When There’s Blood on the Ceiling

What do you do when you’re trying to sleep and letters keep appearing on the ceiling written in blood?

Who gives a fuck about letters???

I’m more concerned with the disembodied floating head giving me the evil eye!

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What Fuckery Is This?

I have never done a product review on this blog. There are many reasons for this; everyone does it so why should I, I buy cheap shit and expect cheap shit to behave as such, and I inherently believe all product descriptions and advertisements to be at best vaguely outlandish exaggerations of what you can actually expect and believe anyone who disagrees with me is painfully naive.

But this… This bastard of a product….

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This glorious looking nail polish would be Revlon’s Moon Candy.
And i want you to know something, Revlon. For many weeks I have strolled by these tubes of gleeful sparkles and resisted the temptation to buy it, on account of it retailing anywhere from $7-$10, depending on how hard your store is ass-ravaging you with a spiky strap on.

But today I gave in. Today, the five year old princess who lives inside all of us girls, despite our repeated attempts to drown her in fruity alcohol, won out. Today, I purchased my own hunk of glittering joy.

Except, no.

First off, what the fuck Revlon? You may not be the world’s bitchingest name brand, but I’ve always believed you to be a respectable maker of makeup. I have purchased many a product from you, and while your lipsticks don’t actually last 24 hours, as your glossy print claims, I have always relied on it not to flake off my face at the first sign of a breeze. But this shit?

There is one thing a nail polish should not be, Revlon.

One thing.

A nail polish should not be clumpy.
And you, Revlon, have unleashed all sorts of fuckery upon us with this product. This fucking product, which I can only describe as having the same consistency as luke warm hot-glue.

In some ways, your naming of this product is apt, in that my nails now sport the same amount and variation of craters as the glowing orb upon which I curse this glittering goop.

Now, dear Revlon, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. I do not rage upon innocent companies for the smallest error. I am a fair person, so though I noticed this goopy affect, and the fact that the sparkles covered my nails sparsely and utterly pathetically, I gave it another go.

Hey, maybe I just wasn’t applying it with enough patience. Maybe with a steady hand, I could indeed apply a Moon Candy French Manicure.

At this attempt I say, fuck you Revlon.

Fuck. You.
Hard.

See, after two applications of, what I shall now refer to as my withering dreams, not only does it still look like a two year old smeared their Elmer’s glue upon my fingertips, but my bottle is half fucking empty.

Half empty.

And I’m being generous.
And what is truly sad, Revlon, is that you didn’t fail so horribly while reaching to achieve a never before seen affect.

No.

Nail polish with motherfucking glitter in it has existed my entire life. In fact, smooth motherfucking glitter polish has existed my entire life, and you can buy it for about three bucks from other brands. Cheap brands. The kind whose lipsticks flake off in a limp breeze.

You failed at achieving the same level of product quality that every other brand has achieved with little to no effort, and then you sold it for twice the price.

You’re a cunt canoe, Revlon. You’re full of lies.

And I just want you to know that I know that.

I Baked and Stuff

So my last post was a little rage filled. This happens from time to time, but overall I think it was a good thing. That guy pissed me off.

I was pissed.

I felt something other than suffocating emptiness and inescapable Doom.

You think that sounds cliche don’t you? Yeah. Try it sometime. Then judge me.

Anyways, it made me think about something. Why, when someone I know that struggles with depression, gets attacked for their “weakness” is it so easy for me to rush to their defense? Why do I know, so strongly, that they deserve credit for even continuing to be alive….

But when it’s me that’s on the low, all I do is give myself shit? What the fuck self?

How can I look at someone who is the mental mirror image of myself and be filled with awe and inspiration at their choice to continue existing, and then look at myself and see nothing but failure?

I can spend 99% of my day in hysterical tears, crying the sort of ugly cry that only crazy people can aspire to, and what will I do with that little 1%? Bitch at myself for not doing the dishes.

The fucking dishes. Because that’s totally something worth mental self flagellation. Obviously I have some issues.

I shall work on this. In the meanwhile, I baked things for my husband.

Cuz I’m the shit. The crazy self intolerant shit.

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What You’ve Earned

Today I watched a small-minded little man fling ignorant comments out into the internets in regards to cutting.

Before i elaborate on this man’s idiocy, let me say…

Please don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe cutting to be a healthy coping mechanism in the slightest. For many people, cutting leads down a dangerous and self destructive road where, as happens with any addiction (and yes, I believe it to be a form of addiction), slowly but surely the body and mind start to need larger doses, bigger cuts, just more in order to get the release it was looking for.

Cutting is an addiction to feeling what everyone else feels naturally. What everyone else takes for granted.

Cutting is an addiction to feeling in control. To just, for a few seconds, be able to put the brakes on a plunge downward into the sort of depression that wipes every desire you’ve ever had straight out of your body. It is a twisted thing, but something which is the only barrier to a more drastic grab for the same control. And it is something I have personal experience, and personal struggles with.

And this man….
This man is proud that he has never cut.
Proud.
He says his body is a temple, and that he treats it as such.

Ohhhh. OHHH. Let me explain how screwed up that is.

First off, in my world, pride is something you earn. It comes out of struggle and dedication, through perseverance and an accomplishment that does not come easy.
It is something you achieve despite everything in the world beating your body down into the dirt.
Something you grasp, because when everything good in the world went to hell in a hand basket, you wrapped a fucking bungee chord around your waist and dived in after that shit.

Having clarified this, let me say…

Sir, you are not proud that you are not a cutter because you didn’t earn shit. Not a damn thing. You are not proud that you were born without a mental illness, because only a motherfucking moron thinks they had any say in how they came about. Unless you were, at one time, a tiny traffic guard holed up in your own father’s nut sack, directing which bits of DNA got through, and which didn’t, you haven’t done jack shit to earn any amount of pride in your mental status. You didn’t fight back the demons of insanity to grasp this glaringly limited outlook on life.

What you are, is thankful that you’ve never struggled with that kind of depression. You are lucky that you have a survival instinct, instead of a suicidal one. You are smug because of an overinflated sense of accomplishment that can only come from a deep rooted misunderstanding of how depression works.

How depression kills.

So, you’re body is a temple? Good for you. I’m glad you have such a copacetic relationship with your innards.

As for me, mine try to fuck me up on a regular basis. I have eyes that see dead children standing at the foot of my bed while I try to sleep. Children that cry all night, the kind of cry you can’t block out no matter how strongly you know it’s not real. I have a heart which shoots my blood pressure sky high, so that when I have panic attacks, I have shooting pains in my chest.

One day I’ll be having a real heart attack and I’ll just drop dead from assuming it was just my usual thing.

I have a brain that convinces me the world would be a happier place if I simply wasn’t in it. Which then, out of its unending helpfulness, gives me about twenty different scenarios which can make that exact thing happen.

And I can take drugs.
And I can go to therapy.
And I can cut
And sleep all day
And exercise
And refuse to sleep
And eat special foods with mood stabilizing qualities
And think positively
And use herbal remedies with fucking melatonin
I can get wasted!

And none of it means shit when I pop open a bottle of pills and think… Just take one more.
And one more…
And one more…

So, until you’ve been there. Until you’ve swallowed a bottle of pills and you’re puking your guts up and your limbs are on fire and your muscles won’t stop spasming and your fiancé and his friend are carrying you to the bathroom because you can’t move your legs

And all you can think is that you wish you’d taken enough to die.

And you still get up the next morning and go to work…

Until then, you self righteous asshole, you can take your perceived mental superiority and shove it straight up your “temple’s” dimly lit back door.

Because that is all you’ve earned.

Never Google Parasitic Brain Worms

Most of the time, despite our best efforts, I am about 99% certain that the things that fly out of adult’s mouths and into children’s ears are scarring the shit out of their psyche.
Recently, I went outside with a boy I care for and his brother. The idea was to rip their tiny little faces away from all technological screens for a few minutes and instill a deep and persistent love of nature.

This is difficult enough to do, for a girl who hates all insects and has legit PTSD when faced with the distinct sound of buzzing flies, for legitimate and understandable reasons, without this sort of thing happening….

Me: hey, why don’t I get you both some shovels so we can dig in the garden?

boy: I don’t want to.

Me: Why? You love digging.

boy: I don’t want the parasites to get me.

side note: this kid is under 10 years old.

Me: …..the parasites?

boy: Yeah. I heard about them. they’re parasites.

Me: I’m sure there aren’t any parasites in your garden.

boy: NO! They’re WORMS. But they’re also parasites. And there’s all sorts of them in dirt.

Me: ….

boy: and these parasitic worms, they get into your BRAIN!

Me: Your brain?

boy: Yeah. They’re parasitic brain worms.

Me: Why would they want into your brain?

boy: I don’t know. To do parasite stuff.

 

Needless to say, we did not dig in the dirt that day. Seriously, what the hell kind of person tells a kid about parasitic brain worms? And while I was contemplating that exact question, which totally needs to be answered, guess what I did.

I Googled parasitic brain worms. Not only do they totally exist, and can be contracted through contaminated dirt and water,  eating poorly washed vegetables/fruits and under cooked pork, and freakin sex acts, but also.

Never Google parasitic brain worms.

Help I’ve Fallen and These Fuckers Keep Trying to Bury Me

If this post looks familiar its because it is. I feel this way on the regular.
And p.s. I’m still waiting on that fucking ladder.

PsychoFab

I haven’t written in a very long while. I’m telling you this, as though you haven’t noticed because I can’t think of a more creative way to say

“Yo, I ain’t done shit with this blog in like forevah.”

And as usually is the case with Bipolar Irresponsible Bloggers, this is because my mind is traveling down a long dark tunnel and just can’t remember which way is out. The world has thrown maps and compasses in my direction, but seriously….if you don’t know where you are, how do you find out which way to go to get out??? If I don’t know which direction I need to run in, how does knowing which way is North help at all?

The hallucinations…Oh the lovely hallucinations which seem to bleed ever more regularly into the waking hours. 

What? You’re telling me you didn’t just see that person standing over us with a knife?…

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The Dining Room is My Bitch

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What you’re looking at there is the terror that was our dining room when we moved in, four layers of wallpaper peeled away. Smudgy walls and beat up, filthy trim.

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Now, what you’re looking at, is me and my husband making that room our bitch. Fresh light fixtures, clean silver paint and white trim.

Hell yes.

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