It really was a cute phone cover

Dear Escalade Wielding Barbie Mom,

I just wanted to say thank you for holding up traffic this morning at our kids’ school. You and your fellow macchiato sipping, velour gym suit with matching jewel encrusted cap wearing gal pal allowed me an extra ten minutes to sit and unresentfully listen to music. I truly had no desire to be to work on time, because, who the fuck wants that? NOT ME. I was having too much fun being mesmerised by your blatant lack of awareness to your surroundings and the shiny logo on the back of your obnoxious, hulk of a vehicle that was completely obstructing the one and only narrow lane to get the fuck out of the parking lot to give a shit about work. And hey, I TOTALLY understand. You ladies clearly had something very exciting to talk about, and its a common known fact that lattes and traffic jams are so much better with a friend.

Where on EARTH do you ladies get those outfits anyways? At the twats glammymoms R us store? That shit is fancy as fuck. I bet when you wear them to the gym it turns your sweat into glitter and fairy tears. Though, you probably don’t ACTUALLY wear those to work out. Those outfits look WAY too pretty to be soiled by physical exertion. If I had snazzy work out clothes like that, I would be too afraid of ruining them, so I would be sure to only wear them to run errands. I want to look fit and stylish while I’m buying tampons and vodka.

I also noticed your glittery phone cover when you were holding it up to your face while making a left turn on the same road I was making a right on. I gotta say, OH EM GEE. That shit was so mother-fucking cute that I felt my ovaries quiver. For real. Your phone cover seriously caused my internal girl balls to sneeze out a few extra eggs A WHOLE WEEK EARLY, thus causing my cycle to be completely off from now on. That’s cool though. I didn’t want to wait three weeks to have “aunt flow”, or some other stupid euphemism for the uterine panty-murder that destroys a week out of my life once a month. Or, maybe it wasn’t my ovaries that caused that sensation. Maybe it was my large intestines threatening to unleash an unholy hell in my work uniform in response to nearly being run off the road, BUT I DOUBT IT. But no, s’rsly, I’m SO going to the glittery phone cover store tomorrow, right after I find my very own softy-soft muff accentuating running outfit.

With that, I do wish you a good day. I hope you have fun vagazzling your freshly waxed cooter that you never show your husband. GOTTA MAKE SURE ALL THE ACCESSORIES MATCH.

Sincerely,

The mom with her two kids you almost ran off the road, then made late for work.

You fucking collosotwat.

The end.

I’m going to get one just like this, but with the word “JUICY” written in big bold letters across my ass. That way, people will think I’m fit AND slutty. Or that my ass is a fruit and filled with juice. One of those.

For the love of chocolate baby jesus, can someone please bring me a hamburger?

I am so tired that I’m hallucinating.

For real, I’m seeing some fucked up shit out of the corner of my eye, like midget-sized, dark ghosty things, and they are dancing next to my head. They keep running back into my misfiring frontal lobe when I turn to look, and its annoying as hell.

Assholes. If you’re going to fuck with me, the least you can do is run to the break room and grab me a cup of coffee. Or a brownie. Wait, no brownie. Fuck brownies. How dare they be so delicious.

I fear my ever-increasing stress levels and fucked up sleep cycle is finally damaging my brain. If you see that I haven’t posted in here for weeks, then that probably means the cerebral milkshake spilled and my new dancing ghost midget pals and I are in a padded room somewhere finger painting the walls with menstrual blood and peanut butter. Why menstrual blood? Because my imagination is gross and inappropriate and we ran out of the color BLUE, that’s why. And because the kittens are screaming and I want a hamburger. SOMEONE PLEASE GET ME A HAMBURGER BEFORE I LOSE MY SHIT.

Speaking of flowers and insanity, WE GOT THE HOUSE. Can I get a FUCK YEAH? No more living at the Mother’s dwelling, and we can finally be a normal haha familial unit.

Moving is exciting. And dear GOD, it sucks. We have so many items that need to be transported and it makes me want to set it all on fire and start over and buy NEW things. But that’s not terribly cost effective. And I’m sure there’s a law against doing that, even if its your own shit. I don’t know that for certain, but there’s laws for just about everything, it seems (case in point: in Arizona, its supposedly illegal to have more than two dildos in one house, and its illegal to hunt camels. WTF.).

The excitement is making me dizzy. Or I’m dizzy from the lack of sleep and a possible impending stress and caffeine induced heart attack. Yeah, one of those.  

Now if you’ll excuse me, My demon pals and I are going to find some sugar free Red Bull and a blow torch.

The End.

They sound like chipmunks on speed and tell horrible jokes. BUT THEY’RE MY FRIENDS.

TDP: Two Girls, One Shop

I THINK I KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO DO WITH MY LIFE

I’m going to train to be a mechanic!

Why? ‘Cause I like cars. I don’t know jack shit about engines, but I like looking at them. I have a desire to learn how they work and how to fix broken ones. I like unscrewing caps and putting fluids in things. I like changing oil. Okay, I’ve only done that once, but that shit was FUN.

And then, when I become well seasoned in my trade, I can open my own shop and find another chic mechanic to be my partner. We’ll call it, “TWO GIRLS, ONE SHOP”.

The name will sell itself.

“Okay, the oil’s changed, spark plugs replaced, shaft censors fixed… once we finish detailing, you should totally grab your camera and record me taking a shit on the engine”   “Tee Hee, internet sensations 4LIFE”

I’M SO KIDDING… I’d probably make a horrible mechanic based on the sole fact that I can’t drive a car up the little ramps to change the oil. BUT IT’S STILL FUN TO THINK ABOUT.

*This post is brought to you by: PLINKY PROMPT: “If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?”

The Daily Plinky: “List the top 3 things you must do before you kick the bucket.”*

1. Find someone that pisses me off on a daily basis and tie them to a chair.
2. Set the bucket on the ground and line it up with my foot, like a football player preparing to kick a field goal. Aim for the face.
3. *punt*

The end.

Kind of like this, but the football is a bucket and the deep blue in-between is someone’s face.

*This is from www.plinky.com, which is a writing promt site. The prompts usually kind of suck, but can be a useful tool if you want to get your creative secretions going. I’m going to commit** to posting from here once a day.

**Not a real promise***.

***Don’t judge me. I’m a busy woman.

A letter to my girls

To my dearest TinTin and Pokegirl*,
*Not their real names

YOU LIGHT UP MY WORLD as you insist on leaving every fucking lamp on in the house. Since you’ve arrived, my vagina life hasn’t been the same.

“Vagina Destroyer? Its Cooter Mangler to you, Lady”

When I received the news of your existence, I felt complete and utter terror a sense of purpose as though I finally understood the reason why I’m alive. You have shown me what it feels like to have  nervous breakdowns my days filled with love, joy, and alcohol laughter.

“Thanks for the bath, Lady… now watch while I unleash the unholy wrath of my bowels all over this towel. You’re welcome.”

You are worth having my hopes and dreams destroyed every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears I have poured into keeping you alive raising you. I am stocking up on Xanax and vodka full of anticipation for the next few years as I watch you blossom into the little women you are becoming karma, please be gentle. With every opportunity for defeat challenge you bring, I am left to question my sanity reminded of my strength, courage and resilience.

“What’s that? You arways want to be in metal band? Oh, so sad. Now onry thing you shred is rettuce.”

As you are getting older, I’ve decided to compile a short list of things you’ll need to know in the years to come.

1. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Except caterpillars. I don’t give a shit if they turn into pretty butterflies, they are nothing but pure evil

2. Wait until you find someone who really loves and appreciates you haha before giving yourself to him. In other words, you better hold a dime between your knees at least until you’re eighteen.

3. Remember, you can tell me ANYTHING. Especially if you ignore #2. That way I know to put your ass on birth control and install pad locks on your bedroom door and window.

4. You are ALWAYS a winner. Unless you lose. Then you had better congratulate the winner and try harder next time. First place is a privilege, not a right.

5. Work hard towards getting into a career you love. Unless its art. I don’t want to be supporting your ass until you’re forty.

6. Never date a man who wears TapOut shirts and likes Nickelback.

7. Don’t fucking do drugs.

From my heart all the way to my soul, I FIERCELY LOVE YOU BOTH* with every breath of my body. Thank you for existing.

<3

Love Always,
Your Mom

*And to Boyfriend’s son, Sporeific Xandertron**, I love you too you little weirdo.

**Not his real name.

“Oh, and how does me choking on a banana remind you of a woman doing herself with a carrot?”

“I am so full of sex” said no carrot EVER

BF: That car over there has a “in memory” sticker*

ME: That’s distracting. And tacky.

BF: Can you promise me something? If I die while you still have this car, can you please put an “in memory of” sticker on the back of the window?

ME: PSsh, would I? Of course. And it’ll be in the largest font I can possibly fit along with a giant picture of your face.

BF: Hmm…

ME: If I die, I want you to do the same. But put up a picture of something ridiculous, like a banana.

BF: I can only think of a few ways that one would relate a banana and death

ME: Speaking of which, if I’m ever choking on a banana, don’t waste time trying to save me … grab a camera and get a few shots of that shit so you can put it on the back of your car

BF: That reminds me of an episode of “1000 ways to die”. A woman accidentally killed herself with a carrot.

ME: Umm… ‘the fuck?

BF: Yeah.. she was doing herself with a carrot and it killed her

ME:……………

BF: ………..

ME: …… who the fuck would use a carrot for that sort of thing?

BF: *inquisitive glance*

ME: Seriously, what chic would look at a carrot and think, “hmm, that would make a fabulous dildo”? Use a cucumber or zucchini like normal women.

BF: Umm…

ME: I mean, c’mon, carrots are pointy and skinny and WEIRD.

BF: I.. umm… yeah….

ME: Maybe its some weird vitamin A fetish. Or maybe the store actually ran out of cucumbers and she needed something in a pinch. Or, ummm…wait, oh yeah, how did the carrot sex kill her exactly?

BF: Dunno. It was cutting her insides so she probably got some kind of infection.

ME: OOoo, yeah… that’ll do it. There’s tons of nasty shit on produce. Unless you’re anal and you scrub your veg in vinegar and stuff. But seriously, that would have never happened if she used a cucumber.

BF: Um, right…. Oh, and they called that episode “Kill-Do”.

ME: Ha! That’s pretty clever.

The end.

Okay, so that’s not terribly entertaining, but this conversation happened on our way back from looking at our possible new place, and that shit is fucking exciting.

Yep… no more living at my mother’s. We’ll be doing the grown up thing and renting someone else’s house!

I’m experiencing a level of excitement that is way higher than it should be considering we haven’t gotten the %100 “yes you guys can squat live here” approval. But, I’ve threatened to set the house on fire if they say no I have a good feeling that everything will go perfectly and we’ll soon be living in the new house and life will be vigorously happy.

That is all.

I bid you all good weekend. And remember:

Unless you fucking suck. Then please, try to be someone else that is wonderful.

Best advice ever. You’re welcome.

*Boyfriend likes to bring my attention to things he knows I don’t like, such as “in memory of some family member/neighbor/ favorite cashier at the grocery store” stickers on the backs of cars. Yes, I’m an insensitive bitch. Its annoying to be forced to feel sad for strangers that I’m yelling at for driving like dick heads AND being horribly distracted because I’m reading a wordy sticker on the back of someone’s fucking car. Judge me harshly.

Aw, look at the cute little baby pig! (so sorry about your privates)

 I hate watching the news.

It’s full of nothing but depressing, horrible stuff. Usually. Except when it’s not, but that’s rare. More often than not, its along the lines of:

“Breaking News: Family of five shot by some dick head right down the street from your house.”

“Guess what? There are babies that don’t get to live because CANCER IS AN ASSHOLE (just in case you weren’t aware)”

“The weather sucks. It’ll suck tomorrow, too. It might be nice on Thursday, but I’m only saying that because adding variance to my reports will keep you hopeful and you’ll come back tomorrow and listen to me talk some more. But, in reality, it’ll probably suck on Thursday, too”

“This just in: That ever famous rich sewer-rat “Snooki” is pregnant with a fucking BABY”

“Here’s a shit ton of updates on reality shows that are dumb. Just remember, all of the fucktards on these shows are probably far more rich than you could ever hope to be, all because they’re dumb and people want to watch snippets of their epic dumbness.”

You get my gist.

The news sucks but I still watch it from time to time. You know why I watch it? Because the news people are ATTRACTIVE. Not in a “ooh, time to diddle” sort of way. Just in a, “Wow, her hair is perfect and she has very fortunate facial features. And I bet that guys smells AMAZING. He looks really warm and nice” kind of way.

“There was a massacre at the local orphanage, and your Boyfriend cheated on you with your sister. She’s pregnant. But its okay because I smell like pure testosterone and magical fairy secretions AND IT SHOWS IN MY HANDSOME FACE AND SUPER CONCERNED DEMEANOR.

(That’s Anderson Cooper, one of the news people from CNN)

Supposedly, we react favorably to things that are pleasing to the senses (I would link some awesome scientific study to prove this statement, but I’ll save the trouble by saying, ”well NO SHIT”). Think back to when you’ve been subjected to some shitty information or forced to endure a very boring conversation with someone, but it was totally fine because that person appealed to you in some way. Either they were easy on the eyes, or they wore an amazing perfume, or you were licking their cheek while they were talking and they tasted like PEANUT BUTTER.
You know, something that made one or more of your senses scream “FUCK YEAH!!”

Sadly, it’s not just the news that’s filled with horrible information. It’s in your mail box. You hear it at your doctor’s office. Or it’s your once favorite song that you use as a ring tone, but is no longer awesome, because now it triggers a sense of “I’m about to receive horrible information”, or, “someone is about to take thirty minutes from me because they have a horrid case of verbal diarrhea and need to hear themselves talk”. (Seriously, venting is one thing, but when someone is going to take time from me that I’ll never get back just to tell me nonsense about what they had for breakfast or to remind me that gas prices suck and not let me get a word in edge-wise, IT MAKES ME WANT TO CLAW MY FACE OFF).

I think there’s an awesome solution to this. ALL CRAPPY OR MEANINGLESS INFORMATION SHOULD BE STAPLED TO THE BACKS OF KITTENS DELIVERED BY SOMETHING THAT IS PLEASING TO THE SENSES.

Are you a doctor? YOU SHOULD BE HOT. If not, then carry a baby piglet with you at all times. Or a baby teacup chihuahua. Something cute and SAFE, making it easier on your patients when you’re about to destroy their life with horrible news.

“So surrry, but you have the super herpes and yer penis is going to be gross forever the end. That’ll be a hundred dollars. kthanxby.”

See what happened there? That baby pig just made that message kind of okay. If not down right bearable. But if THAT doesn’t work, give them flowers with a nice card. Flowers are fucking pretty and they smell nice (DOUBLE WIN).

“Thanks to herpes, your genitals will never be as pretty as these flowers, but its okay, ’cause you can still smell nice like them. But not your genitals. Genitals can never smell like flowers no matter how hard you try.”

For my phone, I think I’m going to make everyone’s ring tone the sound of a purring kittens (on vibrate) and change their default picture* to this:

Hey you. It’s me. NOT YOUR MOM. Nonono, it’s okay…You don’t have to actually pick up. I just wanted to soothe your soul with the sound of purring kittens and stuff. I had a feeling you were having a bad day, so I ordered you some green curry beef from that one place you love, and its THAI HOT with extra vegetables, just the way you like it. It should be at your place in thirty minutes. Oh, and I know how you’ve been trying to quit smoking. I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to. See, I’m smoking, and I’m awesome. You’re awesome, too, so keep smoking, Gorgeous. Your hair looks really nice. This was a good talk. I’m glad it happened.”

*BOYFRIEND: Don’t trip: I would not change your picture in a million years. I fucking love your face and still love hearing you talk for insane periods of time. Even when it’s about computer stuff and geography and I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.*

 I was going to put in an adorable picture of a newborn baby in a mailbox holding bills, but surprisingly, there aren’t very many of those. Cute ones, that is.

The End.

“Cool fanny pack. You must be young and awesome” said no one EVER.

Hey, so guess what?

I’m going to be running a 5K!

Except it’s not REALLY a marathon. This is a race track that is just over three miles and has mud and obstacles and a giant music/beer fest after.

Oh, and the whole time you’re running, you’re being chased by zombies.

I. Can’t. Wait.

Oh wait, that’s right, you’re terrifying, wtf

I just had an amazing thought: how awesome would it be if they did this at regular marathons, like Ironman or the Susan Korman boob cancer one BUT THEY DIDN’T TELL THE PARTICIPANTS.

Just picture it: Everyone’s running with their gal pals, sippin’ on some Crystal Light, wearing pink fanny packs and hats, and then SURPRISE! SUDDEN HOARD OF FUCKING ZOMBIES.

That shit would be fucking hilarious.

Speaking of fanny packs, an old lady walked out in front of my car the other day and I ALMOST HAD A HEART ATTACK (pardon my frequent use of CAPS. I don’t know how else to add dramatic effect to my words).

This almost stopped my heart not because she startled the shit out of me or because of her slight resemblance to a fanny pack wearing zombie (greyish skin, slow shuffle, far away stare that said “GIMME BRAINS”). Her silvered, disheveled, curly set of locks (ok,  more like a frantic looking rat’s nest) reminded me that I found a few grey hairs the other day*.
Yeah, how ’bout that shit. I AM NOT EVEN THIRTY YEARS OLD.

Rumor has it, everything goes to shit at this point. Pretty soon, I’ll be at WalMart buying an econo-sized bag of fancy feast for my thirteen cats, and picking up a fanny pack, thinking, “OH MY! This fanny pack is PERFECT to hold my AARP card and my coupons, and it matches my Birkenstocks! Isn’t this lovely, Boyfriend?” and the whole time I will have been talking to a box of pancake mix or a coat wrack because HE’S NOT THERE. Then I put on my new item, leave the store, walk across the street, and SCARE THE SHIT out of some poor twenty-eight year old in a green Saturn and force that bitch to face her inevitable mortality.

I have way too much I want to do before the Life’s cruel, homely, stinky step-sister “Death” shows up on my door step with a fanny pack and a box of Depends.

I don’t care if you’re a sexy GILF. I DON’T WANT TO BE YOU. Well, not yet, anyways. Hot damn.

*Turns out, it wasn’t actually a grey hair. I had gotten some foundation in it and it made a streak when I used my brush. BUT IT WAS STILL TRAUMATIC AND MADE ME QUESTION MY LIFE’S CHOICES.

I think it’s time to create an organized list of things I want to do/make/accomplish before I’m a zombie old.

First thing that needs to be on the list:
1. Become incredibly fucking rich
This has nothing to do with living in a mansion or owning a boat. Fuck boats. I just want to know what it’s like to have rich people problems and to cross “money” off of my list of things to stress about.

2. Run a zombie infested 5k
I just put this on the list so I can cross it off when the time comes. Gives off the illusion that I’m productive.

3. Get plastic surgery
Yes its sad that vanity is so important and our perceptions are skewed and blah blah blah. If you come at me with some “you should love and accept yourself the way you are” nonsense, then I will have to ( lovingly) retort with a “fuck you”. My children have destroyed my boobs and it’s depressing. I WANT GIANT, PRETTY BREASTS THAT ARE SIGNIFICANTLY BETTER THAN THE ONES I AM STUCK WITH.
Seriously. I want boobs that are so impressive, they would stop traffic. That shit could come in handy.Think about it: what if, one day, I come across some horrible catastrophe that would require people to stop driving, and no one is there to get a handle on things? Hardly anyone would respond to hand signals. But most respond to boobs.
This could save lives, people.

4. Write a bucket list.
See #2

5. Learn to speak German
I have no reason for this except for the fact that I LOVE the language and want to sound terrifying when I yell at my kids.

The End. For now.
(Meaning this list will be updated for reals at some point. Suggestions welcome. Oh, and what would YOU like to accomplish before you nod off forever?)

I was all, “celery”, and Baby Choceezus was all, “you’re fat”.

Trying to anti-Kilmer sucks.

Yes, it’s difficult to have to pass on chocolate and vodka, but that’s not why it sucks. It sucks because it puts you in a position to be an ASSHOLE in they eyes of others. If there is one thing I’ve learned about dieting is that it makes other people who AREN’T dieting very uncomfortable, like telling them details of your last pap smear or how you like taking it in the butt by your significant other on Thursdays. Not that I get that personal with people willingly, but when I imagine sharing these things in response to the ingenuine “how’s life” question I get from time to time, I picture a look of “oh wow, her response is making me want to leave the room”, and they politely do, and… I win. Fuck yeah.

So then, I was all "it's Thursday, and I want it in the butt", and my gynocologist was all, "the fuck?" Lol.

Anyways, working in an office predisposes you to an arsenal of tools used in pancreatic murder. We are often well stocked with things like cookies and candies and Goldfish crackers and other various items that are ass-plumpingly yummy. And when people bring shit in, you are obligated to eat it, as if saying no is the emotional equivalent to showing up to their house and shooting their puppy in the face then taking a shit on their couch. Seriously, people are so fucking sensitive.

This is what happened this morning:

Coworker: “Today feels like a muffin kind of day, doesn’t it?”

Me: “Um, sure, but I can’t partake today”

Confused coworker: “Well, why not?”

Me: “I’m watching what I eat. Unfortunately.”

Still confused coworker: “… Why?”

FML: “Because, I feel I could afford to lose a few pounds, so I’m making an effort to watch what I eat. Muffins aren’t quite friendly to my goals”.

Clearly disappointed in a “dead puppy/now I have to clean my couch way” coworker: “Oh. Well okay”.

Other coworker, who is apparently a filthy liar: ” *snort* You don’t need to lose weight. Seriously, I’m going to the store, what kind do you want?”

OMG: ” Seriously, I’m good. You all enjoy”

Bewildered: “Well, I’m sure you want SOMETHING”

OMGPSTFU: “Celery. I want a package of pre cut and rinsed celery”

The others laugh like that was the most hilarious thing they’ve heard all year, because they never take anything I say seriously.

BUT THEN THIS HAPPENED:

Shortly after the muffin eating shenanigans that I took no part of happened, two lovely women walk into the clinic with fancy folders filled with information about their services they want us to pawn off on patients that we see (this happens at least three or four times a day, usually from other doctor’s offices. These ladies were from a dental clinic). As they were leaving, the tall blonde one offers me a bag with “OMG, here’s some goodies for you guys!”. I sigh, assuming that Chocolate Baby Jesus (which I’ve shortened to Baby Choceezus, by the way) is just fucking with me now. Usually when these company reps come in with “goodies”, its a bag full of delicious, carb and sugar laden bullshit for my mindless snacking pleasure. I peer into the bag, and what the fuck do I see?

Mother. Fucking. Celery.
(And carrots).

THIS IS PROOF THAT BABY CHOCEEZUS THINKS I’M FAT WANTS ME TO SUCCEED.

This also might be proof that I’m incredibly powerful, since I said celery and celery fucking HAPPENED*.

FUCK YOUR MUFFINS AND YOUR GUILT TRIPS. I’m on a mission, folks.

I won't let you down, Sweet Baby Choceezus.

*I’d like to put it on record that I want to win the lottery. I also want a kitten that stays a kitten forever. The end.

Jenny Lawson: YOU ARE INSIDE MY WEEKEND

I was seriously contemplating doing something brave and spontanious and so far removed from my comfort zone that I may as well tear my skin off.

I was thinking about going on a road trip.

This is a big deal, ’cause I’m fucking terrified of the outside world I never make time to go on trips or do fun things with my little family that require planning and time and money that I technically don’t have but like to pretend I do sometimes. It’s kind of fucked up, really. We aren’t horribly far from fun things like Disney Land, and the Grand Canyon (we live in Arizona for fuck’s sake and have never gone to see it. I feel like that’s just wrong on some level).

It's like the Earth's giant, gaping, post menopausal vagina. AND I'VE NEVER BEEN THERE.

When I saw that my most favorite blog lady EVER was doing a book signing in San Francisco for her memoir, “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened”,  I thought, what a great excuse to ATTEMPT AN ADVENTURE. Seriously, I love Jenny Lawson and would love to meet the hell out of her. But Life was all, “fuck you and your vague plans”. Because Life is an asshole. Its all cool though, ’cause Life made up for it by sending me her book A WHOLE DAY EARLY (thanks, Life!). So I’m going to do the next best thing: Turn on Spongebob for the Children and leave out a loaf of bread, some butter*, and maybe a few packs of skittles if they’re good, rip open a bag of cat chow for the animals and tip it over, buy a fat bottle of wine, lock myself in my room and read the shit out of that book. Like a fuckin’ boss.

Weekend plans = SET.

Though I don’t know what to do about Boyfriend. Maybe every time he knocks on the door, I’ll just start sobbing loudly and saying things like “uterus” and, “I want a baby” so he’ll leave me alone.

*Seriously, I would never do that. Butter has no protein or vitamins in it at all. What I meant was PEANUT BUTTER.