I was going along merrily today, existing, not dreading the whole act of breathing, thinking maybe life doesn’t suck as much as a Dyson vacuum…When the “Wow, I’m doing pretty damn good!” bubble exploded.
I came home with my kid, and she was like the Tazmanian devil. Wound for sound, and I don’t mean in a normal kid way. I mean OMG DID YOUR GRANDMOTHER POUR RAW SUGAR DOWN YOUR THROAT ALL DAY? Because if it wasn’t sugar high, then this child is going to be slapped with an ADHD label going into preschool.
She was mouthing, thrashing around, making noise, kicking cats, threatening to hit me….Which is about like the neighbor kids without their meds.
Thought a trip to the store might burn some energy out of her.
It did, but not much.
By the time I’d endured two hours of it and was wondering where I could get a melon baller to scoop my brain out of my head via the eyeballs…It hit me that I hadn’t had a xanax all day. Which would definitely explain why after three decent days I was beginning to come unglue from what is essentially a daily stressor. Of course, it takes me getting to the point of being so panicky that it turns to anger which turns to tears. Only then do I remember, yeah, take a pill. Literally, this one works.
After that, all was well. She started to wind down, I started to calm down.
I’ll be the first to admit this heat and humidity have not made me a pleasant person. I am less unpleasant now that the air works at home, but it makes me grossed out to go out in public and ooze sweat from every pore no matter what I do to head it off, hygiene wise. It ain’t pretty, but I am apparently a sweater. No, not that warm kind you can get in cool designs and wear during the winter.
Now that we are nearing the weekend and I have been informed my kid has been invited to a birthday party Sat morning, my anxiety and dread are rising. I don’t have money for a gift, ffs. And gee, thanks for the notice, because Sat is R’s party,too. But that won’t matter.I’d changed my mind about not going, thought what the hell, but oh wait, his oldest, Ursula, specified RSVP by the 20th and I didn’t even see it because ya know, I am blind and dumb and WHO THE FUCK DOES RSVP FOR A BRING YOUR OWN BOOZE PARTY????? That girl has forgotten her roots, big time, thinks she’s all fancy and now she’s dragging R along with it. Makes me glad I won’t be there. I can only handle so much bloody fuss and snottiness.
Which makes me feel snotty, but dear god, the man goes to work unshowered with the crotch ripped out of his pants and red underwear peeking out. Does that sound like an RSVP kind of guy to you? That girl of his…GRRRR. Must…be…nice.
Even though every fiber of my being would take great pleasure in undoing her fancy little life and reminding her where she came from. I’m all about comeuppance when people get too high and mighty. It may be my worst trait, actually. But I can’t tell because ya know, I have so many, according to my detractors aka friends aka people I am forced to interact with in the petri dish. Thing is, I don’t care. The entire point of watching serial killer stuff/books is for the specific purpose of seeing the bad guy finally get what’s coming to him. And if that kind of karma could be served in reality…well, it would be a nice little meal for my soul, which is petty and vindictive.
It behaved for awhile.
I am trying so hard to be less annoying (I think it makes me more annoying) and more positive (I think it makes me more annoying, not to mention nauseous.)
But the disorders, and the brain, just like to keep my jumping through the hoops of distortion.
Just an inkling of how demented my brain is…
Was driving by one of those ice slushie stands and the sign said “Today’s Flavor: Elmo!” And my first thought was, “So if Big Bird ordered one, would that be considered puppetalism? Feeding on your own kind?”
I’m curious what Elmo flavor is. Too lazy to stop in and ask, though. In this heat, ain’t nobody got time for that.
And I will part with a joke:
Martha and Edna are sitting outside, having a smoke, when it starts to rain. Martha takes a condom out of her pocket and proceeds to unroll it, then poke a hole in the and stick her cigarette through it. “It’s so my cigarette stays dry in the rain, works like a charm.” She explained to Edna.
Later that day, Edna goes to the pharmacy and tells the guy behind the counter she wants a box of condoms. He is uncomfortable, because, well, she is 80 years old. But he asks what brand she wants and she says, “Doesn’t matter as long it will fit a camel.”
Counter guy fainted.