I’m tired. No, really. Like, I just want to lay down on the floor at all times and sleep…or die. Whichever will do the job. I’m not picky.
I’m thirty-five and I honestly don’t blame my age. Anyone that comments with, “oh it’s your age” will get their face smacked off their head, I swear.
My husband did buy me an old people bed when I came home from the hospital, but that was a medical thing. I NEEDED a bed that vibrated and changed head and foot position. It was imperative to my healing process. What, are we just going to throw it away because I’m all better now? Not a chance, trick.
At first it reminded me of one of those beds you see in those old 80s movies. You know the ones they put the quarters in and it vibrates them right off the bed in hilarious ways, or glitches and catches fire. Those old 80s movies had me certain that beds that vibrated were pervert beds. That beds like that only existed in porn or in a hidden room in some creepy dude’s kidnap shack. Not, in my regular house in my normal bedroom.
I still have a hard time not seeing myself like Beverly D’Angelo in National Lampoon’s Vacation. Gawd, how I wish I had that sexy hair. Of course, we never end up on the floor and I have french fry grease hair most days. But it’s always there, in the back of my mind…what if the bed turns evil and tries to vibrate us to death? It would be the most relaxing death, but the worst news report.
“Couple sleeping on a vibrating 80s pervert bed got what they deserved when their sinning asses burnt up in a whacky vibrating bed fire yesterday. Authorities say that all of their neighbors hated them, and that the woman’s greasy french fry hair was the cause of the fire. No one misses them and Twitter is blowing up on the #pervertbedcouple tag”.
It’s one of the drawbacks of my awesome bed. I don’t try to explain away the pervert vibe my bed gives off to people. When it comes up I just start playing R. Kelly’s Ignition on my phone, and bounce my way out of the room.
Since it rarely comes up, I don’t get to show off my sweet bounce skills while walking to a door, but when it does I bounce myself into a pulled groin. I’m not old. I’m just woefully out of shape. That doesn’t stop me from me from celebrating the spirit of the freakin’ weekend all week long. My whole life really. It’s the freakin’ weekend in my heart all year long.
I wish I could say I had an obnoxiously amazing excuse not to post lately. Like, I went on a vacation around the world, or my husband FINALLY decided to stalk me too. We’ve both been caught up staring into each others bespectacled eyes and sniffing each other, and couldn’t get anything done. The fanfiction that
has been could be written on the subject has already could fill three notebooks!
Naw, it ain’t like that. I just couldn’t think. I had ideas. Plenty of ideas! I just couldn’t put my ideas into words. I was beginning to think my brain had rotted. Maybe a portion of it did. The part that is used for math. You know, the part that doesn’t work anymore. No one would notice anyway. It’s not like I was a math wizard saving the world with my revolutionary math equations. Damnit. That sounds cool.
It’s not like I care. I don’t.
Anyway, if I was gonna be any kind of wizard I’d rather have the power to make all cats love me, and make my husband obsessed with me. I have small dreams, really.
I was actually starting to get desperate. I almost posted some of my husband fanfiction just to get something on this wasteland of a blog. Take a gander at this…
“He was so overcome by her choice ass Victoria Secret supermodel hair and hairless mustache and beard areas that he bought her a fluffy cat. She named it Cookies and would pet that fluffy cat while her masculine husband’s muscles rippled as he put together bookshelves for the many, many books he purchased for her everyday”.
The. Damn. End.
I have others, but that one is my favorite. My hair is lit, and I’m missing facial hair. I know, I missed my calling as a fanfiction writer, but I figured everyone would eventually get tired of hearing about my husband, and fairly certain my husband would kill me or possibly run away from home. So, I thought not.
I’ve sat here for weeks trying to force words with awkward and sometimes abysmal results. I even read other blogs with some salty results. My daughter caught me one afternoon reading one witty, and cleverly crafted blog post. I was ranting how it, “wasn’t shit” and “that bitch probably had a pancake ass”. My daughter asked why I was screaming and crying while looking at the computer? I told her to mind her own damn business and leave me alone to die. She did.
I’m not sure how other people combat writer’s block, or if I can actually claim writer’s block since I ain’t shit. Maybe I’ll just post all of my husband fanfiction from now on when I can’t think of anything to post because I can’t promise this won’t happen again.
Things are gonna get really weird in here, guys. Prepare your goggles and OSHA approved hazmat suits to prevent that second hand embarrassment.
I don’t understand why people tear themselves apart trying to get ’em. Don’t get me wrong. If you have ’em, that’s cool. I just don’t want one, and I’ll tell you why.
I feel like my thighs keep my cooter warm. If I had a thigh gap imagine all of the heat loss I would incur that my thighs churn up. I don’t even want to think about what I’d have to do to keep my Barbara Bush warm. Two pairs of underwear? A heating pad? One of those warming pads you have to break shoved in my underwear that might burn my whisker biscuit? God, it all sounds like torture to an eternally lazy slob like me.
My husband complains now when I put my cold feet on him. I can’t even imagine how he’d scream if I put my beaversicle on him. He’d have to chip away at it with an ice pick just to get away from me. My cooter would be like the vagina embodiment of Hoth from Star Wars. There would be no tauntaun cozy enough to warm you up after that shit.
And, I’m feeling like those things have to get the wind tunnel effect, essentially just funneling air into your now frozen cooz. Congratulations, you’ve got monster queefs now. Without them thighs there to muffle the noise. You’re looking at some serious ear damage and embarrassment. Thighs would prevent all of that. OR, maybe that could be a new party trick. You could monster queef your way into Youtube celebrity. You could sit in your car and do a dubsmash, or Vine of your ear drum busting monster queefs.
Projectiles and predators after your sweet, sweet trouser treasure would have easier access to it. They could just fly or run straight at it, and snatch it right off your body, or burrow right into it. Oops, they sank your battleship.
I’m not saying any of this is likely, but I’m not saying it’s less likely.
Thigh gaps aren’t bad. I’m just saying they aren’t something to beat yourself up over. Sure people can hold a conversation on either side of your body if you’ve got a thigh gap, but is that really something you want happening on a regular basis?
I’m full of caffeine, but I’ve been thinking. Okay, it may be the caffeine talking here, but I HAVE been thinking.
I literally live my life with Cheeto stains on my clothes. Hell. I will eat Cheetos off the damn floor if the dog doesn’t snatch it up first. Sometimes it’s a real competition to see who can get to dropped food first. There’s growling and biting…and the dog can be aggressive too sometimes.
I cannot compete with Victoria Secret sexy hair and fucking lip gloss. Are you kidding me with that goddess shit?
And the ladies that can put on those fake eyelashes.
Damnit woman! You are killing it in ways I do not even understand. I have sweat pants with holes in the crotch that I consider part of my casual dress wear. My husband had to take them away from me and explain that you could literally see all of my Barbara Bush before I would surrender them. Then it was only so they could be patched up. I still wear them. Just sans Barbara exposure. She added a little something to the party if you ask me. A pinch of flare! A dash of untamed wilderness.
I tried fake eyelashes once. ONCE. Followed a youtube video and everything. Glued my entire eye shut for three days…but I looked fucking fabulous. I would have banged me. If I could have seen me. I just sat and smoldered like the sexy idiot I was.
I have sat and stared at women for longer than was socially appropriate. Just admiring their make up and hair. I have actually been so caught up being mesmerized by how well put together and beautiful another woman was that I had to tell my husband I was late because I had been watching a breathtakingly gorgeous woman read a book in a Barnes Noble and lost track of time. Do you realize how insane that sounds?
“I’m sorry, dude. Yeah, I know I’m three hours late, but you should see this woman. She’s like some kind of glowing princess. Even the way she reads is beautiful. How can I look like her when I read? I feel like I look like stink when I read. Like, that’s just the image that I give off to people. She looks like she smells like some kind of dessert. Like you kinda wanna take a bite out of her, or lick her. I mean, I do and I married a dude if that tells you anything. You wanna see a picture of her? I can take a picture and show you….no, yeah, you’re right. You’re right. That’s probably an invasion of privacy of some kind.”
(whispers) “sorry pretty lady”.
And I have adult acne now too. That’s a thing. They should make PSAs about it that don’t involve a famous adult because I tend not to believe that shit. Like, excuse me Adam Levine you gorgeous son of bitch. You look like you are made of 100% rutting bucks, lumberjacks chopping wood, and moist panties. Do not. Even. Start with me.
One day I woke up, and I just looked like the teenage version of me that had lived a really hard life. Like, maybe she had seen some shit, or went to prison and had traded all of her commissary for cigarettes to chain smoke in a cleaning supply closet somewhere.
It’s rough having acne and wrinkles, plus watching what you eat. How is that even fair? It should be a trade off. I thought that was the natural order of things.
Okay, so I have acne, but I get to pile drive all of these cakes into my face, dive head first into a ditch full of french fries, and not gain any weight. Who messed things up?! What has happened? You shouldn’t have to suffer with acne, worry about getting diabetes, and wonder if your retirement fund is solid.
I don’t know. Maybe I should not drink this much caffeine at night…or ever.
I’d apologize if I cared. I do not. If I had a mic I would gently place it on the ground and punt it across the room. Also, my heart might explode soon.
I figured that since I didn’t do very many on Tuesday I would continue this theme to Thursday. If you know me personally you probably know these stories already. Sorry for the repeat, but for everyone else, enjoy. I’m only doing one photo today since my stories are sort of long.
Look at that perm! That stupid face that almost seems like I’m high! Almost diverts your attention from that ugly ass sweatshirt I’m wearing. Almost. You can’t make it out, but I have a koolaid stache. Yeah, I was one of those kids. I’ve said it many times before, but I was a gorgeous child. GORGEOUS. I illuminated the world with my overbite smile.
This photo has my cousins so that everyone can see for themselves just what we’re dealing with here. Normal children smile like civilized people. They don’t do whatever it is I’m doing in this picture. I was trying to give my much taller cousin William rabbit ears. It was my attempt was unsuccessful as the ears were nowhere near his head. At all. My tiny adorable cousin Eric was safe from me on the other side of his older brother. Way to take one for the team William.
Embarrassing Story #1:
I was in the grocery store with the kids. We had a basket, laden with food and sundries. Reading between the lines:
I hadn’t shopped in two weeks and my husband’s socks were in danger of being used as a toilet paper replacement in the near future.
As I strolled down the aisle I saw what I assumed was a friend of mine in the distance and waved. Okay, I need you to understand what kind of waving I’m talking about here. Not the miss America polite wave, or the timid “please don’t stonewall me” finger flutter. This was the full on, total body convulsing that you only save for people you know really well and have no problems looking stupid for. We are talking full stadium wave like people do during sporting events. You know, the kind of wave you reserve for people you know won’t leave you hanging in the “do we or don’t we acknowledge each other” dance we all do in public.
Here I am, full body waving and my friend looks confused. I’m thinking what the hell, friend? Wave back you ungrateful bitch. I get closer and realize too late that this is NOT my bro, but a complete and total stranger. A total stranger who was almost turning circles trying to figure out who I was flailing at. Of course, in my panic I continued to wave. I mean, I still had a few feet before I was actually face to face with this person. How often do you get a chance to embarrass yourself completely and lose all sense of what it’s like to be a human being? There is a sort of freedom in having nothing to lose. One of my New Year’s resolutions this year was to go outside of my comfort zone. I couldn’t possibly let this chance go by me without savoring it. Mmm, so much savoring.
I hate myself sometimes.
Then Thomas chimes in just as I’m almost consumed by all the self loathing by asking “mom, do you know that lady?”
I had spiraled so far down the shame hole that I was incapable of anything above a whisper and hissed “NO, I have no idea who that is!”
Swiveling to face me, Molly quipped in a monotone voice, “then why are you waving at her”?
Why indeed you little traitor? Obviously, I’m reveling in this moment of unparalleled dread and humiliation. Duh.
As this soon-to-be new acquaintance got closer I had a clear decision to make. I could be an adult and stop waving, smile, and admit my mistake. OR, I could pretend like it never happened. It wasn’t a choice really. Screw maturity. I scraped up what little bit of self esteem I could and, in an ever so natural looking way, pretended like my eyes were following an imaginary friend as if they had quickly gone down another aisle and slowly put my hand down. Of course I wouldn’t still be waving if “my friend” that so clearly wasn’t this stranger, had walked down an aisle without seeing me. I mean, with all that flailing I had done that was totally possible. I pantomimed the desire to follow my friend and smooth sailed like a villain passed the confused stranger like I had never made direct eye contact with her. She must have been mistaken. I was so clearly chasing my phantom friend down. I was full of purpose. I was a concerned friend. I gave my make believe friend a great back story too. It was dramatic and she needed me. Why else would she dramatically turn down an aisle so fast no one else in the store saw her?
I zoomed down an aisle and stood still until I was sure my ruse had worked. No one came back to accuse me of giving everyone in the store second hand embarrassment so….SCORE! I was the best actor on the planet. My method acting game was just too strong for that store. I deserved an Oscar. A fucking Oscar. Before I got too far ahead of myself both children began questioning why we went down an aisle we’d already visited, and just what happened to that friend?
I did a little razzle dazzle, mentioned candy, and got out of that store as quickly as possible.
Embarrassing Story #2:
One time when I was dropping my daughter off at Montessori school, and I took her into the building. She was tiny and wanted me to walk her to the lunch room. When I came out I got in my car and went to stick my keys in the ignition only to discover there were already keys in the ignition, and the car was running…and I was in someone else’s car entirely. For the first time since I sat down, I looked around and realized that this was a plush Lincoln town car. I drove a Nissan Xterra at the time. How I thought it was my car is still a mystery.
Very quickly understanding that if the owner of this car came out and saw me sitting in the driver’s seat they would assume I was doing burglary. NOT just being an idiot. Which I was. I was frozen in place for a full three seconds with my hands in the air trying to not get my finger prints on anything. Then I jumped out and crawled along the ground as quickly as panic would move my body back to my car, which was parked directly behind this car.
I’m not saying it was their fault, but I was the only one in the parking lot when I took my daughter into the building. So, you know if that doesn’t say whose fault it was then I don’t know what else to say. Yes, I realize it was my fault for being too stupid to not get into a Lincoln town car instead of my own car which was up off the ground while the Lincoln town car basically scrapes along the ground. Don’t even get me started on those seats either. I felt like I was sitting on pillows. I would have taken a nap if I wasn’t about to catch a case for robbery.
Well, that was fun. I have so many more stories and enough horrible photos to fill a dumpster. Maybe I’ll do this again. Who knows.
I’ve embarrassed myself countless times over the years. Too many to count really, but there are a few that give me a good laugh when I think about them. They’re too good to not share. Honestly, I don’t think embarrassing things should be hidden, but shared, so everyone can laugh. Like, awful photos where you’re sporting all the double chins or making the ugliest face possible. They make everything better when you’re having a horrible day. Oh, and there are some of those too.
My most recent ugly picture. I treasure it. I have never laughed so much in my life. I forced my husband to take my picture with this turtle I found by our pond.
But then, since I’m a photo editing genius I made it better.
My first embarrassing moment on the list:
As my class lined up on picture day in the second grade, I was super proud of my outfit. It was a black velvet sweater dress with a red plaid teddy bear. The Mary Janes and frilly socks were the matches that set the bonfire that was my outfit ablaze. I was over confident since I was wearing the black velvet teddy bear sweater dress, and I started cracking jokes. I was making people laugh, but I was making myself laugh harder. I laughed so hard in fact that I peed. Just peed right there in the sand. I stood there for a second trying to figure out what I was going to do and if anyone noticed, but no one did. As ridiculous as I am, I laughed even harder at how absurd my situation was. I just peed and no one noticed. I just stepped over it and walked to go take pictures. I’m sorry to the kid who sat in my wet spot after me.
This photograph^^^ is from kindergarten. Behold my shitty bangs! I’m not sure why they are like this, but I could have used an emergency set of clip-in bangs. Also, the way my hair is brushed makes it look like I’ve got a very majestic mullet. It’s a mullet steeped in freedom and all that the constitution stands for. If you get really quiet, you can hear our national anthem gently serenading you from the party section of my mullet.
I could fill this post with pictures of nothing but school pictures. I won’t, but I could. My mother needs to give me the photo albums of all my school photos. They are truly a horror. I love them. As a child it used to bum me out how I looked like a tiny goblin, but once I hit jr. high I started seeing how unbelievably funny they were, and began to look forward to the train wreck of getting those picture packets. I can’t say the same for my parents, but they are required to love me, so I don’t care.
My next embarrassing story involves this ^^^ picture. I’m not just using it because I love it. I do, but it is an integral part of this story. When I was in the sixth grade I was self conscious about my eyebrows. I have rectangular eyebrows, and picture day was coming soon. I couldn’t do anything about the Reba McIntyre (I saw it as a Prince mullet but whatever) mullet, but I could do something about the eyebrows. A smart girl would have asked her mother. I wasn’t a smart girl. My mother’s eyebrows were on a such an expert level that she had trained the hairs to grow perfectly in line, and figured she would try to take my thick rectangles in the same direction. What did I do? Since I was too lazy to use tweezers and figured it would be the same thing only quicker I grabbed a razor and started shaving.
For all those that haven’t made this mistake, let me just say that it isn’t the same. At all. I also shaved one side at a time and managed to shave waaay too much eyebrow off. I panicked and put the razor down before I shaved them all the way off. I knew there was no way I was going to be able to draw them back on. I had no idea how make up worked. I was in art class, but I was pretty sure it was going to be different on my face. I quickly went to bed and hoped my eyebrows would spontaneously grow back overnight. I didn’t know anything about hair growth since I had no leg hair to shave, so as far as I knew, my eyebrows might have been like wolf man eyebrows once poked.
They weren’t. My brow was still just as bald when I woke up as when I went to bed. I came up with the clever idea to wear sunglasses that hid my eyebrows. I was a genius. I could change my persona at school. I could be that cool girl that always wears sunglasses. I would wear them during my school picture and that would make me stand out as a bad ass girl that didn’t follow the rules with a devil may care attitude. IT WOULD WORK!!
Except, it didn’t work. My mom asked me why I was wearing the sunglasses the second I got in the car. I said it was to mix up my persona at school, and she told me to take them off. My cool girl persona was short lived. RIP cool girl Wendy persona, you might have worked. Probably. Once the sunglasses were off, my mom took one look at me and other than her eyes widening considerably she did not let on that she noticed what I had done. She trained her eyes forward for the rest of the car ride. Every once in a while she would break out in a crazy, strained grin that I realize now was her way of trying not to laugh until she peed her pants.
I’ve always thanked her for that small favor. The illusion that it wasn’t noticeable that she kept up helped me get out of the car with far more confidence than I had any right to, and walk into school.
I only did a few embarrassing moments and pictures, but I honestly could have kept going forever. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll continue this on Thursday. Who knows.
My husband and I have a good relationship.
That is a stand alone statement. We do. We love each other very much, and we have a specific way of dealing with things when we are angry with each other. We call each other stupid names and try to make each other laugh. Why? Because we hate to fucking be mad at each other, duh.
But I have a confession to make. I hate to apologize. Hate it with every fiber of my being. I will apologize to children and the elderly with no problem. Probably because children are so adorable, and the elderly will die soon and no one will know that I apologized. It’s just so hard to apologize to other adults. Even when It is very clear that I am wrong. I have to work up to it. Do some light eating and a little stretching. A small part of me floats away to Jesus when I have to say I’m sorry to anyone. Especially if they are a gloater. Nothing will get you marked off my friendship bracelet list faster than being a damn gloater after I have apologized.
I understand that this is a serious character flaw, and I’m not proud of it. I mean, I do it…eventually. It’s just, I don’t do it willingly or immediately. That’s probably when most people would like their apologies.
This year, I have decided to change my behavior, and an opportunity presented itself when I made a complete asshole out of myself. I know, shocking!
My car has three different handles on the side of the driver’s chair that work the seat position. I have always assumed that one specific handle worked the recline function. Some people like to lay down when they drive. I like to sit straight up, at attention just in case someone tries to attack me. Always vigilant. Always prepared.
Well, my seat was not in the proper position when I got in it after my husband drove it, and the handle that I assumed controlled this function was not working when I tried to put it in “bitch, this ain’t a drill” position. I’m also blessed with a surprising lack of patience.
I’m such a catch.
I sent my husband a snarky text about how the seat was basically laying down and the handle was broken, so I couldn’t change the position. His reply to my sass was calm and sedate as he stated he would show me how to work it when I got back to the house. I flounced around like the angry toddler that I was and flung myself in the car and drove home. Sure that he was going to be wrong. He magically put my car in position while I was putting things away. I came back outside. Didn’t say thank you, and got in it. I had to leave again.
This time the seat was actually leaning forward, and I was so pissed that I pulled over and was trying to fix it while a stream of swear words tore from my lips. I called him. My call was full of accusations of breaking the handle on my seat and knowingly adjusting my seat too far forward…and also being made completely of cat turds.
That got his attention. Not the cat turd comment, but the totally baseless accusation and total lack of appreciation for him moving my seat. Even though it was in the wrong position. Wrong. He was mad. My husband doesn’t normally get mad at me. When he does it’s usually because I’m going out of my way to be an asshole. Like, what we are now referring to as the driver’s seat debacle of 2016.
I get home and he comes outside. I’m angry and he is angry. I have accused him of breaking the handle on my seat with his stupid cat turd hands and he says I’m too stupid to use my car, and will prove it. We open the door of my car, I step aside, and he bends down.
As he does, I’m thinking how awesome it’s gonna be when he has to say he’s sorry for breaking the handle with his stupid sausage hands. All of that smugness vanishes as I see him grab a completely different fucking handle and sarcastically recline my seat all the way back and then sassily lean it all the way forward. Then he turned and looked me dead in the eye, and he knew it and I knew it.
I had been using the wrong fucking handle the whole damn time.
With a smile on his face, I could feel the “I won” radiating from his body. Mine however was oozing the stink of shame as we walked back inside. I was gonna have to do it. I didn’t want to, but I had no other choice. I was wrong and had behaved badly all evening. A huge portion of me wanted to feign diarrhea and just run to the bathroom and stay there all night, but he wasn’t expecting an apology. That was worse. He was expecting me to pretend I had diarrhea or pretend it didn’t happen and just walk back into the house.
I took a deep breath, and apologized. Then I hugged him. He froze. Probably wondering if I had a weapon to stab him in a murder/suicide type scenario. After realizing he was in no danger of being stabbed to death in a crime of apology shame his body relaxed. It would have been the perfect time to stab him if I was going to murder/suicide due to apology shame, but it was fine. He had accepted my sorry.
Then he made fun of me. Exactly like I would do to him if he had made such a stupid mistake.
I still may not be as good of a person as my sister, but I’m trying.
I’m also thinking about labeling the handles on my seat.
We, my husband and I, made a New Year’s resolution to be better with money. We decided to stop eating out so much and stop doing other stupid things with our money that bring us joy.
Sack lunches for everyone here!
Today I took it a step further. We ran out of toilet paper. Standing in front of the sea of paper designed to wipe our butts I noticed the prices for the first time. Have I really been paying $14 fucking dollars for a pack of toilet paper? Have I been eating paint chips? I get that it’s a necessity unless I wanna drag the water hose in the house and rig up a DIY bidet. Tres chic! I’m sure my guests will love that one. I could see me coming up with some bullshit excuse for why there’s no toilet paper, but there’s a damn water hose in the bathroom.
“Umm, we are worried about our eco foot print, and we just…(condescending sigh) REALLY wanted to make some changes. So enjoy our lovely bidet we made”.
No one would ever come over. EVER. AGAIN. But my booty would be squeaky clean.
Anyway, armed with my new sense of budget purpose I searched for the cheapest toilet paper the store had, and I found it…on the bottom shelf. Individually wrapped in paper, and for only .99 cents that was the toilet paper for me. I snatched two rolls and headed home to try it out.
I have decided that this paper says one of two things about you as a person. Either you are horrible with money and your poor choices have led to this, or you are super cheap and your tightfistedness have landed you in your current situation. In either scenario you should seriously have a time out and rethink some things in your life.
I opened it and a sense of deja vu overtook me. Ahhh, I had seen this toilet paper before. College.
This was the John Wayne toilet paper that I had scrapped across my anus while in college.
After having utilized this rough rider paper I can honestly say that it’s as close as a you can get to wiping your ass with a piece of printer paper. How can something that is as thin as tissue paper hurt so much? I don’t think I have a particularly wimpy asshole or anything, but I also ain’t trying to rub gravel in it. I would rather use one of my husband’s clean socks to wipe my butt with next time. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to use one of my own and ruin it.
Anything would be better than that John Wayne paper, but it sure was good for my budget. Especially when you consider how long it will last as all of us are going to avoid going to the bathroom at home as much as possible.
It’s safe to say that I’m pretty greedy. I do a fair job of hiding it, but nothing makes it harder to hide just how devious I actually I am like a person sitting across the table from me at a restaurant and asking me,
“hey, you wanna share an appetizer”?
I think the face I make when people ask me that question should be enough of an answer.
For some reason it seems like I’m always required to verbalize my greed.
“No, Carol. I don’t want to share those nachos. I want my own nachos”. Why do you need me to say that shit out loud to you, bitch? Do you want to fight me? Are you starting a fight with me?! I have nothing to lose, Carol. NOTHING.
Oh, pardon me for eating like I have a ball of tapeworms living inside my stomach. Yes, it is their feeding time. NO, I don’t want to split a damn fried ice cream with you! I want a fried ice cream AND a tres leches cake all to myself. Do not even touch my plate with your fork, Carol. It will be a mistake that will end your life. Do you want to find your whole arm in my mouth? I’m that hungry.
We should have gone to the restaurant sooner like I said. This wouldn’t have happened to you if we had. You wouldn’t be sitting here with your whole arm in my mouth, and my ball of tapeworms chewing on it. Oh, well. I guess you won’t be reaching for my plate now will you?
*I do not know anyone named Carol, but I’m sure if I did, she would know better than to try to share food with me.