Social media zen

I decided to conduct a little experiment. I recently cut back on my social media masturbation. I decided that there must certainly be better things to do with my time than troll shitty posts made by shitty people; thereby making me, a shitty person. This is that account.

There are several social media sites that I toy around with. Some are easier to stomach than others. Reddit is easy. It’s for cute clips of animal videos and the like. That’s all I use it for. I don’t engage with others on this site. I don’t read bullshit comments and I don’t care about cliques or groups. In fact, my husband does most of the research & development for me – he’s usually the one to send me video clips. Our relationship works best when he does the heavy lifting.

Facebook is high school where everyone is running for class president. Everyone is a fucking expert and their ideas just need to be heard. Above all else, their opinion is King Shit. Sprinkle some political Kool-Aid in there, add a pinch of intolerance, a huge helping of ignorance, and there you have it – Facebook.

Twitter – at least here people are straight up about not giving a shit about you. Unlike Facebook, messages of support and well-wishes are few and far between. If you get one, you can almost be certain that shit is for real and not some fake, bullshit, comment someone posted while eating a sandwich & watching a video of a cat and a hamster playing together. If someone on Twitter takes the time to write something kind instead of “Quit crying, it’s not like I fucked your Mom again,” chances are, they meant it. For this reason, I enjoy Twitter. I can count on people being openly hostile. I’d much rather have someone tell me to go fuck myself than have them feed me some bullshit about “Hope you feel better soon. If you need anything, just ask,” and when I do, they fucking ghost.

Change was imperative. I was getting sucked into the back and forth drama of people who couldn’t spell correctly and were arguing against their own interests, but clearly weren’t aware of it. Easy fucking words too. I won’t go into much detail just in case you’re one of the unfortunate assholes I’m talking about. It must be a terrible way to find out that you’re stupid; reading my bullshit blog and finding yourself here. Oh, fuck, there I am.  *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* So I set out to make changes with the best intentions at heart.

I thought that if I stopped logging onto these social media sites I would be forced to get in touch with nature. I would spend more time outside. Maybe I’d be mindful or whatever the fuck spiritual bitches do. I pictured myself going on some earthy hike and munching on granola. Maybe I’d take a break and meditate on some rock and joggers and bicyclists would pass behind me and be like, “Wow, that chick is deep and grounded.” I’d be all Zen and one with the universe. The key to earth’s mysteries would unlock themselves. But that’s not what happened. Not. At. All.

My “refresh” finger has been super itchy. I’ve tried flipping through pages on the Kindle. Not. The. Same. I’ve tried flicking my kid in the ear. I think that’s child abuse. I tried borrowing a book from the library and turning pages in real a book and while that’s slightly more satisfying, I’m not enlightened, I have no desire to eat granola, and the world still perplexes me. So, I’m no closer to being better than any of you. What’s the point in punishing myself then? I was happier sitting on my couch yelling into my phone about some twat not understanding what the hell they were talking about and why don’t they just walk off a bridge. *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* What else did I do with my time?

I was able to spend a shit-ton of time invested in mediocre films on Netflix. A big thanks for that. I rented films from the Redbox that I returned on time. Probably because they sucked, and I had nothing better to do with my time. I did a lot of running, not outdoors like I thought I would, because that would be too outdoorsy. I ran inside on the treadmill where I could compete with the jerks next to me. I’m so fucking far from spiritual. I’m not sure why I ever thought this experiment would work. Bottom line: I’m just a miserable bitch. Social media doesn’t change that. If anything, staying engaged keeps me from interacting with the public, and that’s probably best for all involved.

The microwave standard

I probably shouldn’t be a dick about this, but let’s talk about the office microwave.

Listen, if I wanted to drink an El Monterey egg & sausage burrito, please know that I’m fully capable of making that happen all on my own. But when you, office co-worker, stink up the microwave with your hydrogenated trans fat, artery and ass blaster, you kill my coffee. Every. Fucking. Time. My chamomile tea tastes like artificial egg and rabbit pellet sausage. That shit they’re calling cheese is a crime against humanity, and you’re leaving remnants of it on the turn table because you’re so fucking eager to put that brick of death into your stomach that you can’t clean up after yourself. And now what? Now, my coffee cup is stuck in that primordial ooze. What a lazy and inconsiderate piece of shit you are. Shit in, shit out, as they say.

The inside of our microwave here looks like someone stuffed a Gremlin in it and turned it to the popcorn setting. I refuse to clean the shit though. I don’t even like cleaning the microwave in my own home, I sure as shit don’t intend to clean up after a bunch of grown ass men who refuse to grab a spray bottle occasionally. For fuck’s sake, we have Clorox wipes! It’s not even a multi-step process; ya lazy bitches.

I don’t care if the science project growing in there makes all these guys sick, it’s not as if I didn’t warn them. What I do give a shit about is the integrity of my coffee. I’m 38, I don’t drink anymore, I’ve given up the hoards of candy I was eating, and I don’t put shit up my nose anymore – let me have my coffee, I don’t have much else that I derive enjoyment from. 

I will re-heat my cup of heaven three or four times. I truly want to savor it. I tune you assholes out when I drink my coffee too. I may look at you, I may even nod, but I haven’t heard a damn word. That’s how it ought to be.

Most often in workplaces you hear rules put into play about the reheating of fish or vegetables. I, personally, would rather have you use the microwave for these purposes than to zap your prepackaged sodium stink bombs. Your leftover Tilapia and broccoli aren't likely to leave crusty cheese on the tray or exploded pepperoni on the sidewalls of the microwave. If it does, you’re more likely to clean that shit up out of shame and incomprehensible demoralization. No one likes to be the person that brought the banned food AND left it painted all over the inside of the communal cancer spreader.

The stuff that’s growing stuff in our microwave has started growing its own little baby stuff. Our microwave is an ecosystem. Scientists are going to be contacting us to harvest Penicillium from John’s crusted cheese, Tim’s lasagna sauce, and Steve’s pepperoni explosion. Fuck it, maybe I’m the asshole here and should just let these guys contribute to science. I’ll get a single burner coffee warmer for my desk and shut the hell up about it.

It’ll be lunchtime soon. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what anyone puts in that hotbox, it must all come out tasting like El Monterey, Italian mold, and plastic eggs. Glad I stick to a strict diet of swear words, caffeine, and 7-11 bought delicacies.

Practiced restraint - a day at work

It’s shameful the amount of joy I derive from catching fools in their bullshit or bold-faced lies, truly. In my personal life, I love being able point out the errors in what you thought was a well-laid out plan. Here, dumbfuck, let me show how that was never gonna work. When it happens in my professional life it’s like winning the fucking lottery.  

I’m not a patient person; it’s in line with that of a 4-yr. old with a full bladder and toys in the shopping cart that need opening. Gratification, now! Answers, now! Action, now! Sometimes it’s as simple as fuck off, now! I don’t let that get in the way of doing a good and thorough job, however. So, when you tell someone that I haven’t completed a task you stand to gain from financially if I were to fuck it up, believe I will challenge you.

I’m anal retentive about my work. A monkey could do this job. A smart monkey, but have you seen primates in the wild? Resourceful motherfuckers! Don’t pay attention to zoo primates, that’s an act. They play dumb on purpose. They’re getting paid extra for the antics they put on, don’t be fooled. That’s terrible and I’m going to Hell for the insinuation that they’re there voluntarily. Add it the list of horrible shit I’ve done or said. I’ve lost count but I’m sure someone out there is keeping track. I’m anal retentive about a job that is remedial, so when you say I haven’t fulfilled my duties, you’re damn straight I’m offended.

Today at work some asshole decided that they’d try to take advantage of the system. Asshole, I am the system. I guess they figured some 15-yr. old was on the other end of the email chain and would rather upload photos to their Instagram account than take the time to do a little research on the matter at hand. This unscrupulous piece of shit wrote a letter declaring their discontent with our corporation because we hadn’t refunded them. They were still receiving the product they had asked to have cancelled months ago and were still waiting on the refund. Here we go…

I’m certain these shady shit bags don’t think someone will spend the time chasing down payment details on a check that’s almost three months old and only $59.95. I certainly don’t get paid enough to do it. Wanna know why I do it? Because I’m a perfectionist and I absolutely love receiving the email confirmation from my girl at the bank with the endorsement on the back showing that this lying piece of shit deposited our check into their account the day after they got it. I want to circle their signature and email it back to them with the words: YOU LYING COCKSUCKER on it, but I’m pretty sure that’s bad for business and we may get another “bad” review. At the very least I think I’m owed an apology. Maybe they ought to buy my girl at the bank a Starbucks card too, that seems fair.

So, from where I stand, you’re still getting the product AND you got your money back? Maybe you owe us a little sumthin, huh? Next time you decide to try to pull one over on someone, do it to someone who isn’t completely neurotic and hellbent on proving themselves right. Or maybe just try being a decent human being who doesn’t try to scam the system, you morally bankrupt bucket of monkey feces.

ich verstehe nicht

There is nothing I love more than being told I understand something that I’ve just finished explaining I don’t.

It’s not humiliating enough for someone like me to look another person in the eye and say, “Yo, I don’t get it, do you think you could explain that to me?” I want to make sure there isn’t a shred of self-confidence left, so can you look at me like I’m an imbecile and insist that I do? That would be great, thanks!

Most people don’t have the issue that I do with admitting that a concept is beyond their grasp. I would rather saw off my own foot with a marginally sharpened popsicle stick. When I tell you that I don’t understand something, I’ve already had 17 internal conversations and played out at least a dozen scenarios where I have lied to you about my knowledge and comprehension. That, in and of itself, is impressive. Now, you want to add water to my grease fire? Okay, but I can’t guarantee your safety.

My sanity on any given day is delicate at best. I’m never certain when I wake up if I’m going to feel like I can take on the world or if a pet food commercial is going to make me cry and question societal norms. You’re better not speaking to me until after you’ve established the following: a) have I been to the gym? b) have I had coffee? c) am I menstruating? You want the answers to the first two questions to be yes, and if you really need help with the third, then you deserve whatever fresh hell I serve you.

I was in a relatively good mood today. I say “relatively” because with me, it’s always relative. Are you hungry? I could eat. Are you in a bad mood? I’m not in a terrible mood. Relative: it keeps me from resolve or backing myself into a corner of being one way or the other. It allows for wild mood swings. I change moods quicker than soccer moms change panties in park bathrooms after the game before going home to their husbands. Like most things though, it was relative, so its lifespan was short lived.

Presented with a task I didn’t understand, we locked eyes and I said those three magic words. I. Don’t. Understand.

The nerve of this motherfucker! I was in disbelief…

Me: I don’t understand.

Them: Yes, you do.

Did you not just hear me say that I didn’t understand some shit? Sound the fucking trumpets! Don’t stand there looking at me like I’m speaking another language. My ass will jump on Amazon and purchase you Rosetta Stone – which edition do you need? Clearly, we have a breakdown in communication. I’d like to help resolve it, but I’m not certain I can do anything about it without either bawling or throwing something directly at your face. Jail time is probable for me. I’m already thinking of places to bury the body.

I’ll wait till they leave the room to start throwing shit…they’re bigger than me. I’ve already copped to being stupid, my ego can’t take my losing a physical fight too.

Note to self: always fully sharpen popsicle sticks and keep several on my person.

Cat tinder

On a scale from 1-10 how pretty is your pet’s anus?

Don’t re-read that, you read it correctly the first time. I want to know if your pet has a pretty asshole. Not pretty, like you want to thumb it, but is it aesthetically pleasing enough that you’d consider adopting it from a shelter? Is it so disgusting that you’d leave the poor beast to live out its days in confinement, or at least until some other lonely bastard with failing eyesight wanders in and, being unable to stand another night of Swanson TV dinners in front of Wheel of Fortune alone anymore, walks out with a new companion. A new companion with a gaping asshole.

I was talking to my husband last night; I try to do that about once a month. We have sex about as often. Keeps the marriage alive and my name fresh in his mind. That time he called me by some other bitch’s name was awkward and uncomfortable for both of us. We were discussing our none-too-bright cat. We adopted the little bag of shit and catnip from the shelter about 3 years ago. I don’t regret choosing him, I regret not interviewing other cats for the position more thoroughly. Pickings were slim at that shelter, but was I hasty?

We walked through the shelter and did a meet and greet with several potential roomies. Many of them were very sweet. There were a few that I would have taken in a heartbeat had it not been for some serious deal breaker shit. There was a bonded pair; that was unfortunate. One was super fucking cute and I would have snatched in hot second, the bonded cat however, was bonded for a reason. No one was going to adopt that sad sack of shit as a standalone. I’ve seen prettier sewer rats.

Two doors down there was a lovely Calico. I love Calicos but wasn’t fond of the formation of this one’s markings. They were asymmetrical in a way that really bothered my OCD. I wanted to rearrange all the little patterns on its body. The light and dark patterns seemed off balance and it was really pissing me off. I drew a big line through that cat’s name on my mental list.

Then there was the white cat. Soft and perfectly gentle. No asshole in their right mind with a wardrobe like mine adopts a white cat. When you own more black clothing than a Catholic woman in a perpetual state of mourning, you DO NOT adopt a white cat, unless you’re braindead. I told myself that I could make do with lint rollers. I’d keep tape in my car and at my desk, it would just become a way of life. Then the cat meowed. Nope. Fuck off. Get lost. Eat shit and go fuck yourself. If New Jersey had a sound, you, my little furry friend, would be it. I won’t bring that hostility into my home. Next!

The last cat before Mugen.

My husband and I had already visited with all the cats once over. There was one left. I had saved what I thought would be the best for last. I have a fondness for orange cats. There he was. My knight in shining armor. He was going to be our hero of the day. We walked into the kennel to make our introduction. First sniff. Okay, rad…that went well.

I’ve heard him meow. Sweet! He has a tolerable sound. I don’t want to drop kick him. This is going swimmingly! I feel so good about this meet and greet. My husband lets me do my thing. You see, this was my idea and he understands that if I don’t get my cat, I’m going to be a total bitch. I’m talking bitch on an insufferable scale. So, my husband is in the corner watching. I’m playing with the cat. It’s a Garfield cat; a bit on the chunky side. Even chunky cats need love. It’s cool. Garfield and I are talking, and things are well. Then it happens, he turns around. It’s. Fucking. Over.

This cat has the most enormous ass I’ve ever seen. Protruding anal glands are now visible. I back up a full three feet and exclaim “Whoa, what the fuck is that?!” The shelter volunteer looks and assures me that it’s normal. Not in my world, lady. Protruding anal glands are about as “normal” and acceptable to me as a vestigial tail. So, you, lady, can go fuck right off and take me back to the cat with no fur on his hind legs. The one that looks like a bag of bones. I want that one.

I’m shallow as a motherfucker and will not, no matter how much I love orange kitties, bring an abomination with swollen anal glands into my home. I don’t want it dragging its nasty ass all over my furniture. I don’t want to feel its little asshole on my thigh when it sits in my lap. We just can’t do any real bonding that way. No Sir, you can keep your ugly ass right here in this shelter until someone with failing eyesight comes in and with great mercy, takes you home. Remember to be grateful to that blind sonofabitch. I know I am.

Is bleaching your cat’s ass considered animal cruelty? Oh, go fuck yourselves, it was just a hypothetical.

and judgement for all...

People say “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” Those people are a) balls deep in self-deception, b) usually the first motherfuckers to grab the heaviest stones to cast, or c) so busy seeing everyone as equals that they didn’t notice their wallet just got lifted by the unassuming elderly man they were talking to in the doctor’s waiting room. This is real life, not fiction. If you want a perfect society go read H. G. Wells, A Modern Utopia.

I try not to judge too much. I try; doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. When it does, it’s typically funny as hell. I’m human – I won’t apologize for that shit. I’ll also judge the fuck out of you if you look like you’ll beat and rape me on a city bus or if you have a tattoo anywhere on your body that’s incorrectly spelled. The first is self-preservation; the latter is common fucking sense. You paid for that? No one has told you it’s wrong yet? You need friends of a better caliber and to crack a book once in a while.

There is a base level of healthy judgement that is necessary to properly navigate through society. The stuff that keeps you from getting shanked, robbed, or otherwise endangered. Anything beyond that, you’re judging not for perseverance, but for amusement. This is where I’m most culpable. I build entire storylines around the unfortunate souls that I single out. I bet you’re wondering if I might have an example for you. *wicked grin* Silly bitches, you know I do.

Two days ago, at the gym, I saw a CHUD in the flesh. If you’re unfamiliar with this term, a) I’m sorry, and b) now that you do know, I’m even sorrier. You’ll want to watch the film – do so at your own risk. CHUD is an acronym for Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller. There is a movie, it is terrible, you should see it, and they are real. This dude looked like he fell off the inbred truck and then got beaten mercilessly with the stupid stick. Speak up…I can’t hear you. Be more descriptive? Alright…buckle in.

Lurch was about 5’11” and a nice egg shell shade of white. He had long limbs, almost arboreal in appearance. They were much too long in proportion to the rest of his body. He was bald. Bald like he at one point had the Caesar balding pattern, but one night, after too many Coors Lights, he decided to Bic the rest of his head. Now his dome reflects the florescent lights from above.

Lurch is sporting some glasses from 1984, the kind your PE coach wore. In fact, I think I just nailed it. Lurch was your gym coach. He’s wearing the athletic shorts and the basketball t-shirt you’d expect him to be wearing. Even though he’s not got them on today, he looks like the kind of asshole who’d wear black socks pulled up to mid-calf with white shoes. Ladies, are your hearts palpitating yet? Are you wet? Fuck! I almost made myself throw up.

By far, the smoothest thing about him is the way he chews his gum. I can’t stop staring. He’s an open-mouth gum chewer. It’s obnoxious. Fuck that, it’s repugnant. This motherfucker smacks his jaw around in a circular, slack-jawed motion, all the while, rolling his tongue around the inside of his cavernous facehole. I’m torn between being fascinated and wanting to vomit.

Clearly, a mental giant, he has spent two minutes on a broken treadmill pushing buttons. The fucking thing isn’t lit up at all, nimrod. All the other ones have pretty lights on them that make up words like “begin” and “workout,” I wonder what it means if yours is all dark and unresponsive? Was this what the end of your marriage was like? You kept trying to turn something on that just wasn’t having it?

After a painful two minutes on one machine with no success, he moved over one machine. Guess what? That machine was broken too. And here we go again. Pushing a rock, pushing a rock, pushing a rock. I watched Lurch try to will another treadmill to life for two minutes. It’s like he couldn’t remember what had just transpired with the one immediately to his right. I gotta wonder what was in the water that his mother was drinking while she was carrying him.

Don’t judge a book by its cover? Okay, but I’m pretty sure I nailed this one.

*I saw Lurch yesterday and secretly photographed him, just in case he turns out to be the next Loch Ness.

**I’m still fully aware of my reserved seat in Hell

            

a very Maury wedding

When my husband and I first got married we exchanged vows in the hospital room of his father who had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. There wasn’t much time and we made certain his father would be able to witness the occasion. 

We had known we were going to make one another miserable for the rest of our natural lives, we just hadn’t set a date yet. This was God telling us, “Here’s your sign.” We decided that when we got back home, to California, we’d have a separate celebration for friends and other family members who weren’t in attendance the first time around. Here’s how I want this shit to go down.

I’d enjoy it very much if one of our friends would perform the “ceremony.” Bear in mind, we’re already married, so this little performance is just for shits and giggles. Preferably more giggles than shits. In fact, I’d like our officiant to roast us. Perhaps draw some attention to Kevin being my last resort. No one else will put up with my bullshit attitude and increasingly droopy ass, or my laughable excuse for breasts. We can all have a laugh at my idiosyncrasies and some of my complete failures.

Once we’re done with me, we can focus our attention on Kevin. We don’t have the time for all of that today though. I’ve promised to not write for longer than 30 mins. a sitting. We could be here a while and I’m just not that dedicated. Doesn’t bode well for our marriage if I’m not “dedicated” to writing for longer than it takes some places to deliver a pizza.

Guests should be comfortable, so please, wear superhero attire of choice. If superheroes aren’t your gig, fictional character of preference will do just fine, but for God’s sake, don’t show up as yourself! Nobody wants that. You don’t even like yourself, what makes you think any of my guests will? If you truly insist on coming without costume and ruining everything, you’d better have a dog with you; something we can all focus on instead of your glaring defects.

I would typically invite our asshole friends out to a nice sit-down dinner somewhere, but I just remembered – I’m poor. So, we improvise. I bring my Grandma down from the Bay Area and have her cook for all of us. Why? Because she will, and I can yell at her that there’ll be time to cry about her arthritis later - flip those damn tortillas!!

This is a good time for me to whisper to my husband that I plan to get fat. Super morbidly-obese fat. Beyond that type of fat. Like, I looked that classification of fat in the eye, winked at it, and rang my little bicycle bell at it as I rode past it chasing the ice cream truck. It’s a dream of mine. I want to have a talk show dedicate an episode to me. They’ll live film a crew of first responders coming in to rescue me from my home. Then, months, and maybe even years later we’ll do follow up episodes. The initial episode will be enthralling though. The jaws of life will be needed just to wrestle the pork chop from under my arm and the bag of sour cream and cheddar Lays from my right hand. I tell my husband all of this slowly and deliberately then take three solid steps back to examine his face. Priceless. My whole life has been leading up to this moment.

I’m a terrible person for the shit I say. I’ve made peace with it. Apparently, you have too, or you wouldn’t still be reading this crap. Anyhow, my 30 minutes are up. My wedding is going to be great…again. It was perfect the first time, this time it’ll just have attitude, cosplay and pets.

Ms. Tina's Neighborhood

“That looks dumb,” is what my 11-yr. old son said this morning of the grown ass man walking around our complex’s parking lot at 7:45 with sunglasses on and can of beer in his hand.  

I like to take it a step further and build a story. You can’t do that, you might say. You can’t assume things about people; you don’t know what they’re going through. Can’t I though? I can, and I did.

"Tanked Thomas" is meandering through our parking lot this morning trying to avoid the bustling within his household. His wife, a nurse, is getting ready for work. She’s passive-aggressively banging shit around the house to ensure he’s awake and aware of her state of unhappiness.

See, Thomas was up late again last night putting away beer after shitty canned beer, becoming increasingly frustrated at the television and most other electronic devices he owns.

Thomas crushes beer cans and leaves them where he stands, or swerves. Like a trail of bread crumbs in Hansel & Gretel, they litter the floor to the bathroom and kitchen, then to the back patio where he furiously smokes and curses his shit luck and his stupid life. Someday people are going to respect Thomas. Some fine day, but not today. Today he’s just pissed in the back corner of his patio.

Poor unemployed and pathetic Tom was fired because of his alcoholism. He has some rage (he prefers to call it an attitude problem) issues also. Thomas fails to see how putting your fist through drywall at work on a few occasions while actively hung over could land you in the employment demographic. He’s gonna slash his former employer’s tires.

Now Thomas shuffles around our apartment complex at 7:45 am in sunglasses and shorts, carrying what I’m certain is a lukewarm beer. I know this with near certainty.

My overactive imagination is so much fun sometimes, and others it’s pretty fucked up. The reality is: I don’t know dick about Thomas other than he drinks crap beer and wears cheap sunglasses. Neither of those things makes him a bad person. What makes him a bad person are the socks he was wearing with his sandals this morning. Not in my hood, bro! You can be a drunk but obey the dress code! I’ll be taking that shit up with the HOA. Watch your back!

And now you know where I draw the line…

simpleidiot

Do idiots know they’re idiots? Seriously, do you folks wake up and go “Fuck, I better stay inside today, I’m a dumbass.” Do people who hang their personal drama out on social media like freshly washed but still skid-marked undergarments know that they’re pitiful?

I already lack in the patience department, so when I run across these assholes, the restraint it requires to keep me from tossing chairs ends up knocking 2 months off my life expectancy. 2 months a pop! In another couple of weeks I’ll be working backwards. I can’t wait to be 23 again; that was a good year.

Let me be clear about a couple of things: I understand the need to share personal struggles and get feedback and/or reinforcements from faceless strangers. Okay, that was a dig. We all have moments when we need to hear kind words from our “friends” [oops, did it again] to help lift us up, but if I see your shit blasted daily on social media in some desperate act of attention fishing, I will set up a Go Fund Me for some therapy sessions for you. Clearly, it’s needed and I’m not paying for it. I’d just as soon get myself a boob job and a few pairs of shoes; we’re probably talking about the same amount of money to see results – for either of us.

I don’t take issue with the occasional post about struggling with something, but how about not hitting me daily with bullshit vague posts implicating someone else and their part in your miserable situation? If you’re going to whine daily and publicly, have the balls to put the other person on blast. Use their name, quit being a pussy. We’re unfortunately subjected to your posts, so at least make it worth our time.

Also, by using their name, you give them the opportunity to speak up for themselves. They deserve that. You give their friends and family the opportunity to come to their defense as well. You obviously don’t mind getting the attention, but are you willing to back up the actions you took to get there? If not, maybe you ought to confide in a special friend and do the rest of us a favor.

If you’re an idiot, you probably don’t know it. It’s not like when you’re fat or ugly. You know that shit. We have mirrors for that. I won’t leave the house if I’m wearing something that I feel is unflattering to my thighs. These bitches are in charge! I’m not fat, but my thighs are commanding, for sure. Thankfully, I have a mirror in my bedroom that prevents me from leaving the house and committing crimes against humanity.

I do the same in the morning when I pluck my eyebrows. Sure, there is a mild gratification derived from pulling hair from my face, but the driving force behind the action is to prevent retinal assault. If I let my brows grow out, I may end up being mistaken for Sasquatch and shot at and tagged. Bigfoot: the myth, the legend, the woman with a unibrow.

Imagine if you awoke and the mirror said to you: “Get your ass back in bed; you’re too stupid for today.” How many lives would be saved? Stocks on stress balls would plummet and no one would need a fucking Zen garden at their desk. No one really likes sand at their desk. This isn’t 1994. I would spend good money on a mirror that fed it to me straight. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the dullest of us all?  

Simplehuman is a privately owned designer and manufacturer of kitchen, bath, and beauty tools. I own one of their sensor-activated vanity mirrors. I use the shit out it! I use it to pluck my unruly brows even though my husband dropped it and cracked the mirror. I’m not buying another one because those things are crazy fucking expensive. *disclaimer: I didn’t buy first one, my mom gave it to me*

What I’d love to see happen is for Simplehuman to design my mirror; the one that tells you when you’re too much of a tool to join the general public for the day. If they can further work on narrowing it down to your major faults, that would be even more amazing. I know this can work. Let’s see some action, guys! One asshole at a time, let’s simplify this shit.

Society's quivering bitch muscle

Which came first, the quivering bitch muscle of society or our current President?

I’m legitimately trying to figure out if some of you assholes have always been this fucking clueless and sensitive or if Trump really is the cause of the bullshit commentary I’ve been getting on my social media posts lately.

In no way, shape, or form, am I a Trump supporter. I have trouble supporting a man I cannot fully identify as human. There is no evidence to substantiate that claim, to the best of my knowledge. Look at his fucking wife, that bitch never looks happy unless she’s around another man, or woman for that matter. It’s as if she’s silently crying for help. Can’t blame her. Just the thought of his puckered face and wispy hair make my vagina drier than 10 ruptured silica gel packs jammed right up center street. Melania always looks like she’s about to walk into a waxing appointment; that look of pinched annoyance but submission to the plan. Complete defeat. God bless that hoe for taking the dick that the rest of us want nothing to do with, unless you’re a paid professional, apparently.

So, like I was saying, huge Trump supporter. Bigly.

Recently I’ve been scaling back my social media presence. It’s bullshit, but I feel like I’m not safe saying shit without some fucker turning words against me out of scared ignorance on their end, then neatly tying it up in a political bow. 9 times out of 10 what I say has jack shit to do with politics, I’m just not savvy enough for all of that, but leave it to Todd or Glen to add commentary to make it seem that way.  Now I have to I have to pray for their idiot souls too? It’s too easy to jump on the liberal or conservative car of the train and ride it into your vision of victory, or the ground, which ever stop is first on the line.

The other day I posted a picture of a spider in the men’s restroom at my work to a social site. The spider had given birth to a mess load [technical term] of baby spiders. I captioned the photo: “we’re well past catch and release.” Some uninvited individual decided to comment that I was beginning to sound like Trump. I’m sorry, what the fuck?! Spiders are not political. I see no correlation and you can just fuck right off.

Why is everything an opportunity to bring politics into play? It’s just a sea of assholes volleying blame and bullshit accusations back and forth. It’s one thing to be in the political arena and have this monkey shit flung around, but I’m just some chick who minds her own business and writes what’s on her mind. Why do I get the full experience? Can I get a little lube and foreplay before you jam your fist up my ass? Up until now, I’ve kept politics out of my blogs. This isn’t even political, this is just a rant about people being entitled little douchebags – using any excuse at all to hear themselves speak. I see it everywhere. It’s disgusting. I don’t need, or even want, everyone to gather around a big circle and share what we like about one another. There’s no need to start sucking each other’s dicks, but for fuck’s sake, quit being little bitches!

Maybe we ought to start implementing an added voice option for all commentary added to social media sites. Record your comments in your own voice so that the viewer can hear you. No misunderstandings. We’ll know if you’re joking or if you’re a legitimate jackass. We can then take that data and decide whether we’d like to send you thoughts and prayers or flaming bags of dog shit. I’m super mature, in case you hadn’t noticed.

If you have questions about some shit I’ve written or posted, for the love of God, don’t embarrass yourself – ask me.