Friday, August 12, 2005

My head is pounding, bear with me

OK, this post is going to go all over the place, I'm predicting, so please hold on to something bolted to the floor. Thanks.

I think I clenched my jaw so hard last night in my sleep that I broke a tooth. I woke up with a ripping headache and it feels like my brain is in a vice. I don't seem to have the time to tweak my tits much less write anything mildly entertaining. So pardon my retardation. Thanks.

And can someone please bring me some mother fucking candy? Again, thanks.

I still don't feel much like hashing through my week with the famdamily. This is a combination of me not wanting to go all ranty in every post, although I know that you sick fuckers love it, and in reality, it doesn't make me feel better. Actually, it makes me feel worse. Sometimes it's not a good idea to shake that dusty rug out, you know? Especially when you didn't make sure you were down-wind and all the skin cells and dust mites go right up your nose causing your eyes to tear and your throat to close. Besides, I'm allergic to that shit.

I came home last Saturday very stressed and very sad. the really bad stuff didn't last long and I managed to shake most of it off, but I was left with a feeling of disconnection and aloneness. (That's an awkward word, isn't it?) The problems in my family are not unique, I know that, but they are to me dammit and that doesn't make it hurt any less to know that everyone's relatives are crazy.

To feel like an outsider in your own family sucks. I've always known that me being adopted and my brother being my mother's biological child has been a big factor. I used to be introduced by my grandparents, "This is Betty, -whispering-, she's adopted". Trust me, this bullshit was not lost on me because I was young. And oh crap, I've plunged the opener into this can of worms and a whoosh of acrid air just escaped. Let's just say there are a lot of fucking issues here and I probably need therapy. Whatever. I need a fuckit bucket. Where is my candy? _______________________________________________________

The subject of children continues...

As professed my entire life, I do not have a biological clock. A dogoligical clock, yes. A yearning for (more) stretchmarks, (more) sleepless nights and (more) aggravation, no. However, and baby, please know that I'm in no way thinking seriously about wanting to procreate, am I going to miss something if I don't have kids?

Christ almighty, the internet is lousy with mommy blogs and the ones I read are full of hilarious tales of kid tomfoolery. Or they at least make puking kids sound funny. And one of the people I admire most in the entire world just adopted her second child and I'm over the moon with happiness for her. It's got me thinking, a lot. We can all blame this on her.

I got really sick of my niece last week and I did feel sort of bad about it. Until that fucking whoopee cushion was blapped on the back of my fucking head for the 129th fucking time. Then I was positive that being a mommy was not for me because one, I would never have bought her that retardedly foul and loud stupid toy in the first place, and two, I would have poked a hole in it after the 3rd time I heard it.

Truthfully, I really don't have that much interest in kids. It's not about patience because I have a shitload of that, it's about enthusiasm. And I barely have enough for myself. I had to stop from being a total dick every time my niece proclaimed something like "I think I see a moose in the bathroom". Oh bullshit, you did not. I have no energy to play 4,000 games of crazy eights and I certainly don't let little monkeys win. I'm a Candyland pimp, yo. Suck it. And my stint as a pre-school teacher made me very appreciate of being able to hand the rats back at the end of the day.

But...but...but what if I'm making the wrong decision? What if I'm using this stupid cancer as an excuse? Or my age. Or my bank account. What if my instincts are faulty? Am I'm going to be missing out on the key to true happiness? Am I'm going to deprive myself of the best thing I'll ever know? What if I totally regret not having any? What if my kid was totally cool and I wanted to be around them for more than 15 minutes? Man, this is way worse than the reunion decision.

Gosh. I'm so out of things to say. There hasn't even really been any good reality TV to dish about or make fun of. MTV has some new dec-horror show where they redo people trailers, of all fucking things. Complete with a cast of white-trash rejects and a flaming designer that looks like a coked-out blond Freddie Mercury.

Don't believe me? Check it out. Contrary to popular belief among several assholes, I don't lie. This thing was seriously one of the worst pieces of crap I've ever witnessed. So of course I'm hooked after one show. It was visual heroin. I even threw up after.

And since we're speaking of MTV, just what the hell is wrong with Shakira in her latest video and why is she having a seizure on the floor while some surley dude with a coffee cup watches? Seriously. WTF? That poor girl looks like she's trying to impersonate a sidewinder trying to pass a kidney stone. Get a grip, sweetie, get off the floor and go back to that butt-shaking thing you do so well. You're starting to look a bit loca.

Oh wait! I do have a reality TV personality (she types using the sarcasm font), to rant about. Hey Howie from Big Brother 6 or 7 or we don't care. YOU ARE A COLLOSAL TOOL! Stop wearing your baseball hat sideways you non-gangsta whiter than white man from suburbia! Stop flexing your teeny tiny biceps covered in Neutrogena self-tanning lotion! Stop talking about all the hot women you're going to bone! Because you are LAME! DO YOU HEAR ME?!? LAME!!

You have the appeal of a herpes sore. You are as attractive as a pulsating white head on the ass of Ron Jeremy. I would rather spend the night in a gas station bathroom in Barstow with severe vomiting and diarrhea and no running water than let you get one finger on my body. Your legs are made of chopsticks and you have the vocabulary of a woodpecker.

You are not hot, you are not a playah, you are not a pimp. You're 35 fucking years old and live in Colorado with your mother. You want to become a weather man so you can get laid but the only people who are ever going to fuck you are your relatives from the south and paid prostitutes. So SHADDAP already. AND FIX YOUR FUCKING HAT!

Now, where's my candy already??

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