Diseases Abound

This post involves stomach issues so, ya know. deal or don’t read.

I don’t know what the deal is. If it’s super bugs, stress, the fucking apocalypse, but I’ve been sick for what feels like a month straight.

Check that.

It has been a month straight. I got a “flu like virus” the week before classes started and its February now so, yay me with my general sense of time’s passage.

Flu like virus


sinus infection

Fine! Fucking bring it on! But this stomach shit? OMG. For someone who survived most of my teenage years with IBS, this month in particular has been the most humiliating of the stomach wars in my entire fucking lifetime. Try getting spontaneously sick leaving a client’s home and being trapped in the building’s basement bathroom for half a fucking hour. Oh look. Now I’m late for my next shift.

Making yourself leave just as you think you might be ok  only to have to stop at every fucking exit along the highway to jack the, usually single, bathroom of the nearest gas station for unreasonable amounts of time until, inevitably, someone knocks and you have to move. Yep. Super not going to make it to my next shift.

Stopping when you can’t find an exit in time and just hoping you miss your own car. Hm, not totally sure I’m going to make it home.

Getting caught by a train and having to stalk a BK’s parking lot so you don’t get violently ill in front of a two mile long stretch of irritated travelers.  MOTHERFUCKING SHIT FUCK ALL I WANT TO DO IS VOMIT IN THE SANCTITY OF MY OWN HOME.

And that was the first go around. Then there was the second. And then there’s today, in which I got violently ill in the middle of a fucking creative writing workshop. Desks all in a lovely circle so everyone could see, full well, the color drain from my face, as it dawns on me that I am so going to heave.

Try to go back to class afterwards. Make it five minutes. Have to ask a total stranger to please hand in my paper due to my stomach’s inability to not upchuck. Literally run to the bathroom. Become painfully aware of the annoying jingling sound your boot zippers make.

Get asked three times if you’re pregnant.

Obviously I’ve pissed off the stomach gods. What was it? My brazen attempts to attend and graduate college? The bagel I had this morning? Green tea? FUCKING TELL ME SO I CAN TOP VOMITING!!!

Oh yeah. I have to work after this until 8pm.


And such a good start too…

/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/2b6/39649522/files/2014/12/img_0449.jpgOk….I’m going to preface this by stating that I’m a monogamous married woman who can TOTALLY count how many people I’ve slept with on one hand, so i don’t think I’m biased here….but about the time I got to the  5th line of this here facebook banner I started to get pissed. By the time I got to the 7th line, I decided I was justified.

It makes me sad that a banner meant to tell people to stop taking crap from other people decided to start handing out its own personalized version of  crap right there in the middle. I haven’t even bothered to look up whether or not this quote is actually a quote by this Tony Gaskins ( because many a time, facebook definitely lies about that one) because fuck you, judgmental person I’ve never met, whether you be the quoted or the quote-er…quotee…quotifier… (is that a fucking word? seriously, someone let me know).  How can you tell someone not to take shit from their significant other, and expect them to take shit from some stranger judging their personal sexual decisions?

Being in a sexually open relationship isn’t “normal”?

Having a threesome isn’t “normal?

Dude what era are you living in? Wait a minute, maybe I should look up this quote…gimme a sec. Oh, yep, dude’s got a twitter. Just making sure you weren’t some puritan motherfucker from back when being a human being in control of your own sexuality, and the ways in which you express that sexuality, was considered devil worship. Step into the land of the now, where what people do in their own bedrooms ain’t you’re fucking concern, because HOPEFULLY we’ve reached the level of knowledge where we don’t assume consenting adults fondling each others fun bits equals summoning cthulhu.

The land where polyamory and polyamorous are things the vast majority of people under 50 can loosely define without consulting a dictionary.

The land where, if enjoying casual sex is your bag, you can finally do it with a reasonable level of safety from diseases and pregnancy.

Hear me now, dude who will probably never see this blog, When i get ready to play with my husband, what you think is normal is not something i consider. It isn’t something i worry about. You aren’t someone I consult.

Do you know what I do consider? What I’m comfortable with. That’s right, not your hetero-normative (oh shit, words just got big) version of what sex should be, but what I am COMFORTABLE with sex being.

Do you know who i do consult? My partner.

Why? because me and my partner are the ONLY things I worry about in our sexual relationship. What he’s ok with. What I’m ok with. That’s it. Done.

And if one day we both decide to step outside of our current sexual boundaries? That’s not me settling, asshole.

That’s me changing my mind. Something I’m allowed to do, in case you were wondering.

And don’t EVEN get me started in a discussion on whether or not you or any person have the right to moderate and judge how often I smile versus cry.

Hell Skittles

Ok, seriously.

This needs to be asked. This needs to be answered.

What the hell is wrong with the Skittles ad team???

Guys, girls, deliriously twisted peeps whose mommies obviously didn’t hold them enough, WHAT THE FUCKING DUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???

The above is deeply upsetting to my brain cells.

Are you receiving treatment? Do you need drugs? Because if it’s a financial issue I will start a fucking fundraiser to buy you people psych meds.

Since your brains are either completely malnourished or currently being controlled by the twitching fingers of satan itself, let me fill you in…

There are things that make people want candy. Most things make people want candy. I should know. I’m a people. There are very few things that don’t make people want candy.

Gee that’s odd looking…

Dear all that is holy no!

Watching people eat someone’s skittle sweat, pull skittle pox out of someone’s face and pop them right into their mouths, or FRENCH A DUDE IN ORDER TO PULL OUT AND EAT HIS SKITTLE TEETH does not make people want candy.

The only kind of “people” (and I’m using that term loosely because I am in no way convinced you aren’t hell spawn come to kill my childlike joy) that would think these images are appetizing, are those with an unhealthy obsession regarding ingesting parts of human flesh.

I believe y’all are insane. And not the quirky kind of insane that this generation finds so appealing. You, Skittle Ad Spawn, are the kind of insane that involves recreating their sicko fantasies under the guise of selling candy.

None of the above makes me want to go out and taste the motherfucking rainbow. It makes me want to cleanse my eyeballs with bleach while huddling in a corner twitching.

I’m slightly concerned that your company is secretly trying to brainwash the masses to accept small scale cannibalism.

This is serious shit, people. Laugh now, but one day, we are going to wake up to small children straddling us, holding pliers, and laughing maniacally as they ask if we have a “sweet” tooth.

Suddenly puns are terrifying.

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….

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.

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.


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.


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.
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.

Thieves and Lawn Care

So, you stole my lawn mower. You insignificant little shit. You were driving through our neighborhood, I assume probably in someone else’s car because I don’t picture the types of low lifes who creep around in back yards to jack push mowers are the type to have a phat ride, and saw our half landscaped lawn, our paint chipped and peeling front door, our mass encampment of bitchin’ dandelions… And thought to yourself.
“These. These people deserve to have their day ruined.”

So, you moseyed on back into our yard and took a glance around and eyeing literally the only thing worth any value, swiped it, and went and pawned it off somewhere for 50 bucks.

Fuck you.

Rumor has it, that you’re probably some criminal whose moved into the newly renovated apartments at the edge of our neighborhood. This is possible. I, personally, think you’re probably that fat puberty stricken punk who lives next door and thinks I don’t notice him staring at me creepily through the drawn curtains.
I see you. I also see you when you stroll through my yard like its a side walk. I see you when you toss your trash onto the driveway, one foot from the actual trash can, so that it may waft with the wind into my yard which, while vaguely disassembled at the moment, has an owner who will report you to your landlord. While I’m at it, I’ll mention that your house is so full of refuse that you have multiple raccoons living in the attic, and that I don’t appreciate their close proximity to my door. They’re big, and I don’t fancy rabies shots in my tender bits just because you can’t throw a pizza box away.


Seriously am not joking about the raccoon.
But it’s ok. Either way. Whether you be a meth addicted hobo or a pimply teen. See, I bought a fence, you skanky ass punk.
But nooo, not your usual fence. I bought a tiny metal strand…and I will be wrapping this tiny strand around my new lawnmower. I will be posting a sign about this strand, in a place, where non-thieves who only creep through yards in daylight and with permission, will notice.
But not you. You won’t see the sign, because when you’re being a creepy fuck, the only thing you care about is the soon to be illegally acquired assets.
No. You won’t see it.
But you’ll feel that shit when it electrocutes your grubby little fingers and ankles! And when you yelp in shock and electric discomfort?
We will laugh. We will laugh and grab our gun to stick in your face if you’re stupid enough to wiggle my door knob again. Yeah, I heard you. As of today my house is armed, bitch. By an electric fence and weaponry. Fuck you.

I hope you trip and it gets you in the eyeball.

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