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Kumbaya, Motherfucker.

Dear 2013,
Your days are numbered, Fucker.

You have crashed this lady party for the last time. No more will you show up at my house hammered and crying over your daddy issues just to puke on my floor and pass out FACE DOWN ASS UP on my bed. In just a day or two, I will hang my new calendar on my wall, forever kicking your free-loading, soul-sucking ass to the curb.

I know, I’m being harsh. Don’t get me wrong, we had some good times. We saw some great shows, had some laughs, celebrated the completion of my thirtieth year of existence in this bat shit crazy thing called life…. We muscled through my moderate claustrophobia and did sensory deprivation tanks. WE DISCOVERED MOTHERFUCKING SUSHI, and that’s better than finding a one-hundred dollar bill or finding Jesus*.

*(I know I know, I’M KIDDING. Few things are more glorious than finding money. But seriously, sushi is delicious and quite possibly the very thing powerful enough to fill the gaping void in what’s left of my soul).

Despite our good times, you’ve been awful. You have sucked the life out of me and kept me in a ceaseless loop of stress and feelings. You’ve done some awful things to a lot of my loved ones. YOU’VE BEEN A GIANT CRAPNADO THAT HAS RESULTED IN A LOT OF SHITASTROPHE IN PEOPLE’S LIVES, and we’re sick of your shit. Hell, I don’t even celebrate New Years, but this time around I’M WEARING A FANCY PARTY HAT AND SINGING KUMBAYA WHILE DRINKING BLOOD or whatever it is people do at midnight, just for the sake of rejoicing your departure.

Because fuck you, 2013. Fuck you in your dirty whore butthole. Have fun drowning in your tears when everyone throws out their calendars and moves on.

                         As for you, 2014? BRING IT.

BRING IT

THE END.

What say you, Reader? Are you ecstatic/sad/indifferent/potato as fuck for the new year?

Halloween, you sneaky fuck. Now I have to get ready for Santa after I’m done eating the rest of this person.

Hi!

Remember when I was sick with a virus in my last post?

Turns out it was no ordinary virus. I had ingested a sort of airborne pathogen  that makes your skin rot off your body and kills your brain function. It also makes you aggressively try to eat people, which is quite detrimental to my already semi-fragile social skills. PEOPLE DON’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU MUNCH ON THEM WHEN THEY’RE JUST TRYING TO MAKE CONVERSATION.

Yep… I’ve turned into a zombie and now you all are nothing but a bunch of walking donuts to me.

Well, fuck, there goes what's left of my hopes and dreams.

Well, fuck, there goes what’s left of my hopes and dreams. Sorry for chewing on your face.

Just kidding. I didn’t turn into a zombie. While it’s fun to think about and also gives me an excuse to own more than four machetes, literal* zombies don’t exist and the ‘zombie apocalypse’ is probably not going to happen.

*I say literal because figurative ones are everywhere. Empty, brainless folks shuffling about but instead of ‘brraaaiiinnns” they’re all, “wwwiiiiii-ffiiiiiii”.
But that’s a post for a later day.

While this is a legit picture of yours truly, that’s just me when I first get up in the morning latex and toilet paper hanging off my face, not peeling dead flesh, as I was a last-minute zombie this year for Halloween.

I am sort of bummed. Halloween is my favorite time of year, and it was a sneaky little fuck this time around, so I never really had the time to bask in it’s dark, creepy goodness. I should have taken a hint from the white, sparkle-cap wearing suburbinites mainlining pumpkin spiced lattes in the streets that Autumn was upon us and that it was time to get ready for my favorite holiday, but I was somehow oblivious this year. I EVEN HAD A COSTUME PLANNED OUT, but the only way I could have required the additional time in my life that would have been required to do would have been to sacrifice a small, adorable creature to the Time Gods in a ritualistic fashion and, sad to say, I’m fresh out of kittens.

So, I settled for a run of the mill zombie this year. I will say, it was rather fun to do and I thoroughly enjoyed scaring the fuck out of the people at the gas station we stopped at while on the way to a costumed event with Caveman. I know it’s not nice to scare people, but in my defense, I am an asshole.

Want to know how to get this look for next year? It’s easy!

GATHER THESE ITEMS:

1. Liquid Latex
2. A lot of toilet paper (separated so it’s single ply)
3. Makeup (I used black and white creme makeup mixed with a little splash of my regular foundation)
4. Disposable makeup sponges
5. Black and grey eyeshadow
6. Makeup brushes that you don’t care about
7. Fake blood (find a recipe online because the stuff you buy in tubes looks sort of cheesy)
8. Two shots of whiskey

Step one:

Take a shot of whiskey

Step two:

Assemble all of the other things on your face in a way that makes you look like a yucky zombie

Step three:

Down remaining shot of whiskey.

The end.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

What did you readers do for Halloween? Was it magical as fuck? ARE YOU ALL BRACING YOURSELVES FOR SANTA BECAUSE HE’LL  BE COMING IN YOUR CHIMNEY SOON.

Err, um… yeah.

Please Refrain From Hosing Me With Your Sickness Because I Am Not A Glittercorn

Hello, The Internet.

I am really sick right now.

I do not mean sick in a “oh dear, I have the sniffles, I must be dying” sort of way, or sick in a “gee, I sure hope no one goes through my internet history if I die today from said sniffles because they will know just how incredibly fucked in the head I was in real life” . Don’t get me wrong, I do have a horribly runny nose and a slight fear someone will figure out my computer password after I leave this life, but I’m referring to the, “fuck this fever, body aches, chills, I hope the dick-hole that coughed in my face last week stubs his toe so hard that it ruins his gait for a month” kind of sick.

Okay, I’m sort of kidding about calling dude a dick-hole and wishing him discomfort. In his defense, I was sticking an eight inch Q-Tip into the back of his throat, and let’s face it, it’s hard to take eight inches of anything in the mouth without coughing or gagging AMMIRIGHT, LADIES???

fuck yeah.

fuck yeah, ladies.

“WTF, CM, that was really inappropriate. Also, why are you giving that guy shit for coughing when you were, in fact, poking his throat with a long object?”

Yes, you’re right, that was HIGHLY inappropriate. Please forgive me. I don’t have a lot of gal-pals, so I look for any opportunity for lady bonding. And like I said, I was mostly kidding about calling the poor sick sap that I was poking with a stick a ‘dick-hole’. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, you see. I can’t even begin to tell you how many people vigorously and unabashedly hack their diseased sputum in my face and, in response to my wincing with dread of all the potential diseases that I just ingested, retort with, “what do you care? IT’S NOT LIKE YOU PEOPLE GET SICK.”

You people. Meaning health care workers.

I have to say, out of all the incredibly stupid things that come out of people’s’ faces at my job, the thing that floors me the most is something that I hear MULTIPLE times a day, and that’s, “IT’S AMAZING HOW YOU GUYS NEVER GET SICK”.

Not only do people say this, but they fucking mean it.

I wish I were joking. If I had a dime for every time I hear this mind-blowing statement, I would be raking in at least thirty cents a day. Times that by four and a half (the average amount of shifts I work per week), that comes out to roughly 280-something a year, and I could buy a really awesome thing with that many extra dollars* in my pocket.

*I’m sure the math isn’t entirely accurate here, but whatever. My head is stuffy and fevered and I want a cookie because everything sucks right now, so don’t judge.

What I wouldn’t do to be able to charge such an asshole-fee for being subjected to such nonsense on a regular basis. Sure it’s easy to shrug off the blatant stupidity of others, but after a while, the shit just adds up and makes my brain hurt, and I WANT COMPENSATION FOR THIS FUCKITRY, DAMMIT. How did the notion get started that people in health care are impervious to germs and viruses in the first place? Sure, we develop some immunity to bugs over time, and while we appreciate being viewed as some sort of mythical creature with super human abilities, let me assure you, we are not magical flying fucking glittercorns and we get sick just like everyone else. Trust me, I have the inflamed tonsils and sweaty shirt to prove it.

So, with that, next time you’re at a doctor’s office and you find yourself coughing up the contents of your lungs into the face of the doctor or their assistant, just remember, THEY ARE JUDGING YOU FOR BEING AN INCONSIDERATE DICK.

“Please, be a doll and cover your fucking mouth”*~ every health care worker, ever.

The End.

*please disregard if you are not an inconsiderate dick or if you don’t have arms.

I will twerk on a corpse and all over this awkward situation

Hello, Internet.

Have we all recovered from the earth-shattering “Billy Ray Cyrus Didn’t Love Me As A Child” display put on by Hannah Montana last week?

Fuck, I hope so.. it was super hilarious at first, but then people were just going on, and on, and on about it and the memes that followed became repetitive and mediocre at best. I really could have cared less about the whole ordeal, honestly. The only real shocking thing she did was use a foam finger in ways that I never thought of, thus putting my sexual imagination to shame.

“But, Cerebral, you have daughters, aren’t you concerned about how such a display may influence their behavior?”

Yes, I certainly have daughters, and that’s the sort of activity I would not want them to engage in, but they don’t know who Miley Cyrus is because they listen to Slayer. Also, we didn’t watch the VMA’s because we lack cable and MTV sucks.

You know what concerned me the most? THAT BIZARRE SHIT SHE WAS DOING WITH HER TONGUE. It was weird as fuck and I thought that it could have been a sign that she was losing control of her facial muscles and in need of medical attention.

Miley Cyrus doing things

I don’t understand this, was she having a seizure? Licking mayo from a delicious sandwich off her cheek? Hinting that she would like to have a penis in her mouth? SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS BECAUSE IT’S BOTHERING ME

I’m also fairly certain that her arrythmic, white-girl ass shaking was not twerking. I could be mistaken, as my knowledge of modern rad dance moves is slightly below average at best, but it looked more like she was just bending over and wiggling her cooter at the audience. Again, I could be wrong.. I, myself, am not a twerker, though I sort of wish I was. Not because it would help me feel sexy or because it’s a skill I wish to add it to my resume or anything, but because IT WOULD COME IN HANDY. Confused? THINK ABOUT IT:

Scenario: You are at the grocery store and you need to buy some broccoli. A lonely, random stranger in the produce area strikes up a casual conversation with you: “Hi! You need to buy some broccoli? I like broccoli. I eat it raw a lot but sometimes I cook it and add it as a side to my dinner. I had pork chops yesterday. It was pretty good except it needed some salt and I was all out so I had to just add extra pepper. So, are you single? Have any kids? WHERE DO YOU LIVE AND ARE YOU CURRENTLY MENSTRUATING??”

You could always answer his questions or be a total bitch and tell him to eat shit, but where’s the fun in that? Instead, POP ‘DEM CHEEKS ON DAT BROCCOLI, YO. It’s very likely that he will become startled and perhaps a little frightened and trip over himself as he backs away, causing him to hit his head and knock himself unconscious, giving you an opportunity to get your veg and make your get away.

THIS CAN APPLY TO MANY SITUATIONS IN YOUR LIFE. Is your friend fishing for compliments on her ugly baby and you don’t know what to do? TWERK AT THAT UGLY BABY TO GET YOURSELF OUT OF HAVING TO LIE. Got busted falling asleep during a sermon at church? GET UP ON DAT PEW AND DO A MAD TWERK FOR JESUS. Taking a leisurely stroll through the park and come across a zombie? SPOOKY BOOTY BOUNCE ON DAT CORPSE.

"LOL, wut"

“LOL, wut”

Err, umm… yeah.. maybe that’s not such a great idea. If you encounter a zombie, you should run away or shoot it instead of clapping your cheeks against it’s rotting flesh.

Alas, I will never conquer the fine art of twerking, because I’m white as fuck (seriously, I’m a Tupperwear party and a pair of Crocs away from being clear, that’s how white I am). Also, you need a round booty to be a twerk-master, and my white-lady ass is made of squares. It’s probably just as well. A skill like that would probably get me into trouble, what with twerking on babies and what not. Who’s to say I wouldn’t do something really awful, like twerk on your mom’s cat or on a cop to get myself out of a ticket? Those sorts of things never end well.

Speaking of ending, here is a video of what happens when a white girl twerks because THE END.

I don’t give a shit about your fancy baby

Sweet mother of squirt, let’s all stop what we’re doing and acknowledge the fact that Kate Middleton and that one guy had a baby.

Yes, it’s true. They bumped their uglies, did the horizontal genital grind, dingled their dangles as one, and *oops* forgot to pull out, thus producing a boy-child that has the entire Yooniverse weeping for joy and talking about it a lot on the internet.

There isn’t an ounce of my being that gives a shit about their new found bundle of celebrity-gossip fodder. I understand this makes me some sort of asshole, but I’m okay with that. Just like I’m okay with anyone that genuinely cares about the things that come out of famous people’s uteruses because TO EACH THEIR OWN. I’m all about accepting each other’s differences and shit.

That’s not to say I don’t like babies. Quite the contrary, I fucking love babies. They’re usually cute, squishy and made out of sugar and WAY easier to deal with than non-baby children. Their sounds are cuter, too, as most children use words and have thoughts and opinions, one being that their parents are nothing but babbling, maniacal morons who cook, clean, and earn a living for them. That is not the case for babies though, oh no. To a baby you are a MAGICAL GOD who can do no wrong and I like that very much. BABIES DO NOT QUESTION ME AND THEY ALSO HAVE FAITH IN ME. Not to mention babies are super easy to take care of an maneuver through life with, unlike non-baby children. Example:

It’s easier to go to the store with a baby than it is a child.

All you need to bring with you is a well-stocked diaper bag and the handy car seat/carrier. Oh, you also need to bring the baby. While you are at the store, the baby rarely complains or asks you to buy unnecessary things utilizing repetition of said request to break down your ability to reason and will to live until you, eventually, cave in to their demands. Babies just sit there and looks at things. Sometimes, the baby will cry, but that is often easily resolved (see below). Sure, there are rare occurrences where the baby’s bowels explode without warning in an unholy fury of awfulness, saturating every square inch of their clothes, carrier, and possibly the person next to you in the aisle. This often results stinky mess and mild to moderate embarrassment, but you can solve this easily by leaving abruptly with your soiled baby and pretending it never happened. This would not be so easy if you were with a non-baby child instead. Have you ever needed to make a quick escape from a store with a non-baby child? Their short legs and no concept of haste make it IMPOSSIBLE. Also, they’ll likely stop at least three times on the way out the door to ask for cereal and some other shit.

It’s easier to troubleshoot problems with a baby.

Babies are easy. Period.
They have this amazing built in sound system that notifies you when they’re is a problem called CRYING. When things are going wrong, there is usually a quick fix for the problem, such as:
1. giving them a bottle
2. giving them a bath
3. changing their diaper
4. changing their surroundings
5. a nap
6. ibuprofen and a chew toy (if they’re teething)
7. picking them up and swaying from side to side
(for more tips or general knowledge, please refer to this informative link on how to take care of babies) (no seriously, go look at it because it’s awesome).

If you’ve done all of these things and the sound system is still activated, then you proceed to a doctor to rule out an ear infection or something potentially catastrophic. If the doctor says your baby is fine and they are still making loud noises, then could be an indication that you’re baby is just being an asshole, or has possibly morphed into a non-baby child.
The very same sound system also notifies you when things are going swimmingly and you’re doing a good job via cooing and giggling which makes you all warm and fuzzy and boosts your sense of self-worth as a parent.
Not so much for the non-baby child though. As they age, their built in sound system begins to degrade and malfunction. They cry when everything is perfectly fine and are silent when something is wrong. Coos are replaced with complaining despite all of their needs being met, which, I might add, become more complex as they get bigger. When they ask for something, rather than using a normal tone, they insist that raising their voice a few octaves and causing variances in pitch (otherwise known as ‘whining’) is the optimal way to get grown-ups to understand and respond to their request. THIS SHIT DOES NOT WORK ON ME, however, and I’ve explained to them over and over that talking in such a tone will not get me to cave in to their desires, yet they seem to interpret that as, “I should keep talking to mom in this tone in order to ensure that I get a cookie before dinner”. I WOULD TAKE CRYING OVER WHINING ANY FUCKING DAY.

Babies are very easy to keep entertained.

There is a phrase that children are often heard saying that gets under my skin like an angry case of scabies, and that’s “I’M BORED”. I want to know how in the hell it is possible to be so bored all the time when they have these amazing, vibrant, technicolored imaginations that opens up so many doors for fun and creative expression? How is it they’re bored when they have a closet full of toys that I spent a fuck-ton of cabbage on for their birthday or Christmas that they can use in conjunction with said imaginations? I’d like to remind all the children that THIS SHIT GOES AWAY AS YOU BECOME AN ADULT. It becomes socially unacceptable when you’re a grown up to talk to your stuffed dog that’s really a rainbow peeing cyborg-unicorn super hero that bakes the best imaginary friendship cupcakes you’ll ever have in your fucking life. I can’t spin around in circles at the park and pretend that I’m a helicopter that’s spiraling out of control and is going to crash. ENJOY THAT SHIT WHILE YOU CAN, I often say to my children, yet they still insist of complaining about how terrible their life is due to the severe lack of things to entertain them. I had hope that they will one day grasp the fact that all whining at me about this only leads me to find things for them to do, and these things are NEVER fun, but so far to no avail.

You rarely hear babies complain about being bored. Sure, once in a while they need a change in scenery which is easily fixed with a walk around the block, but over all, BABIES ARE AMUSED BY EVERYTHING. Have you ever watched a baby discover their foot? It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve seen it before, thanks to a short memory span, that foot will be the best damn thing they’ve ever seen and tasted in their entire little life. Shit, I remember when my oldest used to sit for hours in her light-up bouncy chair and stare at wide-eyed amazement as she would open and close her hand in front of her face. HOURS. I would eventually have to intervene to engage her in other things, but she would always go back to the awe and wonder of her little hands, and I rarely heard her complain about a lack of things to keep her interest. Obviously, if she were to do that now, I’d have to worry about possible LSD use, but I’m just saying I miss those simpler times. Or maybe, deep down, I miss babies and I’m sad that my ovaries are slowly turning into the Sahara and my baby days are over, unless I want to borrow someone else’s for a day.

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh yeah. The Super Fancy Royal Baby and what not. Shit. I totally went off on a tangent that had very little to do with what the fuck I was talking about in the first place. So yeah, congrats and such to Kate Middleton and I’m so sorry to hear about her vagina, but I unfortunately cannot join the masses in their over pouring of joy for her royal crotch-fruit. I may love me some babies but the celebrity ones are only pretend babies and don’t count.

The END

But Seriously, Say No To Toilet Sex

I have no fucking clue what I should be when I grow up.

Note I used the word “should” instead of “want” as I am pretty keen on what it is I WANT to do. If I had it my way, I would get paid to sit around and do creative writing all day. HOW BEAUTIFUL A DREAM IS THAT? I could be my own boss, do something I love, and things like “wearing a bra” and “having a good attitude” would be totally optional. Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to provide excellent customer service to entitled dick-holes who deserve to be high-fived in the face with a clipboard. I WOULD BE GETTING PAID TO BE FREE. Doesn’t that sound nice?

See this guy? He's free as fuck. That's how free I want to be.

See this guy? He’s free as fuck. That’s how free I want to be.

Then I wake up and realize the fact that, in the present moment, my dreams of being paid for my creative brain sauce isn’t terribly practical. I can’t very well go to my boss tomorrow and say, “I’ve decided to leave the company so I can go be a free spirit and sit around making word art and hope to get paid for it some day.”. Okay, my boss is cool enough to where I could probably say that but she’d laugh and say, “okay, see you tomorrow”. Because she knows what’s up in life and also knows how much I hate change. That is one thing I’m grateful for in my current job in that the people I work for are pretty damn awesome, but what I do for a living sucks. I am a million dollars in debt* to the Student Loan Overlords just to have a job where I sit and not be smart all day. Very rarely do I get to do things like “critical thinking” and “working with my hands”, and these are two activities I enjoy thoroughly. I’ve always had this thought that I would one day finish my degree and become a real nurse, and I might still do this, but it’s expensive and time consuming, and I still need an income while going to school so I can afford my children.

*mild exaggeration.

So what then? If writing and nursing isn’t in my cards at the moment, what should I do?

I recently turned inward for guidance. This was the resulting conversation I had with myself:

Self: Come to me, my child, tell me of your burdens that I may lend a hand in solving.

Me: Why are you talking like that?

Self: Just tell me what the fuck your problem is.

Me: “sigh”… I need a new career path. I’m not fulfilled in my work and I still don’t have an Audi in the driveway.

Self: Don’t you have more interesting problems? Like your house was recently invaded by rabid sugar-gliders or your boobs are too big and they sometimes cause car accidents when you’re jogging on the side of the road?

Me: I wish…

Self: Hmm. Well, you want to be a writer, and that’s cool, but you need to work while you get your shit together.

Me: Obviously.

Self: And you’d make a damn fine nurse, but more loans in your anti-wallet is a shitty idea.

Me: Okay, now you’re just being an asshole.

Self: Yes. It’s what I do. Have you considered being a hooker?

Me: Um… no. Can’t say that I have. Last I checked it’s legally and socially frowned at and a great way to get one of those toilet-seat diseases.

Self: Toilet-seat diseases?

Me: Yeah, you know, “oh, I have this STD but it’s cool because I got it from a public toilet” diseases.

Self: The fuck? Is toilet screwing a thing?

Me: I guess so. I don’t know how else you would get diseases from sitting on a toilet seat. Last I checked, you have to actually have sex with someone to catch crotch-rot, merely sitting on their genitals won’t cause a problem, so I’m guessing there’s some folks out there that like to get it on with public johns. But whatever. I’m no toilet-scientist so what do I know.

Self: God, people are weird. Ooo, there! You could be a free-lance toilet cleaner. Do your part for society by preventing the spread of toilet-seat disease. Also you can educate public bathroom users against the dangers of fucking toilets while you’re in there. Make up some fancy pamphlets to hand out and shit. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS, OF COURSE.

Me: Hmm, well I would at least be working with my hands, but that’s not very mentally stimulating. Plus fuck that. I don’t even like cleaning my own toilets.

Self: hmm… OOOOOO, how about a Master Kegel Trainer? You know, you can lead cooter toning classes and do one on one training and help women achieve their vaginal fitness goals! Think of how rewarding that would be!

Me: So.. lemme get this straight, you think I should sit in a room and simultaneously clench my vagina with other women while cheering them on? “Keep squeezing! Work that cooter! You can do it!”

Self: Or you can all stand, whatever.

Me:… are we all wearing spandex?

Self: YES

Me: Okay, that’s where I draw the line.

Self: Geez, you’re such a baby…. Hmm… what about a phone sex operator? They make good money, you know*.

*I was informed of this a few weeks ago. Something to the tune of 125 dollars an hour.

Me: no way, I hate talking on the phone. Plus, what would happen if someone asked me to do something awkward like call him daddy while imitating a sheep or something? I’m not good at that kind of sexy talk.

Self: This is true.

Me: *sigh*…..

Self: OH MY GOD. I think I just found a loop hole in the whole “being a hooker is illegal” while combining your desire to nurse people..

Me: Oh God….

Self: Shut up and listen… WHAT IF…. you were a traveling handy nurse?

Me: ….what in the hazy blue fuck is a “handy nurse”

Self: You travel to handicapped men’s houses and give them handies! THINK ABOUT IT…. everyone masturbates, right? And men kind of need to otherwise their balls get backed up and they explode or something? What about those poor saps who have broken arms or had them blown off in some weird grilling accident and are single or their partners don’t like touching their penises?

Me: Geez, that’s like insult to injury…

Self: EXACTLY! Those poor souls must have painful balls the size of grapefruit all because they’re physically incapable of expelling their man-batter. THAT’S WHERE YOU COME IN! You travel house to house and help them take care of business. For a fee, of course.

Me: I don’t see how this is a hooker loophole. Plus, I don’t think Caveman would appreciate me doing that sort of thing.

Self: IT’S NOT LIKE IT’S ACTUAL HOOKING… you would be doing it in the name of medicine. Plus it’s sort of like charity work, you know, helping the disabled? And you could wear a nurse uniform so it’ll be totally legit! But not scrubs though. I was thinking those short, white, old-school dresses with the shoes and a little nurse hat…

Me: I’m not talking to you anymore. You’re awful.

And that’s when I decided to just be grateful for the job I have and also I should stop talking to myself because I give terrible advice.

THE END.

Meet The Heart-Pool Invaders

Update from my previous post: I am feeling a bit better. Still slightly discontent with a mild to moderate shitty attitude, but overall better, though my insides are not quite where I want them to be. There’s still a hoard of assholes pissing in my heart-pool, and I’ve accepted that they may be sticking around for a little while longer. It’s okay though. I’m learning a bit about them and have even named a few. For instance, there’s Jimmy you’re-stuck-in-a-mundane-rut Johnson, Karen you-need-a-new-job Miller, Tom being-poor-sucks Wilson, and Kimmy YOU-NEED-TO-WRITE-MORE Jones. There’s also Tiffany your-tits-are-terrible Mcgee and Paula you’re-a-crappy-mom Smith, and fuck those bitches. They’re the worst.

And this is Lee no-sleep-for-you-here-have-some-nightmares Ching.

And this is Lee no-sleep-for-you-here-have-some-nightmares Ching.

Anyways, there are more, but these are the main culprits soiling my emotional state I will say that naming them has helped me understand them in order to devise a plan to drown the mother fuckers, because KNOW YOUR ENEMIES. It’ll be a tricky and painful process for some, but totally worth it when they’re belly-up and not dirtying my heart-pool anymore.

The one I’m looking the most forward to murdering is Ms. Jones, as that entails me simply sitting down and writing more. Not just in this here blog, but just writing for the sake of fucking WRITING. It occurred to me after I finished my last post that I felt a great deal of relief after it was done. I suppose writing is sort of my own sort of emotional masturbation: not quite as releasing as a deep cry, but fun as hell and a bit more personal.

That’s really all I wanted to share. A tremendous thank you to those of you that gave me suggestions on how to feel better. I started to write back to some of you, but I got distracted and forgot what I was doing. So, as a token of my gratitude, here is a hilarious song by Garfunkel and Oates. This video came my way after I had made a comment that a few folks thought was funny on this post from The Bloggess about taking it in the butt for Jesus. My inspiration for the comment was not from this video, as I had only been made aware of it after the fact, rather, I had been reminded of this one time I yelled “OH JESUS” when Caveman and I forgot lube when we were having you know what? Never mind.

This is very NSFW. Enjoy!

The End.

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