water goes in to fill the tank, so i can't get the flapper to attach to the arm dealies. I realize that the rubber one would work because it would stretch out around the whatever-you-call-it. So i went back to the store. That motherfucker saw me coming and he said, "Told you so," and walked away shaking his head. I wanted to scream so much at him. He was off by HALF! I just picked the wrong material for the situation.

I know most dudes aren't assholes who think women are incapable, helpless retards. I know because i live with, work with, am related to and love a bunch of guys who are about the coolest dudes alive. However, here's an apparent newflash for the rest of them: JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE DOES NOT HAVE A PENIS, DOES NOT MEAN THEY ARE GOING TO CURL UP IN A BALL AND CRY AND START SCREAMING FOR A MAN WHEN SOMETHING BREAKS!
I open my own pickle jars too, motherfucker.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Drugs are fun - don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Case in point ~ My good buddy, Nellie, hurt herself a while ago and was in such terrible pain that she was prescribed both very powerful painkillers and anti-spasmatic (i made that word up, apparently) muscle relaxers. These on top of her being medicated for anxiety-related issues. I didn't understand exactly how fucked up these pills could make a person until i started getting texts from her saying things like, "I hurst my neck and mom gragged me to the ER where i had dr hot body with sexy soft hands" and "I cannot function. I've stabbed myself with the cats used insulin needle and fell on the dog trying to get her harness on. It took me two minutes to get up the stairs because i walk like a drunk hobo at the bus stop." I alluded that i might come and visit her the following night and she asked me to bring "fisting supplies".  ??!!  We straightened out what she had actually meant, and i assure you it had nothing to do with either of us slamming the other one in the butt. However, i decided right then that i had to go take care of her for a couple nights. At first, honestly, i just wanted to hear what kind of shit was going to come out of her mouth. And that was awesome. But she's also just really fun to hang out with and she's one of the few people in my life who don't give a shit when i unleash the big girls and run around her house with my boobs bouncing and poking all over the place under a tee shirt. What a gal!

Anyway, she did say some pretty funny stuff. Some of it i was able to understand, most of it - not so much. She had two twin-sized air mattresses blown up and laid up against her huge sectional when i arrived. She had no less than 10 pillows and 5 blankets and she looked cozy as hell. She called it "Floptopia" only she slurred the shit out of the name and it took me a minute to get it. She wanted me to go get her some Skittles (yeah, let's say skittles) because she thought, for some reason, that skittles would make her feel even better. With that many drugs in her, i can't imagine how a tiny puff, er...nibble, of skittles would make any difference, but whatever. I told her i didn't have enough gas to go running around for skittles and she said i could take her car. I said i wasn't going to not smoke for that long because she has never allowed me to smoke in her car. She replies with, "Well then smoke and then drive your drive my your my car and smoke." And she looked at me like i was stupid. Then she lays back and pats the mattress next to her and says, with the thickest slur i have ever heard and been able to understand in my life, "Are you gonna drive me in Floptopia later?" Nellie then winked at me. After the fisting business, i was a little concerned she was forgetting that she is a straight girl or that i am a woman. Anyway, i drove her car but didn't smoke. She got her damn skittles. I did not drive her anywhere else, thank you every much.

She said, "Wattle dottle playum" to herself about 60 times and i never figured that one out. "Searslajusslookadatmayun" = "Seriously, just look at that man". She was showing me a picture of "Hoctor Dotface", which is Doctor Hotface who is the very same Dr. Hot Body with the Sexy Soft Hands, apparently. I wish i could have gotten more documented but i started to feel a little bad about barking laughter in her face and scribbling in my little pad. Not that she noticed. Hoctor Dotface, ha! I sure do love my crazy, drugged-up Nells.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Survived the Ice to Go Down on Cement

Ok. I didn't post a lot in March because it turned into February and sucked. When it's winter for 14 years a person gets a little down. And speaking of down... i fell pretty hard at the end of March. Not on the ice, but on my neighbs cracked-ass cement stair. Sure, i was drunk, but not the drunkest. Sure, i went down the middle of the steps instead of the side as i normally tend to. And sure, i was wearing slippers instead of my cowgirl boots. But the fault lies with the sonofbitch landlord. He's lucky i didn't break my gawddamn ankle. It was terribly embarrassing and now i'll be scarred for life. I am posting pics so that you can also be scarred for life. You're welcome.
                                                         Right after it happened
The next morning

The swelling started days later - and the bruising

It kept getting bigger, and grosser
The swelling went away but, my gawd, the scab is atrocious

This is what it looks like today, 3 weeks later. I just unwrapped it so it's all gooey, but it'll turn black again soon.

And to think, it used to be a happy foot:

The moral of the pictorial is, never leave your house in slippers. BOOTS FOREVER!

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Holy Social Suicide, Bat-faced Man

I'm pretty sure i hate every single person on FaceBook right now. Or at least, ....oh yeah, ALL OF THEM. I can't say that there so i'm saying it here. Probably, it's just what time of night it is, but i don't care how many pounds of the food you posted pictures of you ate for dinner or how happy you are about falling asleep next to whoever or how awesome your dumb baby is or how you can't wait to wake up and go to the gym. Fine. My posts tend to be boring and/or drunk+confusing this late too which is why i don't make them public. FaceBook should be fun. It's not all about your every thought. That's what blogs are for. So get one. And then see how many people choose to read your poorly thought out bullshit sentences. Not many. I take that from experience. BAM! Right back at me!

Monday, March 10, 2014

Wuddaya say? I said this:

I work with children. Children are people. My Momster taught me A) not to lie to people, and B) to stand up for what i believe is right. Today, a conversation broke out amongst the child-people about girls liking girls and boys liking boys. Being a staunch believer in letting people express and explore their opinions, i decidedly sat back and let it play out until it reached a point where my experience and open-mindedness would be helpful - or until someone was rude or hateful.
At one point a very young girl told the room she had a girlfriend. Another, older, girl said something about how that wasn't weird because friends that are girls are called girlfriends. She was quickly corrected by the first girl who informed her that she liked this girlfriend more than a friend and she felt like they might get married when they turned 11 - because she had been told it wasn't illegal after you turn 11. As i was opening my mouth to clear up that misconception, one of the other girls went, "Ew!"
I got mad. I did. I didn't convey my anger, in any way. I did, however, respond to both things.

~No one can get married unti they're 18, not 11. And if you marry her when you're grown, that's fine. It's not gross or "ew". People who love each other get married sometimes, and that is awesome. Whoever thought that was gross, people are who they are and they love who they love - that's their business and not anyone else's. We aren't discussing this any further.

All of the kids eventually filtered away from my area, but the little girl with the girlfriend hung around. When no one else was in earshot she asked me if i thought she was gross. My heart just sort of puked inside me at the thought that someone so new in this world already was doubting and feeling badly about herself. My mouth said,  "Not even a little. I think love is a hard thing to figure out. I still have trouble and i didn't even start to try until i was way older than you. You're fine."

I hope she heard that.

Friday, February 28, 2014

Nice try, February

So February tried to kill me yesterday. I think it gave up because i twarted it so thoroughly with my bad-assedness. It's partially my fault for continually expressing my complete loathing for this most putrid of months, but mostly it's February's fault for sucking so hard. Anyway with 12 hours to go i refuse to back down. Give me your best shot, dick-month.

Here are the two most obvious ways February tried to extinguish my life yesterday. Possibly there were other times my demise was planned, but these two things stuck out:
First, i had to open the BASP yesterday. So instead of rolling out of bed at the last second and trudging over to my boss-neighbor's already warmed up car for a ride, i had to get up early and preheat my own car. It was -24° with wind chill. My car door was frozen shut so i was exposed to the elements far longer than i had planned when i ventured outside in just a hoodie. That could have been an attempt to kill me, but we can all agree it was weak so i'm not counting it. I She-ra-ed the door open and all was well. When i actually started driving to work my brake light came on. My brakes were a tad soft but i wasn't too worried. I knew i probably just needed some fluid - something i could easily remedy between shifts. After the BASP i was driving home, going down Dodge Street hill/curve when BLAMMO! no brakes. None. Gone. Car in front of me, going 35, headed right for a red light. Miraculously, the light turned green and i skidded around the right turn without killing myself or anyone else. Stupid February didn't realize there was no school yesterday. If there had been, i definitely would have slammed into a minivan driven by a parent who had just dropped their kids off at the school right there or plowed through some family walking through the cross walk. I didn't touch my gas and luckily no one was coming from the opposite direction, so i made the left onto Gilbert just fine. I had to blow the stop sign at Fairchild too, and once again lucked out as no one else was at the intersection. I had enough momentum to make it to my neighborhood service station and rolled to a stop inches from the owner's truck. Nice try, February.

But, wait! It wasn't quite through with me. After filling the completely empty brake fluid chamber, my hood wouldn't latch. The main latch was stuck, but the manual one was holding so i decided i could worry about that after works. And i did. I doinked with the piece of shit for 15 minutes and got the son of a bitch to close all the way. Or so i thought. After closing BASP hours later, i hit the interstate to meet up with Reester and Silly Seesters for drinks, dinner, and some games. First semi passes me and BLAMMO! the main latch gives. The manual one held, but the hood was flapping like hell. I put on my hazards, slowed my roll, and got off at the next exit which was 6 white-knuckled miles down the road. I jumped up and down on that motherfucker and banged the shit out of it with a ratchet. It just would not budge. I took the back roads at 45 and avoided having the hood flip up, break my windshield, obstruct my vision, and kill me. Again, well played, February, but i win this round too.

First thing this morning i yanked open that hood and slammed it shut with all the force of a Hulk Smash. Fixed it. Works like a goddamn charm. Guess i just made February my bitch.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Neighbors are the worst

Oh my flobbin' glob! I miss the days when the Latino gigolo and freaking Carl lived upstairs. Sure, i'd hear concert piano all the time, but the gigolo was really good at it. And yeah, it sounded like he was dropping a dozen bowling balls at once at least once a day. Sometimes listening to Carl's psychot girlfriend work out, yell at him about everything, and slam doors constantly sucked. But at least they walked like humans and NOT FRAGGLESNACKIN' ELEPHANTS ALL THE FLAPPIN' TIME! And to think, there's going to be baby up there soon screaming its fool face off at all hours. Oh gawd, what if they start that pacing shit to calm it down? They'll wear a chasm in the floor and fall through. Who the fuck has a baby in a downtown rental with a neighbor like me living downstairs? Don't they know i'm unstable? Don't they know i could explode this house at any time? Don't they realize i will be more likely to do so if i can't sleep because some dumb baby is bawling all night and ruining my life? They have to go. This is ridiculous. It's worse than the hookers who lived up there after Carl and the gigolo - always wearing their clompity-tromp high heels and going up and down the stairs draggin' dirty tricks around all damn day and night. I'd take the tramps back, even though they killed my tulips and had sex parties with hookas in the back yard right outside my bedroom window.

There, i said it. I'd rather share this house with a gigolo or dirty, sweat pants-wearing Carl or even actual actual prostitutes, than with a human baby.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

The Truck. A True Story

Once upon the 90s, i knew a girl who ate like truck. This tall, slender, dark-haired beauty was graceful and, to me, so seemingly elegant. She also smoked like a chimney and had a tendency to eat piping-hot macaroni and cheese straight from the pan, with a wooden spoon, in about 4 bites. All while talking and smoking a cig.
Back in those days, i was living in my first apartment and going a little heavy on the freedom from my parents thing. We were all drinking our weekend meals and substituting after dinner mints with joints.
One special Friday night, a group of people, including The Truck, gathered at my place to get our drunk on. We pooled our money and came up with $72 which was enough for 5 bottles. When The Truck and her buddy returned with the booze, she had a bag from McDonald's. It was a "cheese bergie" she had gotten with the left over money. Her buddy also had a bag with him, but it was full of green stuff to share with everyone. It was understood that the bergie was only for The Truck.
We sat down in a circle on the living room floor. Before the first shots were even poured, The Truck tossed her food bag over her shoulder. "Are you not going to eat that?" I asked. To which she replied, "I already did." I admit, i was impressed - that was quick even for her.
Half hour later, we're all 3 or more shots in when the first joints get sparked up. One for clockwise, one for counterclockwise.

Let me just say right now, the events leading thus far might be hazy, or even incorrect. Friday or Saturday? $72? $52? Whatever. Hell, i can't necessarily remember exactly who all was there. All the things that come next, however, i can recall like they happened a minute ago. And, if you ask anyone else who was there, they would so back me up.

Anyway, a joint gets to The Truck. She hits it, holds it, and passes it along. As i myself am mid-hit, i hear the sharp intake of breath which signals the start of one of The Truck's famous coughing fits. I mean, she could make geese change direction midflight. For what else makes that noise but a tortured and dying goose?
So the signal comes but i am too engrossed with inhaling to look over. But the coughing fit doesn't come. Instead, it was just one loud, puncuated bark. And then silence - from everyone.
Silence, as we all ponder what has just magically appeared in the middle of our circle: a puddle of saliva with an intact cheeseburger dead center and with 2 whole fries stuck on for good measure. I didn't even know she'd had fries.
For 30 seconds, no one breathed. We look from the burger to The Truck. She's just sitting there, staring at the cheeseburger, with thee most transparent look on her face - Can i eat that again?
We all get our heads wrapped around what had just happened and start laughing insanely. One of my dear friends, whom i shall refer to here as The Mother, gives The Truck a dirty look and says, "Omigawd! You cannot eat that." and he proceeds to scoop the re-burger up with a towel just as The Truck reaches for it. Which only makes us laugh at an even more frenzied pitch.

And i just remember, she looked so sad.

Update bonus: The Truck still hitting the mac'n'cheese like boss, 17 years later!

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Not to brag...

Had a rough day. It's cool. I still managed to sort roughly 14 pounds of sequins. I mean, it was like an 8 oz bag to start but once you make 5 piles... The maths check out, damnit! What the fuck did you do today, smart ass?

Anyway, the wine helped. With the maths and the sorting. And the all the other else (wink wink).
Sweet dreams

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

10 Years

I woke up today very aware of the date but feeling good. I started off strong, even if i did decide to wear the locket that i barely wear anymore. I got a text from Reester Seester right off the bat that simply read "Love you." I didn't make a connection to the date and thought it was pretty random for so early and perhaps she meant to send it to her husband (failing to realize they would've been driving to work together at the time). Shortly thereafter i received a text from Momster reading "Hang in there, Moo. I know this is a tough week for you." I got a little catch in my throat there with the thought that what happened all those years ago still affects my parents. They lost something that day too.

Work went well on my first two shifts. I spent a little extra time in the baby room (by a little i mean half an hour versus 2 minutes). Yesterday i prepped all of lunch for today and instead of staying in the kitchen all day, i played with and read to the preschoolers for a majority of my shift. I was barely aware of how far out of my way i had gone to make that possible. It was almost like an unconcious tribute to SPK. By the time i got to the third shift of the day, i was highly oversensitive. Being around kids his age was tough, and i don't know why. And i don't know why i insist on saying "he". The sex was indeterminable. What i had wasn't actually a baby yet. A baby is a thing that can survive outside the womb. A baby is a boy or a girl (98% of the time). A baby has skin.

I love my life. I don't want children. But i guess, even if i ignore it 363 days a year (the actual due date is a doozie too), i still wonder what he would look like. Would he be funny, spastic and creative like me, or studious, moody and quiet like his father? Or some combination the world has never seen? Would he have bugged me into getting a dog?

Once upon a time i thought i'd never be okay. But i am. All he ever was was a dream - he's just one that doesn't fade.

Monday, February 3, 2014

I've got a knack for it, i guess

So i'm very good at making people uncomfortable, especially when i'm not trying or don't think about it. Today was a perfect example.

At the day care i cook at, we have a cart in the hallway where we leave free stuff for the families. It's usually full of toys and hygene stuff and food and clothes and the like. Today as i was walking past, i noticed a box that read METAL TRUCKS & CARS. It was full of vintage Tonka trucks, cars, tractors, and this weird "futuristic" vehicle thingy. I was going through it and thinking how much my brother Michael would have dug the stuff. My boss walked by and i said, "Man, my brother would LOVE this stuff." And she said, "Take 'em to him." To which i replied, as i dropped the future thing back in the box and walked away, "He's dead." I got about 10 steps down the hall before i realized how nonchalant and actually shitty that was. I turned around to say something else and she was standing there staring at me with her jaw on the floor. She was looking at me like i was a monster, a monster to pity, perhaps, but a monster nonetheless. All i could think of to say at that point was, "Or else i totally would." I mean, he IS dead and it sucks really hard but being sad and tip-toeing around the subject hasn't changed that in nearly 15 years, so why bother. If i get all Sad Manda about it people try to comfort me and that makes it worse. I'm not going for sympathy when i inform people that he died. I feel like it's best to be straight forward about the whole thing so no one tries to make me feel better because NEWSFLASH - you can never feel better about your brother being dead. It sucks forever, the end.

I think tomorrow i'll grab the coolest truck and put it on his grave.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

The Second Unnamed Month

A quote to start:

"They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.
Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest, all right...
However more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that quickly grows old.
February is pitiless, and it is boring."
- Tom Robbins

Um, yes. Exactly. I hate February. And not just because it is the dumbest jerk of all time, even though it so is. I hate how cold it is. I hate how i have to wait four weeks for this turd of a month to be over so it can be my birthday. The only reason to be glad it exists at all is so that March isn't bumped up the line and made to house this bleak weather and all over shitty clump of days. It has never been my favourite or even close. Also, giant sports day for maniacs is usually in February. In 2004 it was on the first. Exactly 10 years ago today Janet Jackson's nipple popped out. I remember it perfectly - not her nipple, the moments it happened in. I had a fever, a very high fever, and was sitting on a couch in a basement in McHenry, techincally Volo, Illinois.
The sportsing was over and musicing was on. My fiancé had gone to do something somewhere while the ball was still. The was why i was awake; i could only sleep if he was holding me. So i watched that back street guy and Michael's sister doing their thing. I was so out of it - sweaty, tired, miserable. The nipple appeared and i sort of thought, did that happen or is my fever spiking again? When Jason (that's not his name) came in i mumbled about the boob thing and he was all, "You're weird." And then i was all, "Hey man, i think i peed." And he's like, "It doesn't smell like pee. I think you're sweating a way lot. That's just, like, a lot of sweat. You should go to bed." So, he came and laid down with me.
That was the last good time i ever had with him. Shit hit the fan hours later. Hospital, puking, catheders, lost fluid, pain meds, 3 days, induction, epideral, delivery, surgery, recovery. Funeral.

Depression, infidelity, anxiety, anger, hatred. There was no wedding. There was nothing anymore. I didn't know who i was. It started in February and by May, who i was was gone. I get scared every year that it's going to happen again.

So fuck that ground hog and that super bowl and super fuck Valentine's Day. Fuck leap years. Fuck tricky moons and ice and sunshine. The whole month is a crap shoot.

Friday, January 17, 2014

Well i'll be an uncle's Aunt Barbara

The title has nothing to do with this post. That's just something i accidently said today because i can't swear at my jobs - little ears, you know. I was going to say the monkey's uncle thing but uncle came out first so i just rolled with it.

This post is about periods. Not the dots at the end of many sentences, the kind ladies have. You know, where they bleed and get dumb up in their brain buckets and say stupid shit about uncles. Anyway, this goddamn bullshit has been going on for precisely 2/3 of my life. I should be used to it - a motherfuckin' pro, right? Wrong. I still think tampons should click when they're in right. Here's something men may not understand (as if any read past the first sentence of this paragraph): When a woman has unwittingly failed to properly position that chapstick-sized tube of dry cotton inside her bits and, say, has a coughing or sneezing fit or something, it feels like your twat's getting ripped in half. It's world-blackening, head spinning torture. ~2056 days of perioding, which is roughly in the neighborhood of  8224 insertions, assuming one switches it up with pads as i do, and at least once a month i have to experience that gut wrenching agony. ADD A FUCKING CLICKER! A man has walked on the moon for cryin' in the mud, but no one has bothered to create a smart tampon.

Well i quit. Life. The Universe. Everything. I'm out. If anyone asked what happened, tell 'em i coughed for a while, kicked a puppy, and fucked off forever.

Later, boners.

Monday, January 6, 2014

Thought for the New Year

So many people talking about bullies right now. Bullying is a huge problem. Really, duh. Sure was for me. I totally got the shit end of that stick for about the first 13 years of my life from everyone bigger than me. And, let me tell ya, that was everyone.

A bully is someone too scared to come at you alone. They may be the only one throwing rocks, punching bodies, calling names, or posting humiliating crap online BUT THEY ARE NOT ALONE. They are aided by each of us who doesn't scream until the rocks are dropped or hands are stilled or utterances are silenced or the passive and/or aggressive posts are ceased. If those cowards had no silent backing they would stop. Some of them don't even know they're being bullies simply because no one has ever taken the time to challenge them. No one has been brave enough to call "bullshit". I call bullshit right now. I seriously can't take any more. You don't want to see me angry