2011 was a transitional year for me. I lost 25 pounds, quit Church, adjusted to my husband's new job/schedule, decided to aim toward home ownership, built a pro-bono Facebook writing career from the ground up, amassed a respectable following, and turned 30. I feel like I lived a decade in 12 months, that's how dramatically everything changed.
Last night I dipped back into the past. I attended a gathering which consisted of several peeps that I used to Holy Roll with back in the not so distant day. There were a lot of new faces even though the place was old and, for the first half an hour, I felt like an uncomfortable outcast. There was guitar strumming, hymn humming, and, meanwhile, I was thinking, "Dude. This is not where I belong anymore. I'm NOT who I was." An older gentleman started crying while everyone was singing, "Jesus You're More Than a Friend," because the Holy Spirit fell heavy upon him and all my dirty mind could think was, "Jesus is a friend with benefits?"
As the night wore on, I loosened up a lot, cracked a butt load of Christian appropriate jokes, and otherwise hobnobbed with my Brethren. When it came time to pray, I was like, WHOA. Haven't done this in a hot minute. Just clearing my mind and ALLOWING God in was quite a challenge. I've been giving him the silent treatment for so long and I'm still not really sure if I want to ask him out for dinner and a movie again quite yet. I'm definitely not ready for a long term commitment at this point nor do I want to attend Church and contend with hypocrisy, cronyism, or extremists any time soon.
I've been living life on my own terms and I'm pretty satisfied with the path I've been meandering upon. Getting in bed with God, so to speak, is never a cake walk. He starts leading me down roads I'd rather not travel, asking me to do things that I'm not naturally inclined to do, and the next thing you know, I'm so involved in Church activities that I have no other life outside of my Faith. That's what happened last time, anyway. Suffice it to say that I'm leery about going steady with the Big Guy. At the moment, He's more of a booty call than a serious relationship.
Putting all of my reservations and hesitations aside, however, last night wasn't completely terrible. It was nice to reconnect with some of my old friends and catch up on their lives. I even enjoyed the group prayer portion of the evening after I was able to relax enough to let my guard down an itty bitty bit. I might go back next week. Then again, I might not. Gotta love my free will option... and I do thank the Lord for it.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
More Conversational Bitch Slapping
Hubby: Wow, could you spew any more negativity?
Me: It's not negativity, it's reality.
Hubby: You don't know how to deal with reality.
Me: I've dealt with reality.... AND I've mastered it.
*We both laugh hysterically*
Me: Did I really just say that? Jesus Christ, sometimes I can't believe the shit that comes out of my own mouth.
Me: It's not negativity, it's reality.
Hubby: You don't know how to deal with reality.
Me: I've dealt with reality.... AND I've mastered it.
*We both laugh hysterically*
Me: Did I really just say that? Jesus Christ, sometimes I can't believe the shit that comes out of my own mouth.
This Big City Girl is ready to go Country Bumpkin.
I had a frightening thought this morning. My husband and I are putting more consideration into purchasing our first home than we ever did about procreating. Hubby's response to this statement was, "The 'War Horse' doesn't think; He just acts." I'll let you draw your own filthy minded conclusions about that little ditty.
It's true, though. I can use any excuse I'd like to justify it. We were VERY young when our son was created. Yup. That's the best I can come up with. Youthful impulsiveness and excessive lustiness combined without much premeditation to produce my single greatest accomplishment in life; Our Spawn. And I don't regret it for a minute.
Oddly enough, home ownership is ever more terrifying in my mind. It's something I swore I would never do. My husband blames my childhood scars for the fact that I've been dragging my feet for the last 12 years. Rightly so. My parents screwed everything up. The first house they bought was on the banks of a creek that flooded our basement every time it rained. They sold it just a few years before a freak Hurricane destroyed the entire neighborhood. The street I grew up on is now a vacant lot.
The house I spent my teenage years in was no better. We moved into a neighborhood that was on a major decline just as everyone in their right mind was getting out of dodge. My parental unit imploded long before I turned 18, partially over household financial drama. I had to hear all of their regrets over their marriage spilled out in ugly fashion. One of the major complaints was the fact that they had bought the biggest and most expensive house on the block. Then, to top it all off, a few years after I moved out, the place burned down with the family dogs inside.
Add to all of this my latent fear of commitment and my perfectionist expectations and you have yourself a recipe for a lifetime renter. Or so I thought.
Something changed within the past year. I found myself wistfully gazing into houses while walking my dog. A strange twinge happened in my soul. I don't know where it came from but, much to my husband's delight, I finally found myself craving a permanent home. I guess it was to be expected. I've moved roughly 13 times in the last 12 years and I just turned 30 in December. I'm officially grown up. Plus, I'm exceptionally tired of apartments, disgusting neighbors, sub-par living conditions, rent increases, and confined spaces. I want a yard for my Shih Tzu, room to move freely without tripping over one another, fresh air, and, most importantly, I want to get as far away from Philadelphia as possible. This big city girl is ready to go country bumpkin.
As difficult as it was to come to that decision, it's even more frustrating trying to find a property to fit my bill and our budget. I swore I wouldn't settle for anything less than my dream house and I'm sticking to that conviction.
Que up the endless discussions, house hunting, pro/con list making, sleepless nights spent worrying if our deal is going to fall through, anxiousness every single day waiting for the phone to ring, second guessing, high hopes followed by crushing doubts, and, as I expected, FEAR over the fact that I'M ACTUALLY GOING TO GO THROUGH WITH THIS. Good Lord, have mercy. I thought 18 hours of intense labor and 4.5 hours of pushing after my epidural wore off was bad. At least that experience, as traumatizing as it truly was, only took a single day.
While I've never looked back upon that August morning at 4:02 AM when my greatest love made his first appearance with regret, I cannot help but wonder if I will be able to say the same about this period of my life. I can only pray that whatever decision we arrive at in the coming months will be as joyous as the one that we embarked upon without so much as a second thought.
It's true, though. I can use any excuse I'd like to justify it. We were VERY young when our son was created. Yup. That's the best I can come up with. Youthful impulsiveness and excessive lustiness combined without much premeditation to produce my single greatest accomplishment in life; Our Spawn. And I don't regret it for a minute.
Oddly enough, home ownership is ever more terrifying in my mind. It's something I swore I would never do. My husband blames my childhood scars for the fact that I've been dragging my feet for the last 12 years. Rightly so. My parents screwed everything up. The first house they bought was on the banks of a creek that flooded our basement every time it rained. They sold it just a few years before a freak Hurricane destroyed the entire neighborhood. The street I grew up on is now a vacant lot.
The house I spent my teenage years in was no better. We moved into a neighborhood that was on a major decline just as everyone in their right mind was getting out of dodge. My parental unit imploded long before I turned 18, partially over household financial drama. I had to hear all of their regrets over their marriage spilled out in ugly fashion. One of the major complaints was the fact that they had bought the biggest and most expensive house on the block. Then, to top it all off, a few years after I moved out, the place burned down with the family dogs inside.
Add to all of this my latent fear of commitment and my perfectionist expectations and you have yourself a recipe for a lifetime renter. Or so I thought.
Something changed within the past year. I found myself wistfully gazing into houses while walking my dog. A strange twinge happened in my soul. I don't know where it came from but, much to my husband's delight, I finally found myself craving a permanent home. I guess it was to be expected. I've moved roughly 13 times in the last 12 years and I just turned 30 in December. I'm officially grown up. Plus, I'm exceptionally tired of apartments, disgusting neighbors, sub-par living conditions, rent increases, and confined spaces. I want a yard for my Shih Tzu, room to move freely without tripping over one another, fresh air, and, most importantly, I want to get as far away from Philadelphia as possible. This big city girl is ready to go country bumpkin.
As difficult as it was to come to that decision, it's even more frustrating trying to find a property to fit my bill and our budget. I swore I wouldn't settle for anything less than my dream house and I'm sticking to that conviction.
Que up the endless discussions, house hunting, pro/con list making, sleepless nights spent worrying if our deal is going to fall through, anxiousness every single day waiting for the phone to ring, second guessing, high hopes followed by crushing doubts, and, as I expected, FEAR over the fact that I'M ACTUALLY GOING TO GO THROUGH WITH THIS. Good Lord, have mercy. I thought 18 hours of intense labor and 4.5 hours of pushing after my epidural wore off was bad. At least that experience, as traumatizing as it truly was, only took a single day.
While I've never looked back upon that August morning at 4:02 AM when my greatest love made his first appearance with regret, I cannot help but wonder if I will be able to say the same about this period of my life. I can only pray that whatever decision we arrive at in the coming months will be as joyous as the one that we embarked upon without so much as a second thought.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The system is broken! For Caylee, whom has spoken?
Justice, a farce. A child's world, torn apart.
Sunshine, no more. Her mother, a whore.
Now what does Casey's future have in store?
Misplaced charity and undeserved adoration galore?
I just don't see the allure.
The skank is a monumental bore
and marches to a symphony of me, me, me.
Yet she siphons sympathy
and finds herself as the recipient of mercy.
Silly of me to expect a Karmic comeuppance
in our reality TV society.
Just schmooze with the cooze,
call Headline News, and your fifteen minutes are free.
Want to sell some magazines?
Don't run a story on the latest teen queen.
Set up a "candid" photo-shoot with Miss Anthony
and make up a story about how she was seen
shopping for tops with blood money.
You know, it's almost ceased to be funny.
The fact that this cunny without any worth still walks the earth
instead of riding horizontal in a hearse
makes me want to scream and curse.
The system is broken!
For Caylee, whom has spoken?
It's an atrocity, her loss is keen.... and closure still remains to be seen.
Sunshine, no more. Her mother, a whore.
Now what does Casey's future have in store?
Misplaced charity and undeserved adoration galore?
I just don't see the allure.
The skank is a monumental bore
and marches to a symphony of me, me, me.
Yet she siphons sympathy
and finds herself as the recipient of mercy.
Silly of me to expect a Karmic comeuppance
in our reality TV society.
Just schmooze with the cooze,
call Headline News, and your fifteen minutes are free.
Want to sell some magazines?
Don't run a story on the latest teen queen.
Set up a "candid" photo-shoot with Miss Anthony
and make up a story about how she was seen
shopping for tops with blood money.
You know, it's almost ceased to be funny.
The fact that this cunny without any worth still walks the earth
instead of riding horizontal in a hearse
makes me want to scream and curse.
The system is broken!
For Caylee, whom has spoken?
It's an atrocity, her loss is keen.... and closure still remains to be seen.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Actual text message exchange:
Me: Why is the dog crazy sniffing at the foot of ur side of the bed?
Hubby: Cat throw up
Me: The cat threw up on my bed?
Hubby: On the floor and I stepped in it and did not know until dog was licking my sock at the end of the bed.
Me: Call my god that is so freaking disgusting
Hubby: Blame the cat
Me: This entire thread is like a bad Facebook fail
Hubby: And I will call god but I don't think he will answer.
Me: Effing auto correct
Friday, January 13, 2012
"I don't want to die over some Delsym!"
My headstrong, know it all eleven year old son has been coughing since Christmas. He's always been an exceptionally healthy child. I can count on one hand how many times he's been sick in his life and, believe me, I thank God for that fact. Aside from being attacked by a friend's dog two years ago, having his face ripped open, and being rushed to the ER where he received 22 stitches, we've dodged the health crisis bullet.
As you can imagine, the boy thinks he's some kind of miracle and that his immune system has super powers the likes of which the world has never seen. In other words, he doesn't know how to be ill. Nor can he admit the fact that he's under the weather. This will bode well for his future wife, I hope. I very often find myself feeling bad for her due to his stubborn cockiness and inability to clean up after himself in any way, shape, or form. For this, and many other reasons, I have resolved to be a very loving future mother-in-law. Still, it's comforting to know that she'll never be able to complain about him being Man Sick.
Anyway, after near constant bickering with the child and watching his symptoms progress instead of improve over the last few weeks, I decided it was time to make an appointment with his pediatrician yesterday. Come to find out, the little one has a sinus and upper respiratory infection. Daddy, a trained medical professional but by no means an actual doctor, brought him home with a basic antibiotic, children's cough syrup, and administered his first dosages.
I thought for sure that by the time I came home from work, my boo boo baby bear boy would be quite contrite and ready to concede that he was, in fact, sick this entire time. Well, I had another thing coming. He told me that because he doesn't have a "temperature" he's not "technically sick." I replied, "Dear, I certainly hope that you DO have a temperature, otherwise I fear you'd be dead. What you mean to say is that you don't have a fever." He replied, "Yeah, whatever. You're smart. You know what I mean." Though he acknowledged my inherent intelligence, and I should have counted that as a victory, I was not permitted to ride that wave of accomplishment for long.
This very morning when I was preparing his medicine along with his breakfast, he was monitoring every move I made and critiquing me along the way. I made sure to read the dosage instructions on the cough syrup very carefully and began pouring it into the little plastic cup that came in the package. That's when the boy snapped. He said, "That looks like more than daddy gave me! You're going to overdose me! I don't want to die over some Delsym!"
After laughing hysterically for a good 30 seconds, I read the directions to him and said, "I know you believe that your father is better suited for this job and that you have convinced yourself that he's a doctor. However, you've survived up until this point, so I think you should probably give me a bit more credit about my ability to keep you alive." He looked at me sideways, apparently gauging whether I was trying to pull some sneaky Casey Anthony shit, and took the medicine.
So far, so good. I haven't gotten a call from the school yet advising me that he's been rushed to the hospital because of an apparent drug overdose and it's been just over two hours since he swallowed the stuff. Maybe I'll finally be able to cash in my Mommy's Always Right chips with him later on tonight.
As you can imagine, the boy thinks he's some kind of miracle and that his immune system has super powers the likes of which the world has never seen. In other words, he doesn't know how to be ill. Nor can he admit the fact that he's under the weather. This will bode well for his future wife, I hope. I very often find myself feeling bad for her due to his stubborn cockiness and inability to clean up after himself in any way, shape, or form. For this, and many other reasons, I have resolved to be a very loving future mother-in-law. Still, it's comforting to know that she'll never be able to complain about him being Man Sick.
Anyway, after near constant bickering with the child and watching his symptoms progress instead of improve over the last few weeks, I decided it was time to make an appointment with his pediatrician yesterday. Come to find out, the little one has a sinus and upper respiratory infection. Daddy, a trained medical professional but by no means an actual doctor, brought him home with a basic antibiotic, children's cough syrup, and administered his first dosages.
I thought for sure that by the time I came home from work, my boo boo baby bear boy would be quite contrite and ready to concede that he was, in fact, sick this entire time. Well, I had another thing coming. He told me that because he doesn't have a "temperature" he's not "technically sick." I replied, "Dear, I certainly hope that you DO have a temperature, otherwise I fear you'd be dead. What you mean to say is that you don't have a fever." He replied, "Yeah, whatever. You're smart. You know what I mean." Though he acknowledged my inherent intelligence, and I should have counted that as a victory, I was not permitted to ride that wave of accomplishment for long.
This very morning when I was preparing his medicine along with his breakfast, he was monitoring every move I made and critiquing me along the way. I made sure to read the dosage instructions on the cough syrup very carefully and began pouring it into the little plastic cup that came in the package. That's when the boy snapped. He said, "That looks like more than daddy gave me! You're going to overdose me! I don't want to die over some Delsym!"
After laughing hysterically for a good 30 seconds, I read the directions to him and said, "I know you believe that your father is better suited for this job and that you have convinced yourself that he's a doctor. However, you've survived up until this point, so I think you should probably give me a bit more credit about my ability to keep you alive." He looked at me sideways, apparently gauging whether I was trying to pull some sneaky Casey Anthony shit, and took the medicine.
So far, so good. I haven't gotten a call from the school yet advising me that he's been rushed to the hospital because of an apparent drug overdose and it's been just over two hours since he swallowed the stuff. Maybe I'll finally be able to cash in my Mommy's Always Right chips with him later on tonight.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
I think I nipped that booty call in the bud.
It started out funny and began spinning out of control here.
Well, I think the buck stops here.....
January 10
617 959 ****: Where are you now?
Me: Planned Parenthood.
617 959 ****: And you DID NOT tell me
Me: It's a woman's right to choose. Men get no choice. It's the American way.
617 959 ****: WOWWWWWW! Do you even remember my name? I know you don't cheater
Me: I just remember calling you papi.
617 959 ****: Answer your phone
Me: No talk. Just text. Or sex. See you Friday.
617 959 ****: I forgot you got a stutter.
Me: Too much cock in my mouth to formulate a proper sentence. Just don't tell nobody about me being around here. I'm still supposed to be in Florida because of my probation.
617 959 ****: A fugitive good dont worry about me putting uuuuuuuu in cuffs I'm gonna use other restraints on you and give you a double orgasm
Me: Just no duct tape. After the murder trial, I'm done with that shit 4ever.
Today
617 959 ****: Hey boothang it's raining whats up?
Me: Who the fuck are you don't you ever be texting my girl again
617 959 ****: She txt me first check her phone
Me: Dis the first text up in here
617 959 ****: If you say so
Well, I think the buck stops here.....
January 10
617 959 ****: Where are you now?
Me: Planned Parenthood.
617 959 ****: And you DID NOT tell me
Me: It's a woman's right to choose. Men get no choice. It's the American way.
617 959 ****: WOWWWWWW! Do you even remember my name? I know you don't cheater
Me: I just remember calling you papi.
617 959 ****: Answer your phone
Me: No talk. Just text. Or sex. See you Friday.
617 959 ****: I forgot you got a stutter.
Me: Too much cock in my mouth to formulate a proper sentence. Just don't tell nobody about me being around here. I'm still supposed to be in Florida because of my probation.
617 959 ****: A fugitive good dont worry about me putting uuuuuuuu in cuffs I'm gonna use other restraints on you and give you a double orgasm
Me: Just no duct tape. After the murder trial, I'm done with that shit 4ever.
Today
617 959 ****: Hey boothang it's raining whats up?
Me: Who the fuck are you don't you ever be texting my girl again
617 959 ****: She txt me first check her phone
Me: Dis the first text up in here
617 959 ****: If you say so
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Obsessed.
Isn't there a reality show pertaining to these kinds of fixations? I think I'd be a perfect candidate. Truly. I've hardly eaten today. There's just too much news breaking on the Casey Anthony front. I realized that I was hungry but I couldn't stop, couldn't look away. The train wreck just keeps piling up, one car on top of another, like fiery dominoes tumbling in a fascinating display of flames.
At least I'm not hooked on crack, right? In some ways, maybe this is just as unhealthy. I'm emotionally invested. I've got my teeth sunk in so deeply that I can't let go. It's become a part of me now. My residual rage over my traumatic childhood is all mixed up in the mess. I can't separate my anger over my own experiences from my distress over what happened to Caylee anymore.
I must believe that I'll be able to exorcise my inner demons if I can fight this fight to the end. If I can just manage to keep my satirical death grip firmly around Casey Anthony's no good lying throat until she takes her final breath. Then I will have won.
What's the prize, though? What will I have gained? What will I have to show for the effort that I have expended? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Logic doesn't apply here, folks. Emotion- raw, ragged, hate filled emotion- rules. While I realize the futility of my mission on an intellectual level, I cannot actually apply the principles it should dictate to my day to day life.
Instead, I rationalize my behavior. I tell myself that one day, any second now, it will all be over. I'll lose interest and move on to my next passing fancy, as I have done so many times before.
You see, I'm flighty by nature. My focus is generally as fleeting as it is laser sharp. Not this time, however. It's a cause for concern at this point, quite frankly.
Will I wake up one morning and find that the thrill is gone? Quite possibly. As much as I am entertained, amused, and invested in this comically insane venture, honestly, there's a huge part of me that hopes such an occurrence will happen sooner rather than later.
At least I'm not hooked on crack, right? In some ways, maybe this is just as unhealthy. I'm emotionally invested. I've got my teeth sunk in so deeply that I can't let go. It's become a part of me now. My residual rage over my traumatic childhood is all mixed up in the mess. I can't separate my anger over my own experiences from my distress over what happened to Caylee anymore.
I must believe that I'll be able to exorcise my inner demons if I can fight this fight to the end. If I can just manage to keep my satirical death grip firmly around Casey Anthony's no good lying throat until she takes her final breath. Then I will have won.
What's the prize, though? What will I have gained? What will I have to show for the effort that I have expended? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Logic doesn't apply here, folks. Emotion- raw, ragged, hate filled emotion- rules. While I realize the futility of my mission on an intellectual level, I cannot actually apply the principles it should dictate to my day to day life.
Instead, I rationalize my behavior. I tell myself that one day, any second now, it will all be over. I'll lose interest and move on to my next passing fancy, as I have done so many times before.
You see, I'm flighty by nature. My focus is generally as fleeting as it is laser sharp. Not this time, however. It's a cause for concern at this point, quite frankly.
Will I wake up one morning and find that the thrill is gone? Quite possibly. As much as I am entertained, amused, and invested in this comically insane venture, honestly, there's a huge part of me that hopes such an occurrence will happen sooner rather than later.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
We gotta go on Maury.
I could hardly sleep last night because of my husband's bright idea. My phone was alerting off the damn hook. I finally had to put it on silent around midnight. Now, here it is, well into the next day and I'm still getting calls about the fictitious baby mama drama that I created.
After telling over 20 people that I was pregnant (OMG! Can u believe it?) I got many responses.
This was the best:
Last night-
617959****: Who is this?
Me: The girl from the club. Don't u remember?
617959****: Why you play me like dat? Am eye the father?
Me: I slept with five different guys. It could be anyone's baby. We gotta go on Maury.
617959****: Call me now!
10 Minutes ago-
617959****: You got me calling wrong numbers! This is all your fault! I want my baby!
Me: Too late. I had an abortion earlier this afternoon.
617959****: I'm suing your ash
Me: The baby is ash. I don't think you can sue ash. Sorry.
617959****: We can make more. You going to the club again on Friday?
Me: See you there.
OK. We all know I'm comically insane. But what's this guy's excuse?
After telling over 20 people that I was pregnant (OMG! Can u believe it?) I got many responses.
This was the best:
Last night-
617959****: Who is this?
Me: The girl from the club. Don't u remember?
617959****: Why you play me like dat? Am eye the father?
Me: I slept with five different guys. It could be anyone's baby. We gotta go on Maury.
617959****: Call me now!
10 Minutes ago-
617959****: You got me calling wrong numbers! This is all your fault! I want my baby!
Me: Too late. I had an abortion earlier this afternoon.
617959****: I'm suing your ash
Me: The baby is ash. I don't think you can sue ash. Sorry.
617959****: We can make more. You going to the club again on Friday?
Me: See you there.
OK. We all know I'm comically insane. But what's this guy's excuse?
Monday, January 9, 2012
"I'm pregnant! OMG! Can u believe it?"
I changed my phone number roughly 6 months ago and I'm constantly getting random calls and texts from people I don't know. My husband had the bright idea for me to respond to the next one with, "I'm pregnant! OMG! Can u believe it?"
Well, I did. The only problem? It was a "Group MMS" text. Which means it went out to umpteen different numbers. I didn't realize that... until I started getting even more crazy calls & texts. People are all, "Who is this?" Of course, I couldn't help myself. I pushed it further by replying: "The girl from the club. Don't u remember?" Now psychotic wives and girlfriends are ringing my phone off the hook and cussing me out. You'd think I would have learned my lesson but I'm already scheming on my next ridiculous response.
DAMN IT. This is the last time I EVER listen to my husband.
Well, I did. The only problem? It was a "Group MMS" text. Which means it went out to umpteen different numbers. I didn't realize that... until I started getting even more crazy calls & texts. People are all, "Who is this?" Of course, I couldn't help myself. I pushed it further by replying: "The girl from the club. Don't u remember?" Now psychotic wives and girlfriends are ringing my phone off the hook and cussing me out. You'd think I would have learned my lesson but I'm already scheming on my next ridiculous response.
DAMN IT. This is the last time I EVER listen to my husband.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
The Bitch Who Stole Caylee
Casey Anthony, you're a bitch I'd like to see lynched
without the privilege of a last meal.
Your cootch is as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as smarmy as an eel, Miss Anthony.
Your tits are saggy sacks,
so it's obvious they're real.
You're a monster, Casey Anthony.
Your heart's an empty hole.
Your hoo-haa is full of bed bugs.
You've got a black hole as your soul, Miss Anthony.
In order to bang you, a man would need
a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.
You're a vile one, Casey Anthony.
You have a horse-toothed smile.
You should be used as bait
to hunt hungry crocodiles, Miss Anthony.
Given the choice between the two of you,
most would rather screw a hungry crocodile.
Your scunt is a foul one, Casey Anthony.
It smells like a nasty, wasty skunk.
Your whore-hole has been stuffed with unwashed cocks,
now your cunt is full of gunky spunk, Miss Anthony.
The three words that best describe you, are as follows, and I quote:
STINK, STANK, STUNK.
Your body is NOT HOT, Casey Anthony.
You should be tied to a shit stained cot and left to rot.
We'd like to see you dead and splotched
with moldy purple spots, Miss Anthony.
You should be dumped in a swamp overflowing
with the most disgraceful assortment of deplorable
rubbish imaginable, eaten up by coyotes,
leaving only bones mangled into unidentifiable knots.
The very thought of you nauseates me, Casey Anthony.
All hope for your redemption is completely lost.
Your attorney is a crooked jerky jockey
and all your life consists of is getting sauced, Miss Anthony.
Please, deep throat a three decker Velveeta and salami sandwich
with an extra helping of arsenic, you wicked baby killing witch!
without the privilege of a last meal.
Your cootch is as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as smarmy as an eel, Miss Anthony.
Your tits are saggy sacks,
so it's obvious they're real.
You're a monster, Casey Anthony.
Your heart's an empty hole.
Your hoo-haa is full of bed bugs.
You've got a black hole as your soul, Miss Anthony.
In order to bang you, a man would need
a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.
You're a vile one, Casey Anthony.
You have a horse-toothed smile.
You should be used as bait
to hunt hungry crocodiles, Miss Anthony.
Given the choice between the two of you,
most would rather screw a hungry crocodile.
Your scunt is a foul one, Casey Anthony.
It smells like a nasty, wasty skunk.
Your whore-hole has been stuffed with unwashed cocks,
now your cunt is full of gunky spunk, Miss Anthony.
The three words that best describe you, are as follows, and I quote:
STINK, STANK, STUNK.
Your body is NOT HOT, Casey Anthony.
You should be tied to a shit stained cot and left to rot.
We'd like to see you dead and splotched
with moldy purple spots, Miss Anthony.
You should be dumped in a swamp overflowing
with the most disgraceful assortment of deplorable
rubbish imaginable, eaten up by coyotes,
leaving only bones mangled into unidentifiable knots.
The very thought of you nauseates me, Casey Anthony.
All hope for your redemption is completely lost.
Your attorney is a crooked jerky jockey
and all your life consists of is getting sauced, Miss Anthony.
Please, deep throat a three decker Velveeta and salami sandwich
with an extra helping of arsenic, you wicked baby killing witch!
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Conversational Bitch Slapping
Me: Are you making fun of how many random, completely unrelated thoughts run through my mind every second of every day? Some people appreciate that attribute of my character, you know.
Hubby: Yeah, well, they don't live with you.
Hubby: Yeah, well, they don't live with you.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Dear Customer, Casual Acquaintance and/or Complete and Total Stranger,
STOP asking me how my holidays were. You really don't care about my answer, as is evidenced by the fact that you're satisfied by my quickly muttered, typical, get up out of my business one word answer of "Good."
Thanks,
Lilli
PS- I don't care about your holidays either. Hence why I never asked.
Thanks,
Lilli
PS- I don't care about your holidays either. Hence why I never asked.
There's nothing more tired out than Christmas on the day after Christmas.
I am a self proclaimed Christmas fanatic. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm one of those annoying freaks that starts listening to holiday music in October, shopping for decorations as soon as they hit the shelves, dreaming of sugarplums in November, and baking tons of fattening, Santa inspired goodies long before Thanksgiving.
That being said, as soon as December 26th rolls around, I'll be the first to proclaim that there's absolutely nothing more tired out than Christmas on the day after Christmas. As far as I'm concerned, the lights can come down and the carefully trimmed tree can be the ornamental centerpiece of the dumpster long before New Year's Day has dawned.
I mean, I'm not a total dick. I realize that people have probably been busy these past couple of weeks. Totally understandable. That's why I'm currently giving my neighbors the benefit of the doubt. However, if their Christmas decorations are still up by this time next week, I'm going to go ahead and assume they're lazy jackasses that will still be celebrating the season in July.
That being said, as soon as December 26th rolls around, I'll be the first to proclaim that there's absolutely nothing more tired out than Christmas on the day after Christmas. As far as I'm concerned, the lights can come down and the carefully trimmed tree can be the ornamental centerpiece of the dumpster long before New Year's Day has dawned.
I mean, I'm not a total dick. I realize that people have probably been busy these past couple of weeks. Totally understandable. That's why I'm currently giving my neighbors the benefit of the doubt. However, if their Christmas decorations are still up by this time next week, I'm going to go ahead and assume they're lazy jackasses that will still be celebrating the season in July.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
The (Drunken Mis)Adventures of Tintin.
New Year's Day, the kids are out of school, and there's nothing much to do. Sounds like a recipe for a day at the movies! So, I took my eleven year old son and (his younger uncle) my ten year old brother-in-law to see Steven Spielberg's much anticipated 3D animated "Adventures of Tintin." It's rated PG and, from what little advertising I've seen about the flick, I figured it was a pretty safe bet. A boy and his cute little dog Snowy and an epic adventure. How damaging could it be?
Now, let me preface this with a little background on my very liberal policies regarding regulating what movies and literature I allow my son to view and read. I'm pretty darned open minded and I don't believe in censoring his burgeoning curiosity or hindering his intellectual growth. I do, however, draw the line at overtly sexual or drug related content. Those are issues that we have discussed at length so it's not that he's unaware of their existence. I'm certainly not trying to raise a Bubble Boy. I just think there's plenty more he needs to learn about both controversial subjects before I allow Hollywood to exert its poisonous, if inevitable, influence over the child.
OK- Back to Tintin. IMDb's brief storyline summary as written by "don @ minifie-1" reads:
Having bought a model ship, the Unicorn, for a pound off a market stall Tintin is initially puzzled that the sinister Mr. Sakharine should be so eager to buy it from him, resorting to murder and kidnapping Tintin - accompanied by his marvellous dog Snowy - to join him and his gang as they sail to Morocco on an old cargo ship. Sakharine has bribed the crew to revolt against the ship's master, drunken Captain Haddock, but Tintin, Snowy and Haddock escape, arriving in Morocco at the court of a sheikh, who also has a model of the Unicorn. Haddock tells Tintin that over three hundred years earlier his ancestor Sir Francis Haddock was forced to scuttle the original Unicorn when attacked by a piratical forebear of Sakharine but he managed to save his treasure and provide clues to its location in three separate scrolls, all of which were secreted in models of the Unicorn.
KEYWORD here being DRUNKEN. I, however, think the words ALCOHOLIC LUSH would be more appropriate adjectives to describe Captain Haddock. His disgustingly habitual drinking isn't my major qualm, though. It's the fact that it's glorified to the point of becoming an entertaining attribute which appears to give him, not only character, but advantages. When he's sober, he's clueless. However, all it takes is a big guzzle of "spirits" to jog his memory and reveal a pivotal clue that helps lead Tintin further along in the plot. Think Popeye the Sailor Man. Just replace his spinach with whisky and you've got yourself a fabulous idea of the Captain Haddock character.
I was absolutely appalled. Of course, I didn't even wait until we'd gotten home to broach the subject with the boys. My son told me I was "blowing it out of proportion" and that OF COURSE he knows better than to believe that drinking alcohol would be beneficial or adventurous. My little brother-in-law listened to my whole lecture/speil quite avidly and then proceeded to tell me that he doesn't have an issue with Captain Haddock. He just doesn't like Popeye. Why? Well, he eats spinach! That's just plain nasty.
*Sigh*
I'll leave it to your judgement as to whether or not you take your young and impressionable children to see this fabulously visual film which is the first part of an upcoming trilogy. I suppose it really does depend on each individual child's perception, their maturity level, and susceptibility to such subliminal content. If nothing else, it could open the door for a heart to heart talk about the perils of alcoholism and how important it will be for them to resist peer pressure induced temptation to indulge in the deadly and addictive habit. Communication is such an important part of parenting and this movie will certainly provide an opportunity for it.
Now, let me preface this with a little background on my very liberal policies regarding regulating what movies and literature I allow my son to view and read. I'm pretty darned open minded and I don't believe in censoring his burgeoning curiosity or hindering his intellectual growth. I do, however, draw the line at overtly sexual or drug related content. Those are issues that we have discussed at length so it's not that he's unaware of their existence. I'm certainly not trying to raise a Bubble Boy. I just think there's plenty more he needs to learn about both controversial subjects before I allow Hollywood to exert its poisonous, if inevitable, influence over the child.
OK- Back to Tintin. IMDb's brief storyline summary as written by "don @ minifie-1" reads:
Having bought a model ship, the Unicorn, for a pound off a market stall Tintin is initially puzzled that the sinister Mr. Sakharine should be so eager to buy it from him, resorting to murder and kidnapping Tintin - accompanied by his marvellous dog Snowy - to join him and his gang as they sail to Morocco on an old cargo ship. Sakharine has bribed the crew to revolt against the ship's master, drunken Captain Haddock, but Tintin, Snowy and Haddock escape, arriving in Morocco at the court of a sheikh, who also has a model of the Unicorn. Haddock tells Tintin that over three hundred years earlier his ancestor Sir Francis Haddock was forced to scuttle the original Unicorn when attacked by a piratical forebear of Sakharine but he managed to save his treasure and provide clues to its location in three separate scrolls, all of which were secreted in models of the Unicorn.
KEYWORD here being DRUNKEN. I, however, think the words ALCOHOLIC LUSH would be more appropriate adjectives to describe Captain Haddock. His disgustingly habitual drinking isn't my major qualm, though. It's the fact that it's glorified to the point of becoming an entertaining attribute which appears to give him, not only character, but advantages. When he's sober, he's clueless. However, all it takes is a big guzzle of "spirits" to jog his memory and reveal a pivotal clue that helps lead Tintin further along in the plot. Think Popeye the Sailor Man. Just replace his spinach with whisky and you've got yourself a fabulous idea of the Captain Haddock character.
I was absolutely appalled. Of course, I didn't even wait until we'd gotten home to broach the subject with the boys. My son told me I was "blowing it out of proportion" and that OF COURSE he knows better than to believe that drinking alcohol would be beneficial or adventurous. My little brother-in-law listened to my whole lecture/speil quite avidly and then proceeded to tell me that he doesn't have an issue with Captain Haddock. He just doesn't like Popeye. Why? Well, he eats spinach! That's just plain nasty.
*Sigh*
I'll leave it to your judgement as to whether or not you take your young and impressionable children to see this fabulously visual film which is the first part of an upcoming trilogy. I suppose it really does depend on each individual child's perception, their maturity level, and susceptibility to such subliminal content. If nothing else, it could open the door for a heart to heart talk about the perils of alcoholism and how important it will be for them to resist peer pressure induced temptation to indulge in the deadly and addictive habit. Communication is such an important part of parenting and this movie will certainly provide an opportunity for it.
2012 = 12 Years
On Valentine's Day (we couldn't resist the romantic cliche) my husband and I will be celebrating our twelfth wedding anniversary.
Whew doggy, time flies. I've known the boy since the summer of 1997 and I pined after him for a solid two years before we finally got together. We have endured some crazy ass shit along the way... and not just during the "getting together" process either (which was a Jerry Springer episode in and of itself).
From the very moment I first saw him, I knew. I longed for and hated him. I fought with and for him. I suppressed my desire and let it drown me. A war waged inside of me every time we were in one another's presence. Anything that stood between our love became a casualty. It was truly a case of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Something had to give. And that something turned out to be everything, and everyone, other than us.
There are only a few days in my life that I remember from start to finish with a clarity immune to blemish ... and our wedding day is one of them. It was low key, the polar opposite of fancy. Some who attended still refer to it as a shotgun style laugh riot. But that's irrelevant. For me, it was never about the ceremony. In my heart, I was already married to him and the certificate we signed didn't change a thing.
Oh, we were youthful, whimsical, idealistic, fresh faced and breathtakingly beautiful in a way you only come to realize in retrospect. We took those vows with the purest of hearts, the best of intentions. Yet, we've both made many deal breaking mistakes since that uncommonly warm February afternoon. Still, I'd like to think that even if we could have known what the future held, we'd do it all over again.
Many things have changed since the turn of the new millennium. A child has been born that has forever altered our existence. Couples who embarked upon their lives together at the same time have long since parted. The disheartening winds of winter's discontent have whipped us to and fro. The joyful breezes of summer have caressed us with the gentleness of a lover's kiss. We have triumphed and we have failed. We have fallen apart and been pieced back together. We have been refined, but not as silver; we have been tested in the furnace of affliction and because of these trials by fire, our love has emerged stronger for having borne the flames.
Through these many transitions the most important aspect of our relationship, however, has remained the same; Our hearts, souls & lives continue to be joined inseparably. We are still committed to traversing this journey together, come what may, hand in hand, to the very end and, God willing, we'll do so. That being said... Here's to another 50 years in this life and an eternity in the hereafter!
Whew doggy, time flies. I've known the boy since the summer of 1997 and I pined after him for a solid two years before we finally got together. We have endured some crazy ass shit along the way... and not just during the "getting together" process either (which was a Jerry Springer episode in and of itself).
From the very moment I first saw him, I knew. I longed for and hated him. I fought with and for him. I suppressed my desire and let it drown me. A war waged inside of me every time we were in one another's presence. Anything that stood between our love became a casualty. It was truly a case of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Something had to give. And that something turned out to be everything, and everyone, other than us.
There are only a few days in my life that I remember from start to finish with a clarity immune to blemish ... and our wedding day is one of them. It was low key, the polar opposite of fancy. Some who attended still refer to it as a shotgun style laugh riot. But that's irrelevant. For me, it was never about the ceremony. In my heart, I was already married to him and the certificate we signed didn't change a thing.
Oh, we were youthful, whimsical, idealistic, fresh faced and breathtakingly beautiful in a way you only come to realize in retrospect. We took those vows with the purest of hearts, the best of intentions. Yet, we've both made many deal breaking mistakes since that uncommonly warm February afternoon. Still, I'd like to think that even if we could have known what the future held, we'd do it all over again.
Many things have changed since the turn of the new millennium. A child has been born that has forever altered our existence. Couples who embarked upon their lives together at the same time have long since parted. The disheartening winds of winter's discontent have whipped us to and fro. The joyful breezes of summer have caressed us with the gentleness of a lover's kiss. We have triumphed and we have failed. We have fallen apart and been pieced back together. We have been refined, but not as silver; we have been tested in the furnace of affliction and because of these trials by fire, our love has emerged stronger for having borne the flames.
Through these many transitions the most important aspect of our relationship, however, has remained the same; Our hearts, souls & lives continue to be joined inseparably. We are still committed to traversing this journey together, come what may, hand in hand, to the very end and, God willing, we'll do so. That being said... Here's to another 50 years in this life and an eternity in the hereafter!
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