Thursday, January 17, 2019

You've Got To Be Kidding Me

From the moment we're born we begin dying. I don't really care how that happens. Whether you were birthed in the backseat of a taxicab in New York, you dropped out your momma's uterus in a kiddie pool with a midwife, or whether she pushed you out with a crew of doctors and nurses present in a hospital. Welcome to the world, you're dying. 

I can't speak for anyone else, as much as I want to or try to, so I'll limit this to personal experience. I don't make good decisions. I make shitty choices. I'll make more in the future. There are things that I work on to help offset the consequences from these choices. There are even things that I do in an attempt to re-wire the circuitry in my brain; a preemptive strike on destructive behavior. 

Most of my shit centers around addiction: alcohol, food, drama, self-pity, people pleasing, and poor self-esteem; I am addicted to being the center of attention and being in chaos. I'm kind of a piece of shit for it. I also do a fuck ton of work to make myself less of a drain on society. Being human is hard. Working on becoming a better human is admirable, especially when you know what you're already up against.

I also lack impulse control. I'm all about instant gratification. I don't want that 5-minute rice in the prescribed 5 minutes, I want it 3 because I have other shit to do. Delayed gratification? What's that? The only type of delay I'm into is one where a dreaded appointment is pushed back or canceled altogether for reasons beyond my control. I love it when I'm not to blame. It's not my fault, it's yours. 

For the most part, I want people to like me. Mostly. That is, of course, unless you're trying to push a pyramid scheme of shitty health supplements on me. Health supplements that, as you tout, will help prolong my life. 

I became acquainted with a little dude I met at a local park not long ago. I was handing food out to the homeless community there, he offered to help my son and me. I was thankful for the help. After spending a couple of hours together, it didn't seem odd to become social media buddies. As it turns out, we were members of the same gym. I think we still are members of the same gym, we just don't fucking speak to one another anymore. 

Creepy McCreepster would corner me every chance he got to enthusiastically pummel me with information about his available products. There was a social awkwardness about him that put my own to shame. I felt sorry for the kid, I bought some shit from him to help get his little business going. Playing it safe I bought collagen tablets because who doesn't want firmer skin? A firm ass and glowing skin; that was the goal. Unfortunately, I don't do pills well. They sat in the cupboard, my ass stayed droopy. 

Relentlessly I received message after message telling me how these products would "change my life." No, dude, you leaving me the fuck alone will change my life right now. When I wouldn't buy more, it became, "Who do you know that I can help?" Fuck off! More like "Who can I harass?" If not being cornered at the gym, I was being inundated with messages on social media. I've had actual stalkers who irritated me less. 

Finally, I decided to tell him to go pound sand. Some of the sales tactics were fucking ridiculous. Laughable even. I remember, at one point he compared my life performance to an underachieving child. He asked, "How would you feel if your child were getting D's and C's in school? Their reasoning, was that they were passing and they were content with that?" Little buddy, did you just assume it was okay to tell me that I am skating by in life just doing the bare minimum? Now we have beef. 

I told him his pitchy bullshit made me uncomfortable. Could we just be friends? To my utter shock, the answer was a hard no. Fine, go fuck yourself, toadstool. I hope your herbal cleanse and Spark energy enhancer keep you company in the long hours of solitude and inevitable financial hardship ahead of you. Failure is imminent. Also, whoever trained you did a shitty ass job, I'd ask for my money back if I were you. 

I take care of myself physically, I don't need to go balls-out with a bunch of synthetic bullshit created in labs and peddled by people with insecurity issues more daunting than the ones I'm packing. And what the fuck for? Honestly? Live longer? For what? It would be different if we all lived in a goddamn Utopia, let's get fucking real though. When was the last time you turned on the television and all the stories were heartwarming? How about even half of them? A third? Right, so how about you take your creatine powder and amino acid supplements and shove 'em straight up your performance elite ass?! Pass me the butter, which I like to call happiness. 

We're all dying here. None of us are going to get out of this with a 'get of jail free' pass. Why not try being less of a piece of shit? We've all heard of carbon footprints. How about the impact we have on others? We ought to have designated people to police douche canoes. Is there a way to form a committee of chosen individuals that one can contact to intervene in situations when someone has proven themselves a certified asshat? What might some possible penalties be for infractions? 

This blog has gone on longer than I originally intended; much longer than my usual 30 minutes or less and satisfaction isn't promised. Wherever you are, little buddy, [probably cracked out on Spark energy supplements] I hope you find your way in the shitty pyramid of health supplements and that you never EVER contact me again. 

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Deranged Shorts by Anxiety Girl

Daymares As Told by Anxiety Girl: Deranged Shorts

I have an overactive imagination and a tendency to pole-vault to the worst possible outcome in any given situation. I manufacture social paranoia on a cellular level. I secrete awkwardness like a perfume. Here’s what happens in my head and what transpires in the real world. Here’s me trying to reconcile the two. These are just a few examples, so enjoy this. It’s taken me many years, but I can laugh at this shit now.

I don’t wear heels very often even though I love the way they make me feel. They elongate my otherwise stubby legs and change the way I walk. They add a certain sway to my gait when worn. I also know they’re doing wonders for my calves and my ass when I wear them. I used to vacuum the living room in them. That’s not a joke. A friend of mine told me once what a great way to practice walking in them it was. I just figured it was working my ass and legs. It was also the safest way for me to wear heels. I’m not very graceful. In fact, if you’re special, you get to call me Grace. If you’re not, I’ll punch you. I’ll probably break a thumb in the process. 

And so begins our worst-case scenario daymares.

I don’t wear heels because I live on the 2nd floor. At some point, I’m going to have to go downstairs. Lest I carry my heels in hand and put them back on at the bottom, my ass is going to have to trudge down those stairs one at a time. Precariously. Sure, there is a handrail, but it would be my luck that the fucking thing comes loose, and I topple over the side and end up in the bushes with my dress around my shoulders. Not so sexy anymore, huh?

There is always the chance that the railing stays firmly in place and I trip over my own feet. Maybe my own weight buckles the heel, I break my ankle, and I fall down the flight of stairs, drawing the attention of all the neighbors. Being embarrassed (as I would be), I would attempt to pop up and brush it off at the bottom as though nothing had happened. Only then would it become apparent that my ankle was broken. I’d fall forward and faceplant, breaking my two front teeth on the pavement. Teeth that I had only recently paid to have crowns placed on. Humiliation and 2k down the drain; sounds about right.

The reality is, I probably make it down the stairs with only a mild anxiety attack. I’ve only fallen once. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I was embarrassed. Yes, I lied about the injury. There was a scar for a while on the bridge of my foot. I told people it was a sex injury. Never straddle someone while barefoot on carpeted flooring. Rugburn is real and it’s happened before so I knew it would work.

Aggressive driving is problem for me. Don’t fucking cut me off. Don’t be an asshole. We’re all trying to get someplace. Why do you think you’re so goddamn special? Entitlement is a motherfucker and I really hate people who think or act as though their plans are more meaningful than my life. That doesn’t make it justifiable for me to speed up and make certain you know that I think you’re a douchebag.

In a perfect world, I’d be able to flash my lights at you and you’d pull over and I’d challenge you to a dance-off or some shit. Maybe I’d immediately be granted 1 free throat punch. That would be ideal. 

I don’t get off on hurting people, but I really think it would teach cunts a lesson about reckless driving. How many times do you have to get throat punched before you learn to merge onto your desired freeway entrance before it becomes a danger for other motorists? Those last-minute 15/78 splitters in the morning really make me want to throw flaming bags of shit. Human shit is fine, I don’t give a fuck!

Here’s what happens in my head though: I’m super confident that said twatwaffle will see I’m serious about my conviction and will back down. TW does no such thing and speeds up even more to make the freeway exit but at the last second slams on their breaks terrified that they’re going to tap the person in front of them. I end up rear-ending the jackass that refused to merge properly and in turn, I am rear-ended. My car spins out and I total my car. 

Dicknose doesn’t have insurance and I’m now out a car. I’ll end up taking the bus because my insurance won’t cover a rental. I’ll probably get mugged on the bus or be witness to some crime while taking public transportation. It’s not that I have anything against public transportation, it’s just how things play out in my head. Meanwhile, that prick is still doing the same shit the very next week.

Cannonballs in the pool: I don’t do them if it’s not deeper than 6 ft. Why? Because I’m 5’7” and even if I tuck my knees, I’m afraid that I’ll injure myself. What happens if I break my legs? Call the paramedics? Cool. They show up, assess the situation and haul me off to the hospital. 

Have you ever tried to get out of a wet bathing suit? Less than attractive. Oh, they cut it off me? Even better, then all my lady parts are all shriveled up like the California Raisins. Ever see a 39-yr. old woman, who breastfed, soaking wet with bathing suit titties? It ain’t pretty. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be the one to take my own suit off and preferably without any mirrors around; I’d like to be able to eat dinner later. 

I think finding a sympathy card for the paramedics who had to undress me would be difficult. Does Hallmark make one that says: Sorry you saw me naked?

There are plenty more Anxiety Girl scenarios. I’ll write more when co-workers aren’t looking for me to do what they pay me for. I have some other shit I’m working on currently also. Being sick really sucked. I’m getting back in the swing of things. Thanks for sticking around.

Monday, January 14, 2019

Oh, no he didn't!

For the last month and a half, I’ve been sick. Not the norm for me type sick; the mentally unstable, liable to snap at any moment sick. I’m talking tissue and copious amounts of over-the-counter medications improperly administered. Truth be told, I’m still on the mend. It’s all good. I have enough antibiotics coursing through my body right now that I’m indiscriminately killing all the flora and fauna in my system. I am literally where things come to die.

After living in pajamas and being nearly surgically attached to my sofa for four days I decided enough was enough; I was going to improperly take more medication. Medication that didn’t even belong to me.

I hate going to the doctor and after being misdiagnosed and spending $146 at Kaiser the last time, I decided they fucking suck and don’t deserve to be honored with my presence or my hard-earned cash. Suck a dick! Luckily my husband stashed some antibiotics from his last go ‘round with a nasty orbital abscess, so it looked like I was gonna kick this sickness in the taint without having to step foot in the germ breeding ground that is the waiting room of my doctor’s office.

After a couple days of being on horse pills, I was starting to feel better. In fact, I was feeling human enough that I decided to go get my nails done. Before you get all self-righteous about how I’m now putting others in jeopardy, just shut the hell up. I wasn’t contagious anymore. I’m a better human being than to risk possibly infecting others with an unknown virus. I don’t do anything half-assed. I make sure I’m all in. I’ll lick your phone receiver and sneeze in your eyes to make certain that the job is done correctly. Oh, and fuck you very much.

Back to my nails, because this is where it gets glorious.

I’m sitting in the chair while Daisy [Daisy is a Vietnamese name??] is doing my nails. We’re having a broken conversation about the Apple Watch and whether I think it would benefit her husband who apparently has clogged arteries. She seems to want to monitor his heart rate and thinks the watch will help with his overall health. At least, that’s what I’m able to gather. I don’t have the heart [no pun intended…really] to tell her that if his heart rate is 184 while walking there isn’t much the watch is going to do to fix that shit. Maybe he should work on diet and exercise. Communication is difficult though – language barriers being what they are. I feel for her. I smile and nod and tell her I love my watch. I hate this fucking thing. It’s always yelling at me to stand up and breathe. Fuck off, I do what I want.

At one point in the conversation though I notice that she’s broken off and is staring at the manager [male] who sits up front watching his iPad. Her jaw has dropped, and she looks pissed! She gets up, walks over to him and quietly scorns him in Vietnamese. Shortly after, Michael [manager] gets up with his iPad and walks to the back of the salon, out of sight and doesn’t return. Now, there is no one covering the counter to handle walk-in clients or answer the phone. Daisy is pissed and she’s quietly talking to the other girls in the salon.

I, of course, can’t make out what they’re saying but I don’t really need to. One needn’t speak Vietnamese to understand that Daisy removed the manager because he was watching something inappropriate on his little iPad. She’s now walking around the salon whispering to other women, rolling her eyes, and making hushed moaning sounds. Then, with a disgusted look on her face, she points to the back of the salon like she’s ordering a dog to its “place” and makes more moaning sounds. It’s like a mini porno in the nail salon. 6 Vietnamese women are snickering while my nail chick is moaning and I’m watching the whole thing unfold in awe. This is fucking fantastic.

Daisy finally calms down and seats herself across from me. She picks right back up talking about the Apple Watch and where to get it – asking about price and telling me about the other watches she’s gotten her husband in the past. She tells me about what a great man he is and the phone he purchased her for her birthday. Daisy, can I just say: I don’t give a flying fuck about your phone. Can we talk about the manager watching porn during business hours and on-site?? That is amazingly bold! Do you think he has a sex addiction? Doesn’t his wife work here too? Where is she and do you think she knows? Oh my God, she’s gonna tear him a new asshole, isn’t she?

I am never getting my nails done elsewhere and from now, going out of my way to make uncomfortable eye contact with Michael every opportunity I get. Best reintroduction to society ever! Thanks, local nail salon – 5 stars!

Thursday, January 3, 2019

And Some Other Shit You'll Never Hear Me Utter

 And Some Other Shit You’ll Never Hear Me Utter

If you’ve spent any time reading even a couple of my previous rants, you’ll understand that I am a blunt force trauma. I am the drunk clown at the birthday party or the sauced-up uncle at Christmas with one too many opinions about minorities who’d do better to keep his mouth shut in the presently mixed company he’s entertaining.

I don’t have anything timely or of grand importance to write about; nothing about the 116th Congress, Pelosi, or anything along spiritual lines. Instead, I bring you more bullshit, because ultimately, that’s what I do best. I offer you some shit you’d never in a million years hear me say; unless I fall off the wagon, that is. Then, all bets are off and welcome to the shit show.

Looking forward to it!
The only time I’ve said this and truly meant it is when I told my now ex-husband that I’d see him in court. I use this sparingly with people and rarely with much enthusiasm or honesty. I can honestly say that I look forward to going home and putting on my pajamas, the rest of the day is just filler. Oh, friends and weekend fun? Yeah, no thanks. That’s why God invented Netflix and other streaming services.

Everyone deserves a second chance
Wrong. I believe people are inherently good at heart, that much is true. There are some people that I feel are beyond redemption though. I get it, I’m not Judge and jury and who am I to declare someone beyond redemption? You draw a big line in the motherfucking sand when you commit heinous crimes though; the nature of which I don’t even want to get into here. When you hurt the young, elderly, or animals in any way – you are beyond redemption in my book. It’s just a matter of how to deal with you. I assure you I judge more harshly than you would think.

No thanks, I’m vegan
I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with being vegan. I, in fact, tried it for a year. It’s a year of my life that I’ll never get back. I’m not really complaining because let’s face it, my life kinda sucks as it is. Real food would have made that year much less crippling though. For a straight year I felt like shit and wanted to cry every time I went out to lunch or dinner and one of my friends would order something with eggs, meat, cheese, cream, or butter [I just had an orgasm]. I even abstained from eating candy with gelatin. Are you fucking kidding me?!
Way to kill the joy in all things food, vegans. Go fuck yourselves!

I’m a tea person
Coffee is what stops me from punching walls or your face. I stopped drinking 5 years ago. I replaced that alcohol with food. Then the food was becoming an issue, so I had to deal with that. Candy became a quick replacement for alcohol sugars and icky feelings I had to deal with. Soon I had to wean myself off that too. Do you realize how much treatment I am undergoing right now? It’s best not to fuck with me, really. My sanity is delicate. Tea is not strong enough to tackle the bullshit that I have moshing around in my brain; I need coffee to go in there and tear shit up. That first sip of coffee calms me the fuck down. Interrupt me and it’s at your own peril – I guarantee you that much. I don’t even drink the shit when I’m sick. Suggest it and I will laugh at you. I put tea bags in my coffee cup. Take your throat coat and fuck off. Come back when you have a real cup of coffee.

I thought I had more to say but I guess I just don’t care enough. Until next time; I’m really looking forward to it!