I’ve really been a shitty blogger friend, so unreliable, distant, preoccupied. Like 2012 Oprah.
I know, I’m an asshole like that sometimes, just ask my real friends. I do apologize.
Ever get in a funk, and you don’t even know why but you can’t seem to get yourself out of it? Where everything is annoying-I’m too tired-I’m too restless-I’m too hot-I’m too cold-I’m too hungry-I’m too full-I’m too fucking annoyed of myself being annoyed?
Hello, my name is Tracy.
Maybe it’s because it’s almost time for my monthly cyclical visit from Aunt Flo. I hate it when she visits, it’s all about her, and her happy-one-minute-crying-the-next attitude. She eats me out of house and home, complains about everything, and swallows up all of my Motrin. To add insult to injury, she stresses me out so much that my face breaks out like I’m a teenager (at 41, which is both awesome and sexy) makes my pants too tight, causes my armpits to sweat more than a glass of iced lemonade on a hot summers day, and occasionally ruins my sheets.
Needless to say she wreaks havoc on my life for the week she’s here, and I hate her.
So perhaps I’ll blame her for the fact that I become psychotic when I step on a fucking teeny tiny lego piece in my bare feet before I’ve had my morning coffee. Or for feeling like I may have an aneurism if I have to clean up Who Spilled The Beans! one more time.
And by the way, never, ever, ever buy that stupid ass annoying game-unless it’s for someone you hate or for the grandparents’ house as payback for the musical Wiggles guitar that they purchased for your kid years ago. Why you ask? Because you will be cleaning up beans for the rest of your life and when you least expect it, snapping yet another vacuum cleaner belt. They make you homicidal.
Which reminds me of another really great kid gift to buy someone as payback, Moonsand! That shit will wind up in places you never knew existed and you’d have an easier time getting rid of HPV.
I’m a real joy to be around, If I could punch myself in the face I would.
I love when someone offers unsolicited advice, such as, “you know what I find really helps with my period? Exercise!”
That’s funny, because you know what I find really helps with my period? Laying in the fetal position with a pizza in a puddle of my own tears.
My 4-year-old can make a high-pitched squeal that is so deafeningly, glass-shatteringly loud that it renders anyone within 1/8th of a mile radius temporarily deaf. He did this in the car today and I nearly ran off the road into a tree. Tears just started running down my face, as my ears bled.
So what the hell do I do? If I can’t drown it in Vodka, then why not impose it on others in a blog.
I feel like John Coffey (like the drink) from The Green Mile, when he has all of those weird symbolic buggy things he has to barf out. It’s just like that, it just has to come out.
And here I am. Hooray for you Lucky readers!
I’ll be back with a better attitude tomorrow, but right now I have to go wash my armpits and pop a few zits.
Categories: True Stories