Don't point your finger at Crazy People.

I admit this: I'm a bit unstable.

I haven't decided if I'm bi-polar or what. I don't need a shrink to tell me I have a different way of thinking or seeing things, nor do I need to trace this back to not getting enough hugs as a child. It's just something I know about myself.

I'm fine with it. It's other people who don't like it.

There is one thing I have decided, one thing I do know for sure--you don't mess with me.

Fight or Flight is an interesting concept. You do one or the other. I fight to make you fly. You have the choice to fly on your own, or I will send you into orbit. It's that simple. And yes, I do hold a grudge. Very tightly.

This is one of the reasons I purge myself on paper (or screen). If I could not make my characters do what I wish I could, if I could not vent my "unique" thoughts, I would go mad. I really think I would.

The pen may be mighter than the sword, but I'm not sure it's quite as satisfying.

To All Who Read This...

-No, I do not particpate in threesomes or want to date you. Please stop asking.

-If I like your blog, I will follow it. If I don't like it, I won't follow it. It's that simple. Pestering doesn't get you anywhere.

-Why would I put up a picture of myself? Is this a dating service?

-Yes, I know there's spellcheck. Do I care? Nope.

-Do people really read this? Obviously, or else I wouldn't be answering these dumb questions.

-No, I didn't go to high school with you. How you can tell that from my profile is amazing.

-Yes, I will publish a book. Someday.

-Why don't I have followers yet? Do I care? Not really. People read this, so like...that's what matters.

-Am I really a pessimistic, judgemental piece of crap? Yeah. Probably.

The Poo Story

This is a classic story of mine that has been shared on other blogs, but I figured I should post it here, as I'm getting kind of tired of always writing it. Before you ask....no, I'm not mortified in sharing this. Poop is funny.

This happened when my husband and I were moving from NYC to LA. We stopped and ate Waffle House somewhere, and I ate a greasy chicken sandwich (note: if the sign says WAFFLE House, you don't order CHICKEN). Not too long later, driving down the highay in the middle of nowhere, my intestines began to protest. Not a whine, not a polite "Hey..up there...need some Pepto" type protest, nay, a "What the fuck did you eat, motherfucker? I don't want it, I'm spitting it out now, whore!" type of complaint. So, needless to describe, something bad was about to happen, and time was not going to be on my side this evening.

Now, I'm all for poo jokes. They're pretty funny. But at the time, this was not a laughing matter. Sweating and wimpering like a fat adolescent, I begged for my hubs to pull over, but he was in the far left lane, and traffic had trapped us. Whatever foul poison was about to bust forth, it was coming now. I looked around for something, anything...I snatched up the Waffle House bag and ripped my pants down.

U-Haul-$45. Dinner from the Waffle House-$11. The look on Hubs face: Priceless.

The bag filled fast. I grabbed some wrinkled napkins and cleaned up the filth down my leg, on my butt cheek and began to twist the bag closed. Then a glob of orange shit hit my thigh. Mayday. Mayday...hole in the bottom of the bag...Houston, we have a problem.Have you ever heard a grown man give a blood-curdling scream? "Get that out of here!" Hubby was swerving all over the lane, and I frantically rolled down the window, watching in horror as in slow motion, another glob slopped its way through the hole. Gone, done. I tossed the bag, and watched it disapear into the night.
Thank you God.Thats was the end of that.

I settled back into the bench seat, laughing, relieved, and once the sulfur smell vanished, Hubby laughed too. "It'll just be our secret," he told me.

We made it to Atlanta where my parents lived at the time, and went to bed. The next morning, I was getting stuff out of the truck and talking to my mom, when she made a face and pointed to the side of the truck."Where did all that mud come from?" she asked. It was years before she knew what that giant spray really was.

I also pooped in Hubby's trashcan when we were first dating, because I was too afraid I'd clog his toilet. He never knew until months later.

That, dear reader, is another story.

4 million and a Funeral.

Nothing like a good ol' fashioned funeral to bring the family closer together.

And nothing brings the true colors out of people faster than the flash of money.

My grandpa was 93. His estate is worth millions. Needless to say, the grief was quickly forgotten when the will was read. A somber time turned into a claw fest.

I didn't really know my grandpa (or grandma) very well...their choice. They didn't like my mother much. (What this had to do with me, I'll never know) My cousins are clamoring over what's left, but I want nothing. What the hell am I going to do with stuff that means nothing to me?

Now, if there was some money...sure, I'd take that. Don't lie an say YOU wouldn't.

And if my dad were to leave me what was left over...I'd take that too. Would I fight my sisters over it? Hmmm...she's already rich. I'm near poverty.

Like I said...nothing like the allure of money to bring out the best in people.

It's just STUFF;

I was flipping through some tabloids this morning, (okay, they are my weakness, FYI...) and it suddenly occurred to me: why do celebrities wear giant necklaces worth millions and millions of dollars?

I get that they're promoting them, but why? Who the hell looks at a 7 million dollar cuff link and says, "Ooo...gotta get that." As Seinfeld would say. "Who ARE these people?"

Even a half-mil earring could take care of me and my broke-ass for like...years. It's sickening. And personally, I would never feel comfortable wearing something so expensive. I'd constantly feel like everyone's staring, plotting to rip it from me. And without the body gaurds Cartier employs to protect such things, I'm feeling it would probably happen.

Flashiness annoys the hell out of me. I don't care how much money you make, folks. It doesn't mean a damn thing where we're going. If you're going to spend your money, buy a house, a jet...anything but something to flaunt how rich you are to the cashier at WalMart. I'm not envious by any means, I think it's tacky. I think when you're not looking, I will swipe that diamond encrusted change purse and sell it on Ebay so I can pay off my car. That's what I think.

In other news...

-Why didn't anyone explain to me that printer ink was so damn expensive?

-In my opinion, there's not a whole lot going for Optimists. They're only setting themselves up for disapointment, dude.

-Marriage is not easy. I wanted to tell my friend Brittany that at her wedding last weekend, but kept my mouth shut. I wish her all the best, but still, I cringe.

-One of the reasons I want to be successful is so I will have freedom.

-Sit-ups and lunges are the most torturous exercises known to man. I'm certain if they were not, everyone would be walking around with six-packs and tight buns.

-"The Watchmen" sucked.

-Right now, I'm editing my first book. It's a pain breaking it down and cutting out stuff, but I wish I was at home doing it now, instead of listening to veterinarians bitch at me.

-I'm throughly convinced most Americans are dumber than a plank of wood. Christ, how do these people function?? Don't tell me this is a broad generalization--I've worked in Customer Service for FAR too long, folks.

-I miss Michael Jackson. Yeah, I know the world is over it by now, but it wasn't just the music to me. I miss his craziness. I've always believed those who are geniuses are labled "crazy". It's just that they operate on a much different level than the rest of world, so of course that looks weird.

-And speaking of, I don't believe he molested kids. He wasn't a sexual person. He related to kids and acted like one. I just don't think he saw them as "attractive."

-I've chewed six peices of gum in 45 minutes. Is this bad?


More whimsy to follow....

Eat it.

It occurred to me today that I'm having a hard time finding other blogs to enjoy. God, I just hate people who ramble. Folks, if you're gonna write a novel about how boring your Saturday was, you're better off putting this in your diary and hiding it under your pillow. And get to the point! We don't need the pros and cons of bran muffins or how much social security means to you. So far, all I have seen is boring babble. I'm not saying I'm Hemmingway over here, but at least I tell it like it is in 100 words or less.

Come on, I've got like, 10 seconds to be interesting. You don't want to hear how green the South is, do you?

Ugh. Pretentious people suck.