Nama-fucking-ste

So, the portion of this blog that I was hoping to expand and call ‘Tell me, Tina’ isn’t taking off. This would have been like a ‘Dear Abby,’ where readers would submit questions and I would answer - either by written blog or video response. I say like a Dear Abby but it would for sure be way more fucked up. Apparently, everyone has their shit together though, because I have yet to see one fucking email seeking guidance. Jokes on you guys - it’s my turn. It seems my life is a total fumblefuck as of late, so…let me vent a little. Tina tells it.

Before I even start this shit, I’m going to tell you that I don’t do yoga, regardless of how many pairs of the damn pants I may or may not own. Don’t even start in on me with your crap about how it will “center and balance” my bullshit. I’m not hearing it. Outside help you say? You want to pencil that in for me when??? I work two jobs and have a 10 yr. old boy. I get up at 5 am and go to sleep at 9:30 pm. I am barely able to pull dinner together by 7:30 or 8. I’m ill-equipped to deal with my child’s common core math and if you attempt to make me schedule a therapist appointment that I can’t afford, I will legitimately have a nervous breakdown. I will make every effort to drive to your house first; I want to make sure I do it in your living room during your dinner.

I know I’m sour as fuck. I’m sitting in my chair typing this and watching my neighbor circle the condo complex like he’s the fucking neighborhood watch program. I know he has a little notepad where he keeps a list of all the infractions he encounters and reports back to the board. If I didn’t think he had a camera on his front porch I’d take a dump on his welcome mat. His mom may open the door at any given moment though; if he doesn’t have her chained to the hospital bed, that is. I’m heartbroken that his shoes are actually pretty dope.

My kid continues to lie to me about mundane shit. I so thought I had more time before this nonsense started. The little shit is only 10. At 10 I was still trying to gain approval and people please. This little fucker is bold-faced lying. At this rate he’ll be stealing my car by the time he’s 13 and hooked on booze or oxy by 14. He’ll get some chick named Tilly pregnant at 16 and we’ll all be rich by the time he’s 17 because they’ll end up on some reality show. That won’t matter though because he’ll do something stupid and end up in jail and I’ll spend what’s left of the money on make-up that I don’t know how to apply via Amazon. I’m agoraphobic by now and never leave my home. He’ll be in and out of jail for the rest of his adult life. He’ll always send cash my way when he’s out though. I won’t ask questions about where it came from. Way to go little man!

There is always that one person, that when you think about them, you want to take off your long gloves and slap them repeatedly in the face with them. That one individual that is so self-righteous and pious that the only acceptable course of action is to elbow smash them in the side of the face then throw up on their shoes the very next time that you see them, so that there is no mistaking the feelings they evoke in you. No ambiguity what-so-ever. I’m all about clarity and transparency. Ringing headaches and turning stomachs. Maybe I’m the only one that has one of these? I’m working on it. I’ll get through it. I’m relying on yoga and therapy with a qualified professional.

So, I’m doing well…as I was saying. Clearly, things are fabulous. Life is amazing. I’ve never been happier. Since no one wanted to utilize the ‘Tell me, Tina’ option that was made available to them in a previous blog, [which is understandable given the tangent I just flew off on] I decided to unload. I must say, I feel lighter. Thanks for that. I can see now why no one wants me advising them in any way, shape, or form as to how to maneuver their way through life. For fucks sake, I’m ready to take a shit on my neighbor’s door step. His shoes, and the fact that his mother is a hostage in that house are the only things saving his ass; I’m not that camera shy. Just ask my friend with the vomit on her shoes how photogenic I am, she’ll have plenty to say about my character. It may be hard to hear her though; she’ll have to yell down at you from way atop her high horse. Shit…there I go again. Where the hell are my fucking yoga pants???!!!

~Nama-fucking-ste~