Innard Affliction

Ass raptor (n): predecessor to the ass ferret.  A creature that occasionally attempts to make a home deep in the bowels of a random person causing explosive excrement and the sonorous growl of a wildebeest.  


I have been privy to this affliction.  


Meh.


It is most unpleasant, causing my innards to feel as though they are being twisted and pulled inside of me by some unseen being.  Then the real fun happens.  Ass, meet toilet.  Toilet, ass.  


And no ass raptor would be complete without a visit from a fever.  Unfortunately more cowbell is not the right prescription for it.  


I may as well get cozy in my bathroom.  Gonna be a looooooong night.

Gobble Gobble, Assholes...My Turkey Is Better Than Yours!

Reflecting on this past week, it is no wonder I am utterly fucking exhausted.  It's been too busy, too hectic, too retarded.  And here I am, dwelling on it.  While sort of watching some stupid show on STYLE Network with a chick who is a "hair fairy."  O.M.G.  WTF is a hair fairy? And why do I have this fucktasticness playing in the background attempting to lure me into its retarded, perky, trendy abyss?  IDK.  I really IDK.  But I digress.  


Anyhoo.


I had my very first Thanksgiving dinner, hosted by hubby and myself at our ghetto fab home.  With our newly-painted penis-wall.  That's right. I have a penis-wall. AKA, Cabbage Patch Ass, AKA, Foreskin Delight, AKA, accent wall that was accidental due to the fact we ran out of paint.  Up close it resembles flesh a la phallus.  Far away it adds a warmth to the surrounding ivory walls and crimson drapes.  Oh, and did I mention wall art? Can I just state that Bed, Bath, and Beyond is like THE mecca of decorating needs?  For reals.  For fucking reals, yo!  The treasures and troves that are held within the walls of aforementioned store are absolutely astounding and sometimes truly asstastic.  


So, wall art, dong flesh, and organized bookshelf aside, Thanksgiving was a HUGE ASS SUCCESS.  I owe so much to my bestie.  She is a mutha fucking goddess.  So much of the dinner's success is because of her.  I think I finally grew into wifedom because of her and her amazing time management and multitasking.  She is now officially my wife.  It's like a bromance.  But not.  


On the big day, I am happy to report, there was not an ounce of drama.  Sooooooo much different than what I had experienced with my own relatives.  The key to my success was not having my own relations over.  They wouldn't show up anyway because they think I live in the ghetto and they are just too good to travel the literal fucking mile to our house.  Let me just state that our home is really clean and homey.  It's not like we are hoarders or have roaches or rats or trash laying all over the place with shit stains in the toilet.  Nope. Not even remotely close.  I'd say our house is pretty damn clean and organized and really cozy.  I mean, here I am, curled up on the couch with my kitties on this dreary day, and all I feel is COZY.  I look around at the warm walls, neutral furniture, soft lighting...it's HOME.  Now, if I get up and walk out to the front porch, it's a little different.  More like upper-lower class meets lower-middle class meets Old South End neighborhood.  Translation: it's an old neighborhood with that Ellis Island feel and it spans multiple generations.  Plainly put, it's a damn melting pot with people in their 80s down to their diapers.  We make the best of what we have.  Sure, the houses look a little run down, but the lawns are kept, the insides are nice, and the trash is picked up.  


We happen to have the biggest house on the block at nearly 1600 square feet, four bedrooms, one huge ass bathroom, and storage space galore.  I have a foyer, for fucks sake.  And natural woodwork.  Granted, the basement is uber creepy, but you can't have everything.  So, yeah, my family is too good for my comfy home.  They're all fucks anyway.  These are the assholes who talk shit about everyone behind their back and pick on people they don't deem worthy of their comfort, as in, hubby.  Hence, a huge falling out, virtually no contact since July, and no dinner invite for the fucktards.   Enter my in-laws.  Who are amazing.  Whom I love very much.  And my wife and other husband and other stepchildren.  And my own stepchildren.  It was kind of a hodgepodge and unconventional but it worked.  


After reliving the day, why am I suddenly teary-eyed and somewhat missing my own relatives? Oh, because they are fucks and have that guilty effect on people.  And I'm over it.  I guess you'll have that when you have your first holiday without people you usually celebrate with, get beat down by, and who have absolutely no faith in your success...yet they are the failures at life but can't grasp it so they try to make everyone else feel bad about themselves.  But I stopped the cycle.  I stood up to those cockblows and because of that I'm a stronger person.  I know that Christmas will be a mess.  I had no contact whatsoever with my parents; only my uncle texted me.  I am utterly convinced I mean nothing to them and for that reason, among others, they are dead to me.  The people who were supposed to teach me and help me through life were epic fails.  The people I never expected were the ones who became a true family and helped me climb the ladder to success.  God bless those bitches and rednecks and overall fantastical peeps who put up with the drama of my relatives, my bitching, my whining...without them I'd be an epic fail.


My turkey was moist with huge breasts.  Gobble gobble, fucksticks.  

I Need a Wah-mbuger and Some French Cries...

And I also need some cheese with my wine.  Meh.  Yep. I'm fucking whining.  Wah wah fucking wah.  While I'm thinking about it, I'd just like to say that five years old is too young to mess with my $200 digital camera.  Excuse me.  What the fuck.  I don't feel like potentially having something that I worked for dropped or messed up by a child who does not take care of his belongings.  The joys of stepchildren.  And the fact that the father (my hubby) chooses to ask me when the youngest will be old enough to use the digital camera.  REALLY? Because apparently in 11 days when he turns 6 then that will be old enough? I'm thinking not.  I'm thinking not in the next 9 years.  His 12 year old sister can't even take care of a laptop nor her own digital camera.  So therefore I do not believe that 12 is even an appropriate age for such electronics.  Unless of course there was an ounce of caring and that the value of such property was known.

Digressing.

I feel like shit.

Worked a ten hour day with a migraine/sinus headache from hell and got to deal with retarded people.  Story of my life.  I'm a tard magnet.  Any kind of tard.  Retard. Fucktard. Gaytard. Hootard. Asstard. Pusstard.  What the fuck ever tard.  You get the point.  Tards beware when I work...you will be drawn to me like the force.

What the fuck is my kitten doing? Hey, fuck! Quit drooling on my squishy blanket.  Quit gnawing on it.  None of that shit is allowed.  I weaned you from a bottle and now you wanna tear my shit up then do something totally cute like paw pressing? Fuck you cat.  Don't forget.  In Egypt they used to mummify their felines.  Don't think you are exempt.

Peace out, Girl Scout!

Thoughts....

As I sit here with Baby Kitty bathing on my arm, I realize that I have a zoo in my home and I am, in fact, the crazy cat lady.  I have 4 of these fucks.  


T.C.--an original name, stands for "The Cat" since we decided "Punkin" was gay...even though my then-4-year-old named him.  A.K.A. Big Ginger. He's 6...or 7...and weighs about 14 bills...a big orange tabby with a loud ass meow who has a tendency to hack up hairballs on our bed.


Lucy--my baby girl gray and black tabby.  She's my hugger. And she only meows when she sees a bug in the house.  A fan of the head butt and is often caught doing something stupid but she tries to cover it up.  She is just over a year. A.K.A.  Pretty, Baby Girl, Cuddlebug, Purrburger.


Smokey--we really call him Fat but he's registered with the vet as Smokey.  He is a month younger than Lucy but is 2.5 times the size.  All black with a few stray white hairs.  He can't meow.  At. All. He sucks his paw when he gets petted.  And he is a klutz.  I have watched him fail many a jump.  A.K.A. Ass, Big Guy.


Harley--our newest addition.  He's 4 months old and we had to bottle feed him for a month.  We got him when he was 4 weeks old and now he's a fuck.  A cute little fuck.  That's hubby's buddy.  He has torn up my drapes, scraped paint off the wall, eaten my Jimmy Johns, and he LOVES cheese popcorn.  Really? What kind of kitten did we adopt? A.K.A. Baby Kitty, Fuck, Asscat, Asshole, Purrburger.  


Did I mention I have aluminum foil and cling wrap in several areas of the house because two of these asscats like to, on occasion, leave kitty surprises for me and hubby.  Therefore, I have an obsession with cleaning the cat box and making sure the house smells nice.  Which are not good things for a person with OCD to be obsessed about as my entire house will smell like a combination of Yankee Candle, Scentsy, and Glade.  Olfactory overload.  But not in a gross old lady sort of way.  Just kinda like you wanna eat whatever is burning.  


Anyhoo....I had a totally different vision for where this blog was originally going but since I am ADD I completely forgot and had a squirrel moment. Watch the movie "Up!" if you don't get it.  You will laugh your muthafuckin ass off.  Same with "Rio" and "Rango."  I have kids so I have an excuse to watch these movies without seeming like a sexual predator.  Let me tell you, they are fabulous shows.  More fabulous than the old Disney flicks that I still love to watch now and again.  In fact, if Walt Disney were alive, he'd shoot himself, come back to life, then shoot himself again if he knew what animated feature length films had turned into.  


Digressing again...next blog may be about what I originally intended to talk about if I can remember what it was that I wanted to talk about.  


Can I just throw in that people suck? 


Ok. Peace out, girl scouts....till next time...

Harnessing My Amish Chi

And it sucks ASS.


i'm a loser. totally got cable shut off...thus, no tv, no internet, nothing...MEH!


so hubby and I have been reading. and moping. and complaining. and just generally being bored. yeah.  thank god for free wifi at this hell hole bar we are sitting at right now.  


unfortunately me writing this means he is not using the computer to do his job.  which likely means no money tonight. which more than likely means a trip to coinstar is in the works for tomorrow.   


i have a bachelor's degree and a decent job and he makes decent money yet we are so fucking broke we should be in a full on body cast.  fuck. me. running. backwards. blindfolded. with scissors. 

MEH.

It's my favorite word.  A response to anything I am indifferent to, dislike, or maybe even like just a little.  It's a blanket statement that I frequently use, mostly to annoy people. So, meh.


Anyhoo, I can't even think of where to start this morning since the ADD is in full swing and the anxiety and OCD are competing with it as well.  Meds.  They can only do so much.  I feel like those people on the Bing commercials who just take a keyword and verbal vomit the fuck out of it.  It's frustrating and kinda funny.  For instance. It is 9am.  Why in the fuck is the neighbor mowing his lawn?  Gee, our lawn needs to be mowed.  Maybe I should mow it.  Do we have gas for it? Do I wanna get up and actually do that? Or should I focus on the inside of the house? Not really since my hubby is still asleep and I'd like to let him slumber a bit longer so I may enjoy some peace and quiet...but I can't because the fuckhole several houses down is mowing his lawn.  


Some thought process, huh? Well, MEH. 


Welcome to my life. 

Middle of Nowhere

So, with it being Halloween season and all, hubby and I decided to take his kids to a pumpkin patch yesterday.  I know, I should have foreseen the endless amounts of stupidity that would abound with it being a weekend and all, but I am a firm believer in giving the benefit of the doubt.


We loaded up into the SUV and began a 20 minute drive over the state line which ended with a drive down a road full of cornfields.  "Daddy, are we in the middle of nowhere?" his 5-year-old asked.  I giggled.  And continued to giggle some more.  "Yes, son. This IS the middle of nowhere," he replied. 


Now, what you need to know is that my stepson is a card.  A total fucking card.  Bless this child.  He takes Concerta.  He's been on meds since he was 4 and the doctors are still adjusting them.  It doesn't help that his mother is a complete fuck when it comes to parenting so a lot of his issues is just that: his mother is an asshole.  That being said, he is also at the age where he has virtually NO filter on his cute little mouth so you never know what the child will say.  Most of the time it's random, useless shit.  Sometimes it makes me smile, sometimes I just look at him and think, poor you. Your mother has totally FUBAR-ed you.  


Our arrival at the pumpkin patch is uneventful until the kids state they would like to participate in the corn maze.  First, I DETEST cornfields.  I really do.  I fear that I will be attacked by some fuck named Malachi who wants me to worship he who walks behind the rose.  Second, see the first comment.  So there is a sign that gives prices.  Ok, great. It's gonna cost $10 to go through this asstastical corn maze of hell. Great. What happens? The kids and hubby stand there, mouth breathing, vacant look in their eyes.  I know we are all ADD, but really? Mouth breathing like a bunch of special eds in public? 


I make the suggestion to go to the little cashier chick and inquire.  An argument ensues.  I plant my happy ass on a bench while the kids and hubby embark on the wonderful world of corn.  Not even five minutes goes by when an old lady waddles over, wheezing, and sits next to me.  I think it best she doesn't talk as she is guppy breathing and probably having an attack of COPD.  


Her bratty grandson starts screaming.  "I DON'T WANT A SMALL PUMPKIN! I WANT A BIG PUMPKIN!" Holy hell. I think the majority of octagenarians had coronaries.  I was tempted to get up and scream in his face.  What happens? His fucking mother says, "Ok, well we can look over here at these pumpkins. "  Then his brother gets in on it.  I get up, begin walking away from Wheezer and her little devilish minions just in time to hear her wheeze, "Now boys, don't talk to your mother that way."  Are you fucking kidding me? I'd pack those assholes up and tell them they weren't getting a pumpkin let alone go trick or treating, the ungrateful ingrates.  Fuck. WTF is the matter with people? They let their kids walk all over them.  And they wonder why the kids act like they do.  


I make it back to the truck, where I promptly texted my equally pissy BFF.  I'll call her Mama.  So we swapped stories about hating shit and whatnot.  


Actual text convo:


ME:  I fucking hate people. I'm about to go all headless horseman on these fucks.


Mama:  WTF are you doing?


ME: At a pumpkin patch.  In hell.


Mama: I so do not want to make this cake.  (For our other BFF's son)


ME: So tell him Spongebob took a shit and this is what you got.


Mama: It's Phineas and Ferb.


ME: So Ferb got hit by a car and this is what you got.


Mama: Funny you should say that... 


she sends me a picture of the figures she will put on the cake.  IT INCLUDES A CAR.  Now, I find this tragically hysterical.  I am literally sitting next to a ditch, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fucks, and I am maniacally laughing.  Oh, this is fucking fantastic.


ME: OMMFG. LMMAFO.


Further text convo includes how our hubbies can be complete marfs and whatnot.  I eventually begin to wonder if Malachi made an appearance in the corn maze and decided to gently persuade my family into joining he who walks behind the rose.  Not so much.  They come trudging over to the truck.  "That was hell," hubby says.  It's a cornfield.  WTF did you expect?  


We end up making our way home, in which I promptly develop a migraine.  Go me. Tramadol became another BFF for me.

people are phacks...and other anecdotes...

I should write a book.  I could have written several by this point of my life.  Instead I have my journals, my friends, and my husband.   Well what would you write about? I've been asked.  My life, I reply.  I have never read anything that comes remotely close to what I have experienced--the seriousness, the pettiness, the craziness, the shit in between.  I'd air out the dirty laundry.  Just throw the shit out there, call out all the shittiness and the shitty people I've dealt with.  But then I realized that would take up more volumes than Encyclopedia Britannica.  If any of you fucks remember what the fuck those are. 


In short, I pretty much dislike people.  Not just the fucktards.  They REALLY piss me off.  People in general drive me fucking crazy.  I do not have a filter when it comes to this.  I am overcome with temporary Tourette Syndrome and I have been known to shout obscenities at random people. If you don't know me, you'd think I was out on a day pass.  For those closest to me, they laugh and egg it on because I am balls to the wall brutal and say what most people don't have the cohones to say.  I don't look at it as being mean.  I look at it as being the harsh voice of truth.  Let's face it: if someone wasn't brutally honest with the douchenozzles I meet on a regular basis then they would not have a chance of recovery and attempting to turn into somewhat normally functioning beings.  That doesn't mean I still wouldn't bitch at them.  It would just be on a less bitchy scale.  


Everyone drives me nuts.  I drive MYSELF nuts.  Apparently the Celexa isn't doing it's job.  My doctor says I'm a misanthrope.  Those close to me say I'm just being me.  I say I'm beyond fucked and no amount of medicine will ever come close to curbing my outbursts.   


I have to stay bottled up all day due to the fact that I am a professional, with a professional license, working in a professional setting.  The only thing that keeps me going in a professional mode is good coffee and cigarette breaks, or as we in the healthcare field refer to them, breathing treatments.  By the end of the day, my inner beast is growling to get out.  The only outlet I have is the car ride home, blaring Slipknot, Devildriver, Lamb of God, or Disturbed.  If I get started on the thundercunts and cock biscuits I have to deal with at work, it becomes an hour long rant about the ineffectiveness of the human brain, and just tell me, how is it that I may possibly be the smartest most logical person on the face of this planet?


IDK.  I really don't.  It's a messed up theory, but I really do believe that it is true at times.  I can't believe the amount of assblows that leave the house on a daily basis that can actually function in a normal capacity and have fluid though processes.  You'd never know they were like if you saw them drive.  Really? You're in a 60mph zone and you are choosing to go 50mph? During morning rush hour? What kind of vagina juice face are you? You are hindering my progress in life. You are a fuck.  Plain and simple.


Oh, and let me just state that people without a sense of urgency or purpose are wastes of space.  I would rather stuff M80s up my ass and stand over a flaming hibachi than deal with most fucks of life.  


Mother fucking fucks.  All of them. Cocksucks.