I Wish I Could Like, I Don’t Know, Burn His Blog Down, Or Something. LOL

“I wish I could like, I don’t know, burn his blog down, or something. LOL”

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“Hahahaha. Oh go on, write a blog with that title. X”

“Hahaha! Yeah, that whole thing as a title lol”

“Yeah, the whole thing, lol”

I’ve been a blogger under various variations of my name, as well as a few pseudonyms for like, ten plus years. And even though I know ghosts will find me, being that I have chosen this eternal internet life, I am still annoyed when these cockroaches and douche bags make attempts to rekindle relationships that I wish had never been in the first fucking place. That being said, I will almost always choose to be polite, because I’m working on a better version of me; one who doesn’t chew bologna smelling fatty heads off at the base of the spine. Rather, I write vague prose and poems about them for my own amusement, and for those in the know.

I understand that it is a mean-spirited, juvenile thing to say–wishing I could destroy someone’s creative outlet with a beautiful, raging fire. Some people are dirty, dirty cockroaches and/or useless douche bags (douche really is useless, and has the potential to be harmful, actually; and anyway, vaginas are self-cleaning, so douche is redundant), but I am not justified in my desire for their grief. Yes, grief, because listen, if some twat waffle were to come along and set my blog on fire, I’d be moaning like a hired fucking funeral mourner.

That’s all I got, folks.

Peace

 

 

America Isn’t Awesome

Entertainment is King. In the United States, game shows are prime. Answer a series of questions correctly, and you could win hundreds of thousands of dollars–maybe a million. Okay, so most game show contestants only walk away with thousands before taxes, depending on the game show. It’s fucking gross though; we have politicians fighting over which programs to cut and save, but if Joe Street answers a series of random questions correctly, he may never have to work again. Why the fuck do these networks have so much fucking money that they can pay these people when our entire country is in debt? Is there is a secret storage of money to pay game show contestants? Why is it okay that some random fucking asshole wins more money than he’s ever seen simply because he could name the correct recording artist of a shitty song, while our U.S. Veterans are fighting for their right to receive prompt and adequate medical care? Why is it okay that a single mother has to pay $1,000 a month for family heath coverage?

I’m just fucking disgusted. Nothing makes sense to me. Kids are losing their band and art programs–and its been proven that kids who are involved with band and the arts perform better on tests.

Tests. Don’t even get me started on standardized tests. That’s for another blog post.

I am absolutely disgusted with the treatment of our veterans. I’m disgusted with the treatment of our U.S. citizens in general.

And I’m totally fucking OVER the deficit. As far as I’m concerned, the deficit doesn’t fucking exist, given that it seems like the ceiling can lifted on a whim, ffs.

Seriously, I don’t get these politicians. Why do they deserve better than the average American? If I’m not mistaken, their job is to serve US. US. Me, and you.

They have the power that they do because we ALLOW it. Get that through your heads. For fuck’s sake, I learned that in middle school.

WAKE THE FUCK UP!

 

 

 

 

Child Death-by-Car

Twelve children nationwide had died in unattended vehicles this year before the official start of summer.

Now car manufacturers are talking about equipping new models with a sensor to remind the fucking grown-ups to check the backseat for children before exiting the car. There have been devices on the market for a number of years, but apparently they are doing fuckall, just taking up space on retailer shelves. But! we shouldn’t have a need for these products to begin with–that we, as a society, require electronics to prevent child death by “forgetting” them in our vehicles overloads my system. My brain, and my heart hurts.

What the actual fuck is wrong with people?

New vehicles shouldn’t only be installed with simple sensors and alert systems. They should also be equipped with tasers. Because if you exit the car, and close the door with your child(ren) locked helpless inside–setting off the reminder alarm–the alarm should trigger a taser to take down your ignorant ass, AND! automatically alert 911.

State of Affairs

[Preface: I am a patriotic woman; the proud wife of an ARMY veteran.]

There are actual rules to safeguard against unfair warfare.

Read that again:

There are actual rules to safeguard against unfair warfare. I’m sorry. Color me fucking stupid, but what’s the point of these rules? There are weapons that are illegal in warfare. Weapons such as plastic landmines; Phosgene gas; Mustard gas; Nerve gas; spike pits; biological weapons; Napalm; poisoned bullets; and non self-destructing landmines.

Okay. Fucking fine.

But the Geneva Conventions created protection for people not participating in hostilities, including the wounded, sick, shipwrecked, prisoners of war, and civilians. Children are killed daily on their way to school, or while shopping in the street markets, without repercussion–mothers and fathers bury their sons and daughters despite the rules of fair warfare. So what the fuck is the point to these rules when no one has to adhere to them?

I just don’t understand the point in making select warfare weapons illegal when military forces are ultimately going to act accordingly. You know…with the optimal end.

Tonight, I said to my husband, “Why not make it a rule that warfare be carried out with fucking muskets and cannons–Civil War style. That’s fucking fair.” And he said, “We’re (the U.S.) the only ones who would follow the rules.”

I know Jim is right. I also know that I’m naive/ignorant, and not at all intelligent enough to pass judgement on military tactics/rules–U.S. or otherwise.

I just find it laughable that there are rules in place that ultimately don’t mean jack-shit when it comes to the outcome.

Jack-shit.

Jack-shit.

I can’t say it enough.

Jack-fucking-shit.

It won’t change in our lifetime.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trouble With Fuck Faces: part two

The Trouble With Fuck Faces: part one

[Fuck faces are everywhere–you know, those special groups of people who’ve been slugged in the face with a heavy bag full of fuck, and they’ve allowed that fuck to fuck up their lives forever. Their sole purpose becomes spreading the disease. They’re similar to dickheads, who run around hitting people with bags of dicks for shits and giggles.]

Even small, neat, calm neighborhoods are blighted by fuck faces on occasion. Last summer, my husband and I were befriended by new neighbors directly next door. At first meeting, they were quite talkative, and seemed polite, so of course, I immediately suspected them of habitual fuck uppery. Because growing up, my dad always told me, “When someone you don’t know too well is especially nice to you, you’ve got to ask yourself, what does this person want from me?

Damn, dad. Paranoid much? 

Puff-puff-pass, you know what I’m sayin’? For but for realz, the truth is my dad is not paranoid. He’s experienced. He’s observant. He possesses a keen insight that surpasses the human level. He’s bad ass. I’ve learned from the bestest. So these fuck faces next door…yeah, they’re the fuckest upppest, and I knew it all along.

“We’re shady fuck faces, so we’re polite to the nines.”

Gladys Kravitz. The nosy neighbor of Darrin and Samantha Stephens (Bewitched). I’m a goddamned Gladys, folks. Jim isn’t any better. Both of us are at the living room window, peaking through the blinds whenever we hear any signs of life at the rental house to the south of us. It’s normally just their dog, barking his fuck face face off. Yeah, even the dog is a fuck face. The postmen won’t deliver the mail anymore because they are afraid of the dog, who is always outside.

So this is my beef: these fuck faces, over the winter, had decided not park in their fucking driveway, but cruise on between our two houses, cutting far over the property line to park in their backyard. Our lawn has been murdered by the various vehicles that frequent their place. I mean, what the actual fuck is happening over there??? I will tell you!

Jim and I recently purchased a car, and we ordered a Persian Gulf veteran license plate for it. When the plate arrived in the mail, Jim attached it, proud as fuck–as he should be. The lady neighbor happened to be outside, so Jim said, “Finally got ‘er legal.” To which Shady Lady replied, “Yeah, that’s why we’ve been parking behind our house. We will be legal this weekend.” Guess what? It’s been three weeks, and they are still being creepers.

I hate them, and I want to junk punch them. Over the winter, their stupid fucking big ass inflatable swimming pool blew into our yard. The fuck faces LEFT IT THERE, killing our grass. First of all, who in their right mind leaves an inflatable pool (empty or not) standing during a Mid-West winter??? Second of all, what the actual fuck is wrong with people??? I want to ask them, but they are gone early in the morning before I can pry myself out of bed, and come home late at night–by that time, I’m sleeping.

So, this is what shady fuck faces do. They blow sunshine up your ass, talk your ears off–build a friendly relationship–just so they can destroy your fucking lawn, and run drugs or some shit out of their house while you look on, smiling and waving like a goddamned idiot.

The Trouble With Fuck Faces: part one

Fuck faces are everywhere–you know, those special groups of people who’ve been slugged in the face with a heavy bag full of fuck, and they’ve allowed that fuck to fuck up their lives forever. Their sole purpose becomes spreading the disease. They’re similar to dickheads, who run around hitting people with bags of dicks for shits and giggles.

“I’m a fuck face, so to hell with politeness.”

So. I was in Taco Bell with my daughter, step-son, and husband on Mother’s Day. We had stopped for a quick bite of diarrhea burritos on our way to see Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2. Some dude who’d come in after us thunder butt marched up to the counter and shouted, “Excuse me! Let me ask you all a question. Were my taco shells smashed to fuck when you made them, or did you purposefully smash the shit out of them when you put them on the tray?”

Dude! Slow your roll. There are little kids in here. 

Even my mother, who drove drunk with my sister and me ALL THE TIME didn’t stand for people cussing in front of children. Once, she took us to a diner at 2:30 in the morning for dinner, drunk off her ass. It was packed with other drunk bastards, and they were loud, laughing and cussing like mad. My mother stood up, and shouted, “Would you all shut the fuck up?! I’ve got my kids in here!” They’d given her the stink eye, but they fell silent. For one full second.

Yesterday, I allowed some prick to go ahead of me at the grocery Q. Because sometimes I like to make an example of poorly behaved adults. He was in a huff because an elderly woman was writing a check, and taking her dear sweet time about it. I said, “You can go ahead of me, being that your time is so goddamned precious.” The fuck face didn’t even thank me.

Gawd, I loathe precious fuck faces the most, I think. Especially ones that ride up on your ass. Bitch, I will hit the brakes, fucking dare me.

Oh, dear. What if I’m a fuck face, too?

Don’t Be a Jerk

Okay, so I was one of those (young) mothers who showed up to school plays wearing vintage concert t-shirts and jeans while the other (proper) mothers were dressed in hideous slacks and fucking frilly floral-print blouses–probably because they had to bust out early from work to make it in time for their child’s solo. Of course, there were those mothers who didn’t work, and for some reason still chose to wear clothes from the Quintessential Mom Store. I never could ( and still cannot) understand the difficulty in slummin’ it once in a while in a pair of comfortable jeans and a t-shirt, concert or plain.

I had a hard time relating to other mothers when my daughter was young, not because I was younger than the average mother, but because I looked younger than the average mother. I live in a small town governed by prominent families, and the women always dress like they’re on their way to a funeral, or a fucking June Cleaver Fan Club meeting. And that’s a-okay with me. I don’t give a good goddamn what people wear. But for some stupid reason, these people do give a fucking fuck. These women are the sort who read those bullshit click-bait articles on Facebook that talk about what women over thirty should not be wearing.

I can’t tell you how many field trips I chaperoned, and the other mothers shut me out of their clucking clan. And it wasn’t for lack of effort on my side. Anyone who knows me knows I do not have a problem introducing myself, and joining conversations. The only mothers I got on with were those who were closet smokers. Ha-ha! I find that really fucking hilarious. If I have to explain why…well, I shouldn’t have to explain.

I’ve gotten away from the point of this post.

The point of this post is that it’s no one’s business how others choose to dress, or what color someone’s hair is from week to week. I’m so sick of seeing these articles on social media: Fashion Trends No One Should Follow. Or: If You’re Over 25, You Have No Business Shopping In These Hip Stores. FUUUH-CK YOU! And don’t even tell me a woman of a certain age can’t rock cotton candy pink hair.

For real, I couldn’t care less if a woman shows up to her child’s school function looking like she shopped at the Mom Store, or rummaged through Janis Joplin’s closet. As long as a woman doesn’t show up to volunteer at school with her tits and ass hanging out, shut the fuck up, and uncross your judgmental eyes.

Seriously, get your shit together, ladies. Quit picking on each other.

For real, sometimes I legit think some people wake up every morning with a goddamn mental outline, planning how they will make another person feel like shit. And I don’t only mean mothers. People in general are jerks.

Don’t be a jerk.

 

Amen

So be it, we say at the close of our prayers. Amen–so be it. Please, please, please, let us get what we want. But if not, whatever; You know better, God, our Father. 

I take issue with Amen. I take issue with parents who pray for the health of their mortally sick child, yet refuse the proper care to save that child’s life; I take issue with the discord between religious beliefs and medical science.

Example: a woman loses an obscene amount of blood delivering her baby, and as a result, she requires donor blood if she is to survive. She’s a former Jehovah’s Witness, and her parents are against their daughter receiving life saving blood; they pray to Jehovah that their daughter survives WITHOUT THE BLOOD  SHE NEEDS TO LIVE. But what the fuck? They say Amen–so be it. And I don’t fucking get it. I mean, I do get it. My grandparents are Jehovah’s Witnesses. I spent a lot of time as a youth in the Kingdom Hall, and I know why they don’t believe in taking blood. So no, I don’t require outside explanation; I know too much. So what I really mean is: I don’t give a flying fuck why they don’t believe in receiving life saving blood. If my mother had not received the blood my father agreed to, my sister would have never known the woman who birthed her.

Fun fact: I am not a heathen. I’m Catholic. Non-practicing. So maybe I am a heathen.

I believe in freedom of religion. I do not believe in letting people die because of the refusal to seek and accept medical treatment. I do not believe that parents should be exempt from the law due to their religious beliefs when their child has died due to lack of proper medical attention.

A while back ago, there were parents–I can’t recall the state they lived in–that were charged with second degree murder because their child died; they had refused necessary medical treatment for their daughter. And I was GLAD they were charged.

I will not do the thing. You know the thing that people do: would God really approve of x,y, and z? If there is a god, only he knows. I cannot pose questions that bring to question the integrity of God. Especially since I’m not particularly religious.

What I will say though, is that I believe God (if He is real) made us in his image; he gave us brains to use and develop. Free will, and lots of other goodies. And of all the sins we could possibly commit, how high on the list is saving lives with donor blood?

Jehovah’s Witnesses take the shit seriously.

I don’t take them seriously.

Call me a bitch, but I think they’re fucked up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, I’m a Giraffe

I used to envision myself as a lioness–fierce, an animal force to be reckoned with.

But then I watched an episode of Planet Earth, and some lionesses were chasing a giraffe. The giraffe had a good lead, given the length of its legs. One lioness closed the gap, but as she attacked, the giraffe was like, “Sorry, stupid!” and kicked the fuck out the lioness’ head. The giraffe escaped to live another day–or another hour, who knows for sure.

I had no idea a giraffe could be savage as fuck.

“Teach Them Well, and Let Them Lead the Way”

I’m glad my parents failed me, because in their failure, they were actually succeeding. I grew up knowing my parents were human beings, like me. I learned that there are consequences for everyone; I learned humility, and that taking responsibility for one’s offenses was honorable. Imperfect people raising imperfect adults–that’s where’s it at. It makes sense if you think about it. We aren’t simply bringing up children; we are bringing them up into adulthood. And we want our adult children to be good, ethical people. How can they learn how to be good and ethical people–people equipped with critical thinking skills–without trial and error? How can they learn to be what we want them to be without showing them human frailty? We have to be open, and admit that yeah, Mom and Dad make mistakes, too, and this is how we move on positively. Parents should not be exempt from due apologies, and acknowledgment of poor decision making.

I know too many parents who are afraid of laying down the law–who are obscenely lenient; and those who are hell bent on upholding a charade of perfection. No family is without its troubles. Neither of these types of parents are teaching their children valuable lessons. In fact, they are only setting their sons and daughters up for disappointment.

Some background on me: I became pregnant before I graduated high school, so some people reading this opinionated post may roll their eyes, because shit! What does an eighteen year old know about parenting? Fucking nothing, if I’m being truthful–and I am always truthful. I wasn’t raised on the fucking prairie with Laura Ingalls, or with my grandma, who knew what it was like to help raise children because my great-grandma had seven or twelve fucking kids. I was just a teenager who did well in school, but had sex with her boyfriend, and became pregnant; one who’d decided that no movable force was ever going to take her baby girl away from her.

So, Nicole’s dad and I did what we believed was best in bringing up our stellar adult. It was a tough experience at times, but a beautiful one, too. And as much as we taught her, she taught us how to be better human beings. In our imperfection, we are all perfect, because we are all real. Nicole knows what humility looks like, what reflection feels like, and what forgiveness tastes like. She knows the value of honesty, and kindness.

I dare anyone to spend time with my daughter, and then look me in the face and tell me I don’t do justice to the honor of motherhood. I dare anyone to tell me that my daughter is not one of the many great faces of an ideal future.

We shouldn’t look at our children as mere subordinates. We should look at them as the future, and raise them to be the future we want to one day see–a future better than our own. But we have to help them build that future.