How about a fucking cookie?

It's been 168 hours since I last posted. I don't keep track. I'm not a psychopath. During that time some major-league shit has gone down. I've refrained from killing or maiming anyone, thus landing myself in jail. I deserve a goddamn cookie. 

About a week ago I was at work when I received a text message from Satan. He told me that he would be moving and taking our son with him. At first, I panicked and thought, ah dammit Imma have to take Satan to court again. As it turns out, the Great Red Dragon was only moving next door. I didn't need to break out my courtroom pantyhose. 

After a brief phone conversation for clarification on the matter, and a great deal of mental happy-place projecting on my part, that son-of-a-bitch decided to fuck everything up. He said 5 simple words. Innocuous enough until placed together. Once strung together in a sentence, more lethal than an untreated hooker in the tenderloin with undiagnosed STD's. He said, "Next year he'll be homeschooled." 

I'm sorry, you're doing what, motherfucker??? I believe that requires some sort of consent on my part. That's what this piece of paper from the court that says, "Joint Legal and Physical Custody" means, does it not? Have I misunderstood the court's ruling or the definition of "Joint Legal and Physical Custody"? 

It was about this time that he decided to boundary check me. He said, "We'll talk about this when you're in a better mood." 

For the record, I had not yet said:

You are an incredible mumbling shit shovel!

I hope you die, you aggravating dicknose toaster.

What gives you the authority, you waffling cumdumpster zombie? 

So, you see, I had kept my shit in check. There was no need to start picking a fight with me. If it was a fight he was looking for though - by God, I was gonna bring it. Like milkshakes to the motherfucking yard! 

We'll have to sit down to discuss the schooling of my spawn for next year. Honestly though, the story got so much more fucked up.

(cliff notes): Satan told my kid about his plans; the kid got excited. He told my brat that I was on board with this bullshit scheme. I had to pulverize my child's hopes and dreams - grind them into dust. I'm now a huge bitch riding an ugly horse named "I Never Really Loved You." My son dreams of emancipation at the old age of 11 and never being told when to shower again. Satan is a shrieking assmaster wallet. 

As I haven't killed anyone yet or threatened to cut anyone, we'll move on. 

Costco on a Saturday. Shitshow, am I right? Why then do I continue to torture myself weekend after buttfucked weekend? It's not for the samples. The only worthwhile samples are at Christmastime. You can argue with me on that one if ya want to. I have my opinions, you do too. Yours are just wrong. 

Each time that I go, it's a Christmas miracle that I don't run my cart into the backs of someone's ankles. Hey, how about you not be an inconsiderate fuck? How about you move your cart from the center of the goddamn aisle if you're going to have a full-blown conversation with Jenny that you haven't seen in 7 years? Mmmmkay? It's called a walkway for a fucking reason - SO WE CAN WALK!!!

Each weekend I convince myself that I love the deals or that I can't live without (fill in the blank). Each weekend I leave with an elevated heart rate and $200.00 less in my account. God forbid I should have to exchange anything. The process is usually fine, but that line is bullshit. I'd rather just gift whatever shitty mishap purchase I made to someone else. I need a berry smoothie just to relax myself after. 

Then there's the depression that's been riding shotgun the last week or so. It's cool when it's just a day or two - I can manage that shit. After a week I'm done playing hopscotch with my negative self-image and self-defeatism. It's hard to be everything to everyone when you're busy convincing yourself you ain't shit and need fucking help. It's hard asking for help when you feel like a princess who's just complained that her feather bed was too warm. So, I'm back to nearly imploding and running people over with my cart at Costco. 

Maybe I'll just save this pent-up rage and hostility for my family sit-down with Satan. Maybe he'd like to take some depression and rage right up his ass? I'll make sure to shove it up there with his homeschool lesson plan and all his manipulations. There's only room for one master manipulator in this broken marriage - that's me! There can be only one. Go fuck yourself.