When I become the
technical support at my work, shit is about to get hairy. I don’t say this for
nothing, but we have a fucking IT department and I am NOT it. When I got hired
on, “fixing your broken shit” was not in my goddamn job description and I certainly
do not see it line itemed on my pay stub, so call someone else when you can’t
figure out why your monitor doesn’t show a picture. Hey, when the man offers me
health coverage, maybe I’ll give a shit that your ACI files are pulling from
the wrong location. Until then, dial up the dudes that get paid for that shit.
They probably have health insurance too.
It’s not enough that I
hold down two jobs [doing both throughout the day at the same time in the same
place, yet keeping the two separate] but I also get the pleasure of being
burdened with a constant barrage of “Hey, do you know why?” questions. Yes, in
fact I do know why. From now on you
may refer to me as ‘The Seer’. I, apparently, am an all-knowing oracle. I
really thought the perks would be better with a title such as this. I can’t
complete one project without some half-wit asking me if I know if he really needs to download the latest
version of Adobe or if the email he just got telling him that he needs to take
some kind of action looks legitimate. Are you fucking kidding me right now?
Shall I wipe your ass too? Here sweetheart, let me cut your steak for you; you might
hurt yourself with that big knife. I was hired to manage the office,
not manage toddlers. This should be very basic stuff, people!
That’s why I don’t mind
writing on company time. If I have to spend 15 mins swapping out a monitor for
you first thing in the morning because you can’t figure out what’s wrong with
yours, I’m not going to feel guilty. I can’t understand how you couldn’t figure
out that your monitor burnt out in the first place. I’m no rocket scientist,
but if it gets power and the screen is blinking but still black, that
signifies to me that maybe that fucker is shot. The funny thing is, I know
the asshole that swapped monitors with him last night.
John came in this morning
and his monitor was unplugged and he couldn’t figure out why. Then he noticed
that his monitor wasn’t working and still, he couldn’t figure out why. John
marched his Beaver Cleaver ass downstairs and pleaded his case with me. There
were only two of us in the office yesterday. I left early because my kid was
sick with a stomach ache and threatening to shit his pants at school. That left
one person in the office with John’s computer. One person to switch monitors when
his burnt out. He did a crap job of putting shit back together and covering his
tracks. C’mon man, gotta do better than that! I’m never taking you as my
wing-man on a heist. We’d be behind bars in a hot second.
Keeping this one short and
sweet as work continues to nip at my heels like disease ridden rats. The next
sonofabitch that asks me some stupid shit like “Do you know why the printer is
making that sound?” is getting a Swingline stapler up the ass. Yes, fuckmonkey,
it’s making that sound because it’s out of paper. Where did you say you got
your degree from?I fucking hate stupid
people.
This is going
to be various random [very random] trains of thought careening into brick walls
at top speed, buckle the fuck up – it’s about to get scary.
Last night I
attended a play with some lady friends of mine. I did not have to pay these women
to go with me. Well… I did pay the parking fee and that was 20 bucks which was
almost what my dinner cost, so maybe I did buy their friendship. Hey, Josiah at
Black Angus, [I like to call it the Black Anus] you need to work on your dinner
service. It should not take 2 hours to flip a table of some bitches that are
not being picky and asking you if they can leave. Take your biblical ass to the
register, print out the magical little slip, that if you bring it us promptly,
and return back to us in a reasonable amount of time, allows for you to receive
a pittance.
As we were
leaving the venue I noticed the people next to me left two wine glasses on the
floor. Full. I’ve not hidden the fact that I’m in recovery - this was, by far, one
of the worst cases of alcohol abuse I have encountered. I’m sure it was shitty
wine, and sure it was served in
plastic cups, but for fuck’s sake – you assholes paid 10 bucks a glass! Chug
that shit! You want to waste 10 bucks? Give it to me. If you’re going to waste
the wine, at least ask if others around you might want it, you thoughtless
selfish fuckers. What is this world coming to? It nearly brought tears to my
eyes. I felt myself walk past the glasses in slow motion, looking back at them
with arms outstretched – like some drama movie where mother and daughter are
torn from each other. I’m suffering the emotional hangover this morning. I
really thought she [lady next to me] and I had a moment when we were singing “Time
of My Life” together in the darkness while her husband sat motionless on the
other side. Fuck you, Wendy [I’ve assigned her this name] you are dead to me
now.
So my brain
works in really fucked up and marvelous ways. On the car ride home my friend
and I are discussing a myriad of topics which included but were not limited to
the following: voyeurism, breast pumping during work meetings, breast milk
being a scent that is inherently repugnant to most everyone and everything save
for children and cats, the nipples of the actor who played Johnny Castle in the
play, and holidays & divorce. That shit can really fuck a kid up in case
you’re curious. It’s not the back and forth that hurts, that shit’s cool – we get to celebrate Christmas twice now. What blows is that my family used to celebrate
Christmas Eve; after the divorce shit got fucked up and we started celebrating
Christmas morning. What the hell??!! Not cool! As my son would say: “Christmas
Day is for chumps.”
About 20 mins
into this hodgepodge conversation, my friend looks out the window and says: “Oh,
look! The carnival! I want to go to the carnival.” My immediate response
without hesitation: “People get kidnapped from carnivals. Fuck that.” Enter
Liam Neeson, just kidding, this blog sucked long before I tried to introduce
the latest installment of Taken. Then, in my head and not out loud [because
my singing voice is shoddy at best at 11pm,] I started singing Carnival by
Bikini Kill. Some of you are scratching your head; don’t worry, I’ll include a
link. You’re welcome.
We circled
back to the couple that left the wine at the theater. That shit was really
traumatic, yo. My friend told me about an incident at a bowling alley when she
attempted to redistribute a half a pitcher of beer that was left behind by the
group in the lane next her. When you’re an alcoholic, normal people leaving
booze behind is really confusing to us. Both of us having been sober for a
while, can laugh about this stuff. We really just want to make sure no cup goes
empty. No one would take her up on this offer though. Wonder why? Some random
chick walking up and down the lanes trying to give away a half a pitcher of
beer seems legit, right? “Hey, want this beer? I didn’t piss in it” is what I
tell her my "sell" would have been. I immediately see that there is a flaw. Why do I
pole-vault over all the other options available? Why not lead with something like:
“I didn’t spit in it”, “I didn’t stir it with my finger”, “it’s just a little
warm”, or “we just have to leave”, etc.? Nope, I immediately jump right in with
both feet: “I didn’t piss in it.” Now, this is all fiction at this point, but
this is where my brain would immediately go first.
I’m that shade of fucked up.
The other day
in traffic I played out an entire scenario. Stop me if you’ve heard this
before.
Me: *walks up
to vehicle, taps on window* Excuse me, yes…you driving this POS 93’ mahogany
Chrysler. I’m going to need you to hand over your license. Nope, don’t give a
shit about your registration, just fork over the plastic and get out of your
vehicle.
Driver of
POS: I’m sorry, I don’t understand.
Me: You
wouldn’t
Driver: Is
this a routine traffic stop?
Me: Routine?
Yes. Traffic stop? No. Get out of the vehicle please; your license is being
revoked.
Driver:
Revoked??? I don’t understand. There has to be some mistake. Why?? I’m not on
any drugs, I don’t have any warrants. What’s going on here?
Me: What’s
going on here is that you’ve proven to be incapable of managing simple motor
skills and rational thinking simultaneously. You, dicknose, have been sitting
in a turn lane at a red light holding up traffic. This is not a “no turn on red”
intersection; thereby YOU have impeded the forward momentum of at least 6 cars
behind you. To make matters worse, you had been traveling at a mind-bending
speed of 21 mph in a 35 mph zone for the last 2 miles on a one lane road. We’re
all real happy about that too. Once the lane opened to an intersection, you
weren’t paying attention because you can’t handle multiple tasks, and got in
the wrong lane, so when the light turned green, you decided to go straight
instead of turning. THAT is why we are here in this moment. Give me your
license now and I’ll let your shit stain Pomeranian in the back window live and
not take him home as a “treat” for my feral back-alley cat, Stella. She’d love
to make it her bitch.
Driver: *copious
blinking*
That’s it.
That’s where the story ends. My light turned green, I guess. I did decide that
I truly think that we need better regulation license issuing. IQ testing and motor
skills function testing; at least if an IQ test is in place I can’t call you a
dumb motherfucker on the road. I have a vision of a happier America. We all get
into our cars every morning to go to our places of employment – or wherever, and
we’re so happy in the knowledge that other people on the road won’t be
douchebags that flowers pop up out of the ground behind us as we drive. Birds
circle us and we sing some happy joyous shit. Maybe some woodland critters come
out and frolic in the…nah…no woodland critters; hunters shot them all down with
big guns and hung them on mantles so other hunters could masturbate all over
their shoes. My bad. I don’t have a
problem with guns. I have a problem with guns in the hands of people who can’t
respect the power that they have and use them to kill arbitrarily. Yes, sport
hunting is arbitrary.
Alright, I’ve
stopped being funny, so I’ll throw in the song I said I would and we’ll call it
quits. But hey, I did say my brain was fucked up and marvelous. You’re welcome to
leave any time you like, but I really appreciate your continued reading.
I’m pretty sure I’m a
reincarnated old Jewish woman. Like super old. I’m sure it’s a lovely religion
and that’s all fine and great, but I’m not speaking in terms of religious practice
per se, so you can stop Google searching recipes for homemade cyanide. Besides,
I’m essentially a Splenda filled cockroach set free on the earth; I can’t be
killed. I am preserved for all time. I’m too young to think, act, and speak the
way that I do. I’m a fucking disgrace to women without pacemakers.
I used to consider
myself a free spirit, open-minded, spontaneous, and maybe even a bit wild. “Used
to” are the operative words in that sentence. The only thing spontaneous about
me these days are my outbursts. Usually they center around what I perceive to
be someone else’s stupidity or how I am inconvenienced by someone else’s mere
being. For example: when I overhear conversations in public situations that are
in direct conflict with my belief system or they’re hateful racist fuckwads,
it takes all the effort I can summon to stay calm and not tell that person why
they should shut the fuck up or go back to eating paste and chalk dust. This is
just me getting warmed up.
Back when I saw myself
as free-spirited I may have said something like “She can dress however she
wants to, it’s her choice to express herself in that manner.” Jewish me is
saying shit like “You should really put some clothes on Miss, the boys will
think you’re one of those easy gals and it’s cold outside; you could catch your
death.” Now don’t go choking on your gum as I just about did. Reality fucking
check! What really happens is I say some shit like this: “What the fuck is
happening here?! This chick has her titties hanging all over the place and I’m
supposed to suspend belief that she’s not just using her body to get attention?
I’ll gather she has nothing of any REAL importance to say with her mouth hole?”
It’s ok though, I guess if I had nothing between my ears and everything in my
bra, I’d play that card too. I’m just jealous. She should still wear a sweater
though, it’s unseasonably cold where she lives and the flu has been really bad
this year. Men, you are absolutely no better. Maybe a little better. I have
drafted a template letter that I will be sending out from now on when I get nude
photos from men. See below:
Dear Sir,
I’d like to thank you for the nude you sent. Sorry I can’t
respond to your email in more depth. I’ve photoshopped the head of someone more
attractive onto your torso and I’m furiously masturbating in the bathroom at
work right now.
Thanks!
On the topic of
open-mindedness; fuck off. I don’t want to hear about it.
We could talk about how
cheap I’ve become, but I’m currently trying to figure out how I can get my
35.00 overdraft fee back from Bank of America. I’ve been on hold with these
shit stains for 20 mins. There was money in the account but it was being held
because they like to hold your money so that they can make interest off it. Anyhow,
a check for my health insurance cleared (thanks for not offering it where I
work, Steve) and Bank of America curtesy paid it, but then charged me 35.00 for
the overdraft. Hey, dicklickers, you’ve been holding on to over a grand of mine
for over a week; go fuck yourselves and give me back my 35 fucking dollars.
I only have one more
thing to say before I end this little shit storm. I’m really fucking tired of
people telling me that I need to think about how what I write here affects
people and their feelings. For the record, I have NEVER used anyone’s birth
name in one of my rants/blogs. People like to tell me that my being so judgmental
isn’t fair. Guess what…I’m not enlightened and life isn’t fair. There is no way
to be all-inclusive of the “feelings” of others and still honor my own. This is
my space to vent the toxic shit that’s on my little heart. You don’t like it?
Don’t read it, but I guarantee that every once in a while you’re going to miss
some funny shit.
When does escapism become a substance abuse problem? Whoa,
heavy shit at 8 am on a Saturday morning? It’s likely not what you think; but
what I say and what I mean are usually ill presented for mass consumption.
I’m not talking about not being able to deal with emotional
shit then chalking up rails to snort in the Jack in the Box bathroom on the
corner of Main St. and 12th Ave. off the back of the toilet. I’m
talking about filing your day with mind numbing and substance-free fodder; or
at least that’s what I was trying to do. I spend countless hours scrolling thru
Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram feeds – reading and posting comments on shit
that doesn’t really affect me and sometimes isn’t even relevant to anything in my
life. Hell, sometimes the shit isn’t even that funny. Why do I do this? To feel
‘a part of’ is my guess. To waste time that could be better spent reading a
self-help book on why I’m such an insecure piece of shit.
Seems pretty innocuous, doesn’t it? Sure, until you start
looking at it as a bigger picture. That kind of behavior becomes the status quo
for how my other relationships form and evolve. I can only speak for myself,
but when I get disenchanted with a person, place, or situation, I “scroll”. When
my attention is no longer held – when I am no longer captivated by the mundane;
I bounce. What’s more is that when I am actively gazing into the screen of
whatever the fuck I’m coveting, I am completely tuned out to what is happening
around me. It should not be news to anyone that if someone with a pulse is
sitting next to you trying to hold a conversation and you’re masturbating your
mobile device – you are a fucking
asshole.
Lately I’ve been trying to find my ‘place’ in certain social
media playgrounds. I’m still the fat girl from elementary school that was
always last to get picked for kickball teams. It’s caused me to become bitter
and blame certain groups for being “clicky” and biased. You know what? All of
that is fucking bullshit. I keep trying to fit a mold in one place that doesn’t
end up working in other places, and when that doesn’t pan out I want to blame
others and cry about shit. I am slow to accept responsibility. It’s like trying
to use my gas card at the grocery store, being declined, and then never going
grocery shopping at that store again because clearly they are the assholes in this circumstance. I only make shit more
difficult for myself and cut myself off from experiences. Who knows, maybe that
grocery store has a great sale on organic tampons and Goldfish crackers next
week and I’d never know because I’m being a petty little bitch.
It’s the same with the friendships that I hold. When I use
mediocrity as a marker, all things suffer. If the basis of our friendship is
our interaction through a social media, or very limited exchanges - if it is
based on an unstated but understood ‘what
you can do for me’ mentality, then we have jack shit to work with and I
will scroll quicker than you can say twat-waffle. Why? I have the attention
span of a 2 yr. old and while it’s something I’m aware of and working on, our
society has made it not only easy, but acceptable, to engage in this kind of
behavior. Go to dinner or any social gathering – look around. How many people
DON’T have their faces glued to their phones? It’s probably easier to count
those individuals. Why am I socially awkward as fuck? I’ve learned how to have
conversations with people through the social awareness programs like Tinder,
Twitter, Facebook and the like where the natural progression is: follow, like,
message, picture of genitals.
Yesterday I was weepy for a bit; like a little bitch really.
I didn’t understand why I don’t have more friends – I’m a nice person. I give a
shit about humanity. I feed the homeless. I would adopt all ALL the shelter
animals if I could. I would give the pants off my ass [the shirt off my back is
so cliché] to my friends, and still I feel like I’m rowing this boat by myself.
SACK THE FUCK UP! If I’m alone, it’s because I’ve ignored the blessings around
me. I’ve sent back the order of awesome that was brought to my table because it
went cold while I was fucking around with my phone. I feel like I’ve been programmed
to believe that if I don’t like the packaging, I can just swipe left or right
and life will serve up something else for me, and that’s horseshit too. Sometimes
you just eat a turkey sandwich or bowl or cereal for dinner. Sometimes it’s
just ramen and you ought to be gracious because ramen is fucking delicious.
I’m not tailoring shit to fit in any longer. I don’t have too
many true friends, but those that I have KNOW me through and through. Faceless
and nameless people shouldn’t matter. I won’t call any of you when my life
crumbles. When my pants don’t fit and I feel extra fat, when I think my kid has
discovered masturbation, or when my boyfriend does some boyfriend shit I hate
[sorry honey,] I won’t be online asking randoms for advice. I’ll be talking to
those three or four friends that I have. When everything else seems so fucking
trite and formulaic, I can count on these people to show me how shake the shit
around in my head like an Etch-a-Sketch. Clean slate.
This has been a deviation from what you’re used to reading
from me. Some of you will appreciate it; some of you will hate it. Some will be
indifferent and some will scratch your heads. That’s cool. I don’t really get
it either. I just know that by sitting here and writing this, I’ve spent less
time engaging in activities that dull the senses, numb the soul, and drop the
bar on my “substance meter.”
After reading my latest blog installment, a friend of mine
told me today that if I didn’t relax, I was going to have a heart attack. Sound
harsh? Maybe so, but it got me thinking. Here’s the materialization of those
thoughts in word form.
I’m old. You may not be surprised by this. I wasn’t shocked
initially either. Then I realized I’m old and
judgmental. I already know I’m going to catch shit for this; I’ll buckle myself
in now.
I see people post things to various media forums and I’m shocked
at the lack of modesty. I’m not a fucking prude by any stretch of the
imagination, but for fuck’s sake, if everything out of the void you call a
mouth is about being horny you’re not leaving much to the imagination. You’ve
also just told me that you are essentially about as bright as an 18 yr. old
boy. Congrats on that. Now, I will admit that usually I’m pissed because it’s a
chick and she has a nice rack – but c’mon ladies…show us what ELSE you’re
working with. Men, you’ve proven susceptible and too gullible to be taken
seriously. Also, if I have to look at one more sideways ball-cap, torso
bathroom picture, or bicep photo in any manner, I will perform my own
hysterectomy with a butter knife and a Flowbee. Like I said; I’m old and judgmental.
I’m no longer suitable for social media.
The other thing I came to understand is that I am pretty
empathetic. Don’t everyone choke on whatever the fuck it is you’re shoving in
your face at once. Please don’t confuse empathetic
with pathetic. While it’s true that I’m
both of these things, the point I’m attempting to make is this: I feel deeply
for and with others. I’m emotionally kicked in the teeth when people are in
pain, when they’re happy I celebrate with them. I’m a fucking sponge and it’s
miserable and fantastic. Depending on the news that day, I can spin into a
depression for a few days if I’m not prepared and not practicing self-care. I
spend an inordinate amount of time pretending that I don’t give a fuck and you
don’t matter. The truth is, it all matters and it all hurts. I think that I’m
attempting to defend myself. In reality, I’m just a tiny human with really big
feelings in a really shitty world. I’m basically a two year old – a two year
old with a fucking foul mouth.
I give a shit. I give a shit about what total strangers think
about me. I don’t know why - if I did, I’d turn that button the fuck off. I’m
concerned with my appearance; not because I want you to think I’m hot like
those bitches on the internet, but because I’m terrified of being the fat kid
in elementary school again. The woman I am today picks her nose in traffic and
takes shitty selfies on purpose. I’m concerned with the people that I care
about. Do they have enough? Do they need anything? Can I do anything to help? I’m
concerned with social programs in my city and state – fuck the rest of you
assholes; take care of your own. I think I give a shit about keeping my job. It
will depend on if that one guy decides to talk politics at the watercooler
again like a dicknose tomorrow morning. I seriously can’t take that shit
anymore.
I don’t really know where any of this is coming from or where
any of this goes. Maybe if I die of a heart attack, I just want people knowing
that underneath all this piss and vinegar I really do have a heart. If you wait
till I’m done yelling about you whoring yourself out on the internet you might
hear me say that you’re so much more than that and that you can do anything you
set your heart to. Just kidding, quit being such a whore and tuck your tits
back into your top. I keep getting random dick pics because dudes assume we’re
all the same when you open your cock pocket and say dumb shit. Ok, now you can
send the hate mail.
I have been downright toxic for approximately 16 days. I’m
not certain if some cosmic bullshit is taking place; some planet is aligned
with some other planet thus souring my chi or if magnetic fields are at work,
but shit is fucked up. Maybe it’s something really simple like: I’ve situated
myself at my desk, doused it in gasoline, lit on fire, and attempted to work
through the flesh consuming heat. Maybe I then invited all my co-workers over
to roast marshmallows over my rapidly decomposing skin sack while asking me
ridiculously redundant questions. Hey, fuckers, ever heard of Google? Could be
just that simple, couldn’t it?
Over the last two weeks I have body slammed three different
people, poked one person in the eyes, and kicked one woman in the twat. I do
this in my happy place. My eyes glaze over while you’re talking to me and I go
to my Utopia. I can’t hear shit you’re saying any more and my imagination takes
over. I love my happy place. Next time I’m there, I’ll try to send a postcard. A
postcard from the edge - that shit was completely unintentional, but unfolded
so perfectly I couldn’t omit it. I’m just over-worked. Cry me a fucking river;
I know how it sounds. I ought to be grateful I have a job. You’re right, I am…but
also…fuck you. It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.
The icing on this shit cake came this morning when I spent 45
mins texting with a PTA demon. Sorry, the head PTA demon of my son’s class.
This bitch is constantly up my ass about one thing or another and today it was
the kids’ PE teacher. Lady, I truly could not give any fewer fucks about PE
teachers at 9 am on Monday morning than I do on this particular morning. I
should never expect anything less from a woman who still wears spandex bicycle
shorts and fanny packs. I’ll give her credit and say that they are at least
leather (or fake leather) packs; no canvas for her. She’s livin large. Stay at
home moms are great, but this one makes me want to have my uterus removed so
there is zero chance that I’ll get pregnant, hormonal, and do fucked up shit
like she does. That boy of hers is going to end up with some serious issues
with women. “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.”
I don’t have anything nice to say, but my mom never fed me
that horseshit line about not saying anything at all if you didn’t have
anything nice to say. My mom wasn’t a fool. Bottom line: life has been super
fucked up and really busy for me lately. I have had some real issues balancing being
a superhero mom, stellar employee [I hear you motherfuckers laughing] and a gracious
and giving [and I am giving] girlfriend. I know it’s been a while since I’ve
written anything and even this probably doesn’t make sense. It’s cool, just go
with it. Just be glad we’re not having this conversation face to face and you
don’t have to watch my eyes glaze over. If you see it though, don’t worry, I’m
just imagining our own personal fight club.
And just as I’m getting ready to close this blog down PTA mom
has begun texting me again. I now understand why she wears bicycle shorts; she’s
always spinning her fucking wheels. For fucks sake, give it a rest!
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 Abbybut 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???!!!
Children are shitty little lie factories. It’s a given that they are going to lie to you. If you
haven’t resolved yourself to this fact of life [starts singing Facts of Life
theme song] then you are clearly forgetting your own childhood,
underestimating the evil in your spawn, and setting yourself up for a lifetime
dependency on antacids and laxatives. You will remain in a perpetual state of
burning rage or contraction.
In a good week, I am able stop myself from lying to people at
least three times. This shit comes at a price. Every time I’m reluctantly
honest, a puppy dies somewhere. Kidding; it’s just a hamster and no one really likes
them anyway - toothy little fuckers. For real, truth is fucking hard, you guys.
No one likes doing real work when the alternate route is a trip to Cancun in comparison.
I always have my bottle of Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion, SPF 4. We’ll gloss
over the shit-ton of times when honesty is indeed the road less traveled by
yours truly. I’m growing spiritually though. Sometimes these growth spurts come
with ease and I feel all Buddha –like and others I feel like someone shoved a
white-hot metal rod right up my ass. Growing up for me didn’t stop at
adolescence; thanks addiction and destructive coping skills! I am an Afterschool Special!
It should come as no surprise to me, getting an email from
my son’s teacher that he’s not completing his homework assignments on time; the
very same assignments that he told me that he a) either never had or b) had
completed. Lying little shit looked me dead in the eye said “Yep, I finished
my homework. I finished my math homework.” As his mother, I knew EXACTLY what that meant. You have to
know what to listen for. So, what other homework was there?“Oh, I guess I still have 30
mins of online compass learning.” Oh, you guess? You evasive little
shit! Sit the fuck down and stop trying to play me like a chump.Clearly I don’t talk to my
child like this [all the time] hence the lack of quotation marks around my
responses, for those of you that literary minded. I was calm, but firm. I made
sure his homework was done, but I really, really wanted to shake the little
turd. Don’t lie to me. You’re not good at it, and you’re essentially telling me
that you think I’m a moron. I’m not a fucking moron. I gave birth to you; I
know your moves before you make them. I laid down the framework for your DNA. I laid down
the framework for your DNA – fuck me.
It’s almost comical to watch him fumble around his lies.
Fumblefuck: new term - watch it blow up. The shit he thinks now is so important
to hide, is so damn trivial, but I’m not going to waste too much energy trying
to convince him of that. I already had the talk where I tell him that I
appreciate honesty, that lying makes trust harder in the future, and that these
things are minutia in comparison to the car he’ll total or the girl he’ll get
pregnant. I told you that I’m in the running for Mother of Year, right? He
still thinks he needs to lie about a little hole he put in the wall [because
maybe the cat did it] and whip cream that is missing [because again, the cats
did it with their brand new opposable thumbs]. It’s wrong that I enjoy watching
him tangle himself in his bullshit every so often, isn’t it? So much of me in
him… so fucked…
So here we are: all privileges revoked. This is horrible.
This is why I wish he wouldn’t lie to me. I’m miserable. We now have to “do stuff”. He’s insufferable, I’m miserable, and we’re doing it “together.” This
sucks balls. My 10 yr. old is teaching me a valuable lesson about truth. If I
am not honest, there is a good chance that I’ll be forced to interact with
people as punishment. I think I’m ready for a some changes. I’m pushing my
personal limits. New goal: 6 occurrences of reluctant honesty per week from my current 3. I
don’t always “honest” well, but I sure as fuck don’t “people” any better. When
the student is ready, the teacher appears. Thanks, kid!
So, I got this email the other day. Please feel free to enjoy it as much as I did. (copied from my email)
Hi,
My name is Iris and I'm reaching out to you on behalf of a team of professional content writers. I came across your site, and I wonder if you accept articles from guest writers at all? If so I’d like to offer to contribute an article to your site.
Benefits to your site:
High quality and fresh content for your site
Well written and relevant to your audience
SEO optimised article
If you’re interested, let me know and I can get some content ideas over to you!
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes,
Iris (and the Content team)
Next, please see my response. Maybe Iris deserves a break, but I'm thinking "not so much." (copied from email)
Iris,
I'm terribly sorry that you stumbled upon my little excuse for a blog page, that's about 40 mins of your life you'll never get back. As to whether or not I accept work from other writers...
It's clear you haven't spent much time on my page. I have appx 14 people who read my shit. Adding your people to my blog would only do them and their work a disservice. My "audience" consists of my two cats, my boyfriend and my 10 yr. old son - wouldn't want to lose your people/product in all that commotion.Thanks though; awfully human of you to reach out.
If my "site" starts getting more viewers I'll be sure to keep you in mind. For now, I'd just like to make sure that I'm able make the rent and I'm fortunate enough to have a different flavor of ramen each night.
Best wishes in your search,
Me (and my cats)
I may have come off as ungrateful with Iris, but I assure you, I appreciate all 12 of you. Thanks for your continued reading.
Does getting older come with its own set of rules and
regulations? A handbook, or owners’ manual, if you will. This is a very fucking serious question I’m posing
here. I’m pretty clear that at some age [yet undetermined as I clearly haven’t
reached it] someone shoulder taps you and asks you to turn over the operation
guide you’ve been functioning with and hands you a new one. It’s the only explanation
I’ve got for the horsefuckery that I’ve witnessed with old people.
Yesterday I went to the grocery store to rent some videos and
retrieve supplies to get me through the near deadly round of the flu that I was
gifted. Don’t jump down my damn throat; I was careful not to spread contamination.
I only touched what I bought and only licked and carefully placed where I
wanted others to find, that which I hoped would make my intended targets ill.
It was planned though, so it’s all good. That blonde that chewed her gum too
loudly and obnoxiously took selfies had it coming; “maybe” I had to sneeze. “Sometimes”
you can’t direct those things – at least that’s how it went down in my
fantasy-land. She was horrifying though, that part was real. I stumbled through
the store in a daze on a mission to retrieve a few measly items and when I had
gotten them into my arm-cart aka basket, I made my way to the check-out.
We’ve established that I have an arm-cart. I’ve just coined
this term by the way, so when this shit blows up later, you know where it came
from. You’re welcome. Arm-cart, remember that. Let me paint you a picture:
sweat pants, wet hair, vacant stare, t-shirt and probably a little drool from
the left…no right corner of mouth. Got it visualized yet? Great. I have a fire
log and frozen lasagna in my arm-cart so obviously I’m in great shape. I’m now slow
motion walking towards the register. From the canned foods aisle comes
speedracer with her wheelie cart; we’re both headed for the express lane. There
is a brief moment of hesitation when we see what’s about to happen; one of us
is about to take our earrings off.
This hoe has hella shit in her “for real”
cart. I am about to die with my two motherfucking items. She doesn’t hesitate
and pulls her Cadillac in ahead of me. How is this ok? Is there a supermarket
police? You dirty old bitch! Swear to God, if my mother didn’t raise me to
respect old haggard ass ladies such as yourself and I wasn’t about to die of
consumption, I would club you with this frozen lasagna. But I’m a grown-up, so
I keep my mouth shut and just huff loudly. I cannot roll my eyes hard enough;
they hurt too badly. I’m not sure this old lady can see me through the 15
layers of makeup she’s wearing anyway. Avon hasn’t made that shade in at least
12 years so I know she’s dedicated to her causes, I don’t know if I really want
to get into a fight with her; she goes the distance.
I stand there patiently waiting my turn, when the next person
takes their place in line behind me. I turn around to see that this person has
but one item. I glance at her to notice that she is wearing the store uniform.
Deductive reasoning drops me off at the conclusion that she works for the store
and that this is her lunch break. It’s a cup-o-soup. I let her go ahead of me. Hey! Did you see how that worked you old hag? That’s called
curtesy and decency. Try it sometime. As I left the store that employee was filling
her soup with hot water at the Starbucks and as we passed she looked me squarely
in the eyes and said “thank you so much for letting me go ahead of you, we only
have short breaks; I really appreciate it.” Yeah, that owners’ manual you get
that allows for douchiness as you age; you can keep it. I’ll keep my scruples.
