Wednesday, January 18, 2012
I Pee on You, Because I love you.
I am a cranky fucker.
I mean it. You're reading this, my beloveds, and you're thinking, no, that's so not true, she's a delight. And, sorry, but you're wrong. I am a holy terror. Irritation is my new default position.
I'm so highly strung these days, I will yell at a peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter can go straight to hell.
My boots don't zip up easily and I'm likely to just freak out. I might toss them out the door into the snow and pee on them.
Every time I look at my answering machine I visualize smashing it to pieces with a giant sledge hammer. It wont let me delete messages until I've played them back. What kind of bullshit it this? I've already listened to the fuckity-fucks when they called in and I allowed the piece-of-shit machine to get it. Why do I have to play back the messages?
My disposal stops working if I put a soggy Cheerio in it. What the shit, fuck, cunting, asshole, mother-fucking douche-bag hell is up with that?!
I declared the other day that everyone in this house is old enough to do their own goddamn laundry. These people treat the laundry basket like it's the magic hole into which they can throw just about anything and VOILA! it appears folded in their drawer. Well, fuck all of you.
Vild, in wild agreement with my laundry rebellion, took all his shitty clothes from his closet floor and heaped them in front of the washing machine. This, to better 'do' his own laundry. I ended up washing an unopened package of socks, a belt, a bathing suit and a baseball cap in addition to a year's worth of too-small sweaters and torn boxers. This is NOT what I meant. Fuck him. I might pee on him too.
My poor kids. Those little assholes. I've bought them seven hats apiece this season and there are no hats in this house. Not a hat. Not a single fucking hat. And they don't like having cold heads when they wait for the bus. Makes them cry. I know what might warm them up - if I pee on their heads.
And ok, with the toilet already. Are they just waving their shlongs in the direction of the bowl? Its like they think, I know the toilet is in that corner of the room, so I'll just wave it over there while I brush my teeth and hope some of it splatters in there. She'll never know. Are they dropping their wet craps into the vessel from a hot air balloon? Are their turds stunt ponies jumping into a bucket from the high dive? Because forensic splatter tells the tale.
My van is just another room in the house for foul overspill. Don't leave a dry Starbucks cup in the drink holder of Vild's car, unless you want a courtesy attitude adjustment. But feel free to scrape the chicken feces off your boots on the van rug. Go right ahead. It's not like I use it for my fine upholstery business. Definitely throw your Go-Gurt tube anywhere you want. I'll explain to Mrs. Yiffniff about why her wing-back chair smells like an old vagina.
Definitely ask me what's for dinner. Because, you know what's for dinner? Whatever the fuck you're cooking for me. That's what. Because I've been told my grocery shopping is "too high on the pyramid" another way of saying too expensive. So now I go to the grocery store in a sprint, on my way to meeting the bus, and I am paralyzed. Tacos? Are taco shells too high on the pyramid? I may leap from this pyramid to my own exasperated death. You can all eat cereal for the rest of your life.
I am a very, very angry person. I weep. I rail. I swear. I am a shotgun of human emotion, spraying everyone I love with the buckshot of my rage. Then I fall asleep. Because peeing on everything is exhausting.
And before you all say it - I've had my hormones counted. All present and accounted for, thank you very much. I take my Zoloft, eat stool softeners, drink water, give to charity. I drink medicinally. No help. I get enough rest. I have meaningful work. I still want to break everything within reach.
I've had a hankering for puppy satay. Kitten mittens, made from actual kittens.
I'll punch a nun, I'll do it. If I see a kid's balloon fly from his wrist I'll just point and laugh, I will. I'm not holding the door for any more old people. They can fuck themselves too, with their wrinkles and frailty. I'm not laughing at any more knock-knock jokes, either. Just shut up.
That grill, rusting under the snow? You suck. I hate you.
Those rental properties? I've got a gas can and a match. Don't make me come over there.
Tonight I'm going to buy a rotisserie chicken and eat it in front of the chicken coop.