Names Have Been Changed To Protect Stupid Motherfuckers...

For those of you who do that thing called.. um... sleep? Yeah, sleep. For those of you who do that, Happy Saturday! For me, it's still Tuesday, but I digress...

Last night, @Jennicide (aka "JAWS") (aka Jennifer Leigh) and I hung out for a while, ranting & raving and exchanging horror stories about drawing to 2 outs, bricking 26 outers, and not being able to fold. <--- All code phrases for other issues, but frankly, the real details are none of your fucking business. Anyhooooo... that bitch makes me laugh. She also makes me think. She gave me some food for thought, and I PIGGED OUT on it. (Thanks, JAWS... you're the best.)

While giving serious consideration to some of the things Jennicide suggested I consider, I was mindlessly going through old blog post drafts and stumbled upon this true story from about 2 summers ago. Reading it reminded me that I'm not exactly a stranger to making bad decisions... and what I (ding! ding! ding! *epiphany*) realized is that in life, just like in poker, even though surrendering sucks balls, you can save yourself a boatload of tilt if you muck your hand as soon as you know you're beat. And you know what sucks bigger and hairier balls than folding?? Drawing dead.

So without further adieu, here it is... the silly little story that will change my life from today forward. Enjoy!


Okay, kiddies... so at long last, here's my camping story - enjoy it. Or don't. Frankly, I'm way too hot to give a shit.

So as you all know, I had another one of my infamous "Who Is She Kidding, This Is Going To Be A Disaster" ideas... This one was entitled "Wouldn't It Be Great If We Went Camping - But Not Just Regular Camping. Wouldn't It Be Great If We Spent A Week In The Total Wilderness With Bears And Wolves And Who Gives A Shit That It's Been Raining For Nineteen Weeks Straight, This Is Gonna Be Awesome!"

Skipping the gristle and getting straight to the bone, it was by far one of my worst Great Ideas ever.... here's how it all went down:

My best friend, who from here forward shall be referred to as "Mr. Vagina", and I hit the road headed for Baldface Mountain in Maine. According to Mapquest, which from here forward shall be referred to as "The Website That Fucked Me Over", the distance to our destination was approximately 230 miles. Mr. Vagina and I calculated that the entire trip, including stops to eat and pee, should take no more than 5 hours. Awesome! We put the Eminem 'Relapse' CD in the stereo and set sail. Or set drive. You know what I fucking mean.



Putting all our trust in The Website That Fucked Me Over was my second most moronic idea of all time, because by following the directions they gave, we were taken so far off our course that we ended up arriving to the mountain 4 hours late. Guess what kids? 4 hours late translates to climbing a mountain (4400' elevation by the way), hiking a mile and a half deep into the forest and setting up a frigging tent in the dark. The pitch dark. The scary, deep in the woods, up in a fucking mountain, hey did I just hear a wolf howl, I can't see JACK SHIT type of dark. Yeah.

MUST...HAVE...FIRE.  Guess what kids? Can't make fire without wood. Guess what else kids?? Every piece of wood in the forest is wet. I manage to find a log that's only about 60% saturated and begin chopping with my itty bitty Playskool-esque hatchet and (no word of a lie) THREE HOURS later, I had managed to chop a tiny hunk out of my new arch nemesis, the damp log.

I threw my little hunk of wood into what Mr. Vagina claimed was our fire ring and told him to get the fire rockin'. An hour and a half later, Mr. Vagina still had not produced fire out of the fucking thing. His parents MUST be cousins, no? (Just FYI folks: this "fire ring" was actually 4 stones in a retarded semi circle... and by the way, that's what Mr. Vagina managed to accomplish during my three hours of hardcore wood chopping labor) So our first day ends in utter disappointment without fire. Oh, and did I mention we forgot to take the sleeping bags out of the car? No big deal though... I had a towel.

If I tell you every detail of the remainder of the trip, you'll be reading until Catholic priests stop playing slap and tickle with little boys, so let me just summarize from here on out:

Day #2

 
- wake up FREEZING under my towel blanket

- four more total hours wasted hiking back down and back up then back down and back up and back down mountain to the car in order to retrieve remaining   gear

- managed to get small fire lit - wood is still soaking wet

- attempt at making burgers failed (I knocked the grill grate over while fleeing prehistoric sized mosquito and burgers got ruined)

- stuck hot dogs on the end of sticks and ate those instead

- begin 2nd attempt at chopping firewood   (which comes to a screeching halt when I realize I've got five open blisters from Day 1's firewood chopping fiasco)

- hike back down mountain and drive 30 miles to buy firewood

- torrential rain starts at 6 pm and DOES NOT STOP

- decide to just go to sleep, telling ourselves "You know what? The hard part is over... our fun can start tomorrow."

Yeah.

- wake up in middle of night to sloshing sounds... tent is leaking

- turn on lantern... we're sitting in a 3 inch puddle

- sleeping bags and entire backpacks including clothing SOAKED

- thunder, lightening and rain does not let up

- Mr. Vagina huddles up in a corner of the tent while I bail out the water.     
  Laziness and homosexual tendencies - there's something penicillin won't cure
  in a fella, right Mr. Vagina???

Yeah. The hard part's over alright.

Day #3any future floods.

- Realizing I'm on my hands and knees covered in mud, bugs and sweat while Mr.Vagina is standing above  me in a squeaky clean rain slicker, I state the  obvious: "You're a fucking pussy, Mr. Clean... GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE  AND HELP ME WITH THIS DIGGING!!!!!"

- Mr. Vagina responds with "Every team has a laborer and an engineer. I'M THE  ENGINEER."

- I throw digging tool at Mr. Vagina and decide that I will poison him later.

- Rain stops FINALLY and Mr. Vagina gets a fire lit

- Successfully make burgers and dogs... eat like kings, laughing about the
  whole thing

- Hiked to a spot on Baldface Mountain called "The Emerald Pool"... Jumped off a 30 foot cliff into the natural spring. Had the time of my life until I realized Mr. Vagina had no intentions of jumping too. Jumped (solo) once more, forcing Mr. Vagina to stand on an adjoining cliff to snap the action shot. Decided this wasn't any fun without a jumping partner.

- Pissed, begin hiking back to site. Asked Mr. Vagina if he was afraid his tampon would have gotten wet if he had jumped. 

- Once back at site, I rolled a huge doob while Mr. Vagina got the fire roaring better than he had the whole trip... Sat back, smoked & watched the dancing flames.

- Begin hearing wolves howling...

- Howling seems to be coming from VERY VERY close proximity to site - start panicking

- Get ambushed by a spinning animal of unknown origin when it runs head first into our dining canopy

- Scream and run like little girls, never finding out what the animal was or  where it went.

- Paranoid for the next 2 hours, Mr. Vagina refuses to turn off blinding lantern so we can enjoy the campfire.

- I Finally convince Mr. Vagina to turn off said blinding lantern, but agree to let him scan the woods every 40 seconds with Bat Signal like flashlight.

- During one of his scans, Mr. Vagina jumps up and yells "IT'S RUNNING RIGHT AT US!"  but does not specify what is running at us or from which direction it is running. BY FAR THE SCARIEST MOMENT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.


- Turns out Mr. Vagina is just a pink dress wearing pussy and it was nothing.

- We make S'mores and laugh about what a disaster this whole thing is.

- It starts to rain again and I'm not laughing anymore.

Day #4:

- Wake up realizing that I left my shoes outside the tent overnight and they are now a wading pool for mosquitoes.

- Put plastic bags over my feet and wear wet shoes anyway, risking the jungle  rot.

- Dry firewood is now wet because Mr. Vagina moved the tarp I had covering it.

- I throw marshmallow stick at Mr. Vagina, again reminding him of his mind blowing incompetence.

- Hike BACK DOWN mountain and make another 30 mile drive to get more dry firewood. Lug the 60 pounds of wood back up mountain.

- Slip on moss covered rock while lugging wood up mountain and sprain my right hand. In an attempt to rescue me from falling, Mr. Vagina falls as well, busting his shin wide open. Because of our injuries, it takes 3 trips to get the wood to the top of the mountain.

- Mr. Vagina tries and tries and tries but cannot get fire lit.

- I tell Mr. Vagina "I'm soooo glad you came - too bad your father did!" and storm off, announcing that I'm going home and leaving him there alone to become bear food.

- Got pissed because he wasn't scared even a little bit.... Decide I need to take a short walk to cool down. Grab my flashlight and head for the path.

- Come face to face on path with snarling animal, which I could only assume was a wolf. Turns out it was a dog, but snarling nonetheless... Dog shows it's teeth and inches toward me, I raise my Mag Light and ready myself to smash its head in.

- Dog's owner comes prancing around the bend in her fucking L.L. Bean gear and tells me "You need to stop shining the light in her eyes." IS SHE KIDDING ME???? I tell Captain Dumbcunt that her dog just came seconds from death and that she should really have it on a leash. Because I was feeling extra helpful in that moment, I also advised her to go eat a flaming bag of dicks.

- I skulk back to the site and tell Mr. Vagina to get packing... we have no choice but to just leave.

I'd rather swim in raw sewage than ever go camping again.

Misery Loves Company

There are several words and phrases that have been chewing at my sanity for as long as I can remember.  Rather than suffer in silence alone, I have decided to share them with you, dear reader... not because I'm trying to change the world, but because misery loves company.

While reading the following examples of said words and phrases, ask yourself if they truly make sense.  If you answer "no", you're one smart cookie - and you are invited to boycott each and every one of them with me.
*Spoiler alert: If you answer "yes", you're an idiot.

Let's begin...


1. "Fuck the shit out of her"
Here is a common bar phrase uttered by Mr. Alpha Male to his pack while out on the town. He sees a hot girl and tells his boys he'd like to "fuck the shit out of her". Really? You want to perform coitus at a rate vigorous enough to cause the female to defecate? If I were you, Mr. Alpha Male, I think I'd rather "fuck the shit up inside her so that she never craps again." After all, a girl that puts out and never craps is totally the marrying type. Think about it.


2. "Literally"
If you don't know what it means, don't use this word in a sentence... PLEASE?? I heard a woman say, "That driver was going so fast! He was literally flying down the road." No he wasn't. He doesn't have wings and he was not soaring above the road, suspended in mid-air. How many times does a person need to say "I was literally scared to death" before someone replies with "Impossible, asshole, unless you were dead when you just said that..." ?!?

Here's the proper use of "literally": You literally don't have a clue about how to use the word "literally". I'd like to beat the shit out of every person who uses the word "literally" when they are speaking figuratively... literally.


3. "Who gives a crap?"
Has anyone ever given you a crap? I've received a crappy gift, a crappy haircut and crappy advice, but no one has ever given an actual crap to ME. Clearly, people don't give craps out as freely as some would have us think.


4. "Balls out/Balls To The Wall"
This phrase seemingly indicates a point in time when someone is making an extra special effort to get a task completed. Personally, if I had balls, I'd prefer to go "balls covered." In fact, if you are performing something so risky that it mandates the implication of a "balls out" type effort, it would be best if you protected the boy berries by keeping them safe under guard. Am I really to believe that there are men who smash their testicles into a random walls when they get "in the zone"?


5. "At the end of the day"
It seems that things only get settled "at the end of the day", especially for those involved somehow in sales and/or marketing.  Why has "first thing in the morning" been cut out of our lives? Are things automatically summed up at midnight? The next time someone in your office says, "Well, at the end of the day, it's all about client relations",  I encourage you to respond with, "What's it all about at the beginning and in the middle of the day, fuck-face?"  (Note: also see such worthless sales/marketing rhetoric as "it is what it is" and "when all is said and done".)


6. "Taking candy from a baby"
Even if you have the parenting skills of John Phillips, you know babies don't eat candy. Wouldn't a more accurate phrase be "As easy as taking candy from a second-grader"?


7. "Irregardless"
C'mon, really?

Freedom of speech is something I'll always support, but irregardless... I'd rather eat Courtney Love's arm scabs than ever hear any of those things spoken aloud again. EVER. I know, I know... who gives a crap?

I'm Onto You, M. Noir Douchebag...

..

While cleaning out my basement and going through some old magazines, I came across what may very well be the most reprehensible piece of douchebaggery ever produced – M. Night Shyamalan’s American Express “My Life, My Card” ad.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the “My Life, My Card” ads, they feature a black and white picture of some celebrity (Tiger Woods, Ellen DeGeneres, Martin Scorsese) and show the celebrities’ handwritten answers to a bunch of questions like, “Fondest Memory,” “Wildest Dream,” and “Perfect Day.” I guess it’s supposed to give the reader a “window” into the lives of these people and let us know that those fabulous lives include heavy usage of the American Express card.

Putting aside the idiotic and insulting nature of these ads (like I’m gonna want to buy shit with the American Express card just because that’s the card Ellen uses to buy her strap-ons), the pretentious douchery of M. Night Shyamalan’s answers simply demand recognition.


Here's a recap:


Name: M. Night Shyamalan

Okay, first things first. That’s not your fucking name. Your real name is Manoj Nelliattu Shyamalan.

While I understand your wanting to change your name for use in Hollywood, choosing “M. Night Shyamalan” (just typing it makes me feel like less of a human) violates the two time-honored goals of Hollywood name changes – (1) making it easier for the semi-literate American public to be able to identify you and (2) concealing the shame of your non-WASP ethnicity.

I could understand if you’d gone with, say, Monty Shepard or Michael N. Shanley, but M. Night Shyamalan? That’s a bitch to pronounce and it it does nothing to cover up the fact that your ancestors didn’t come over on the Mayflower, so what the fuck?

And don’t get me started on that pretentioius first initial-middle name-last name thing. Why don’t you, C. Everett Koop, and C. Thomas Howell go jerk each other off in front of J. Edgar Hoover’s grave?

Fondest Memory: Kissing my wife in the rain

This answer is offensive on multiple levels:

First of all, the only thing worse than married people publicly and un-ironically expressing their love for each other is artsy married people artsily expressing their love for each other (in ways that force me to envision M. Night Shyamalan making out with someone).

Secondly, this answer sets the hypocritical, pseudo-artistic douchebag tone that pervades the entire ad. You’re trying to let everyone know that despite your fabulous cinematic success, you stay grounded, you keep it REAL, and you focus on the things that really matter in life, like loving your wife. And you don’t just say, “I love you, Sugar Boobs,” like most guys. You do it with the delicate artistry of a true auteur who remembers sensual moments like a rain-soaked kiss.

Well I got news for you, cock breath – true auteurs don’t do credit card ads. And exploiting your wife’s personal romantic memories to make yourself seem more authentic in an AmEx ad won’t make you the poster child for authentic family values. (As a result, that job will continue to be held by Shawn Kemp). 

Soundtrack: My daughter playing Chopin

Your douche-osity goes to new heights with this one, M. Noir.

First off, people who make their kids play classical music are child abusers. No kid likes classical music. Even the daughters of pretentious douchebags like you prefer Hilary Duff to Chopin. That poor girl probably has to hide in her closet to listen to Britney’s Greatest Hits while her father tells his chardonnay-sipping guests about the sonata in D-minor that his little girl just mastered.

And once again you’re trying to look like a guy who wants to deflect attention away from himself, but in reality you just want to let everyone know that your little prodigy can play Chopin. You’re just so punchable. 

Retreat: Our farm

Listen up, Nighty – the 380 million people in your native India who earn less than $2 a day trying to coax rice out of the desiccated soil of the Punjab – those people are farmers. You’re a guy who gets paid millions of dollars to keep making the same movie over and over again. You don’t have a farm. You have an estate on what used to be a farm. Instead of grazing livestock, you have little girls running around playing Chopin. And when it starts raining, you don’t celebrate the fact that your subsistence crops are receiving badly needed nourishment, you run outside and kiss your fucking wife. Again.

Wildest Dream: Living in the South of France and writing a novel

The South of France? Really? You might as well have just said, “Living in Generic Artsy-ville, a place that everyone who reads this credit card ad will instantly recognize as a place where fabulously talented artists go when they get tired of working in integtrity-compromising media like film and want to explore the bounds of their boundless artistic talent.”

I’m so on to you. 

Proudest Moment: When I see my children overcome fear

Wow. I would’ve thought that a guy who writes and directs big successful movies would have said something like, “Being nominated for an Oscar,” but damnit, Manoj, you are just so genuine and down-to-earth! Makes me want to drive down to Pennsylvania and treat you to a proud afternoon of watching your kids overcoming their fear of being forced to play Russian roulette - how’s that sound? 

Perfect day: Walking with my family in the woods

Okay, okay, you love your fucking family. We fucking get it, you queef. 

First job: Promotional video for a law firm.

Did they sue you when the video you gave them turned out to be a photo collage of your wife and kids? 

Indulgence: Basketball

Seriously, there are about seven non-wheelchair bound people in the United States who I can beat at basketball and I’m pretty sure that you’re one of them. So just stop with the, “Hey, I’m a regular guy who shoots hoops” shtick. You’re not fooling anyone. 

Favorite movie: The Godfather

Now you’re really starting to piss me off. “Godfather” used to be one of my all-time favorite movies. But now my enjoyment Duvall collapsing as he says “They shot Sonny on the causeway” will be forever tainted by the knowledge that somewhere, on a “farm” in Pennsylvania, M. Night Shama-lama-ding-dong might be enjoying that same scene (on a screen that makes my TV look like an iPod). 

Inspiration: The three black-haired angels that live in my house

Your obsession with your own family is now officially scarier than any of your movies. I’ll lay even money that one of those black-haired angels has a restraining order against you within the next ten years. 

My Life: Is about finding time to dream.

Finding time? Dude, people who work real jobs have to find time to dream. You’ve got all fucking day. Or is all that hay baling and crop harvesting on the farm taking up all your precious dream time? Do ol’ Kimmie a favor and kill yourself. 

My Card: Is American Express.

And that’s why I’m taking a scissors to mine right now. Die, douchebag.




Thank you, Rob Sanford

Pack up your eyeliner & get the hell outta my poker room...

The honor of Douchebag of the Day is awarded to the emo brat who has taken up residence in my favorite poker room. This mouthy little asshole just turned 21 two weeks ago, and has been standing on my last nerve ever since. I hate his attitude, I hate his style of play, I hate his voice and I hate his face. If there wasn't a rule against verbally attacking another player in the poker room, this is what I'd say to his smarmy little moon face:

Listen up you little punk... you don’t like me, and I’d rather date an amputee with chronic halitosis than deal with you. But seeing as how we share the same oxygen in the same poker room, and even though you are the CEO of FuckingAnnoying, Inc., I feel compelled to tell you a few things. I know you just turned 21, so you're still technically a "kid". I'm well aware that conventional standards dictate that you should be playing stickball and catching frogs, or something... what do normal kids your age DO, anyway??? But I’ve had it with you and your pissy attitude & horrific poker table etiquette. There are kids one quarter of your age making t-shirts in Malaysia. Why don’t YOU go out and get a job; make yourself useful. Cut my lawn. Wash cars. Pirate DVDs. Make me some fucking pants.

                               I win!! Just in time too... gotta hurry home to check my MySpace messages

While we're on the matter of clothing... what the fuck is your problem? How many shades of black can you possibly have? Did I miss the part of "Being Hardcore 101" that states, "The amount of black t-shirts with shitty band logos owned is directly proportional to the wearer’s intimidation factor"? I must have. Because even with your Cannibal Corpse tee and Valium-level Relaxed-fit jeans, you're still about as scary as a cartoon bunny riding a My Little Pony through a rainbow.

You know what IS scary, though? How much your parents are going to have to pay the shrink when you start screwing cats and taking apart the stereo to "stop the government from monitoring the tracking device in your penis." Or the lawyer's retainer when you start acting out because Daddy didn't nurture your sports skills and you didn't get to hang out with the jocks. Honestly asshole, even with a Hall of Fame coaching staff and his own stadium, Stephen Hawking (like you—minus the intelligence and good looks) would never make it to the big leagues. Some people were meant to play ball and others were meant to play WITH balls. You’re the latter. Deal with it, Queerbait. So you didn’t get to hang out with Joe Quarterback and bang the head cheerleader in your Mustang. WAAAAAAAAHHH. Cry me a fucking river. Does this mean you have to play poker? And more importantly, does this mean you have to play poker WITH ME?

Don’t give me the whole, “I'm not really the complete asshole I make myself out to be... there’s just so much pressure on young adults these days, man. You don’t get it.” Sorry that the huge burden of turning your parent's basement into your own little slice of heaven and living there for free IS SOOOOO unjust. You should probably freak out and burn the casino down, you little sociopath. I know it must be hard to learn any adult social skills... I mean, you don't have that kind of time, what with all your extra-curricular activities like MySpacing the shit out of Katie DiPastillo because Kurt Bradford said he touched her boobs UNDER the bra and playing micro stakes on Full Tilt Poker. Maybe you should spend a little less time being depressed and wearing mascara because its cool and jerking off to Hannah Montana.

Perhaps I’m being a bit optimistic, but I think you'd probably pass for a half decent poker player if you and the rest of the Shitstain Crew took a break from spray-painting your lame gang signs on the parking garage. Trust me, no one is concerned about your claimed turf, including the 1400 people that park there. If you want to boost your street cred, I'll be more than happy to drop you off in South Providence so you can get some pointers from the experts. If they don't make you an ashtray or a pin cushion for used needles, maybe you can get some wardrobe advice and career counseling. Sound good, Sport?

Although you’re going to continue to annoy the living piss out of me until you turn 25 or decide to permanently shut the fuck up, you do have some redeeming qualities... If I knocked you unconscious, I’m certain you’d do a bang-up job as a doorstop.

Please go make like a mime and bleed to death in my trunk.

And speaking of the walking dead...

.

Once again, I must apologize to my loyal (and obviously insane) readers for my recent lack of posts. What I've been doing in my absence is simply enjoying the outdoors before the last weeks of summer are gone. I HAD to get a little sun time - I was starting to look like a vampire.

And speaking of the walking dead, what the fuck is up with grown adults incessantly  talking about how they love to read the 'Twilight' series? Seriously, these books are meant for teenagers. I don’t care that you think adults can enjoy them too...they’re not for you. Sweet Imaginary Baby Jesus - just let it go.

Inevitably these stories-for-tweens-lovin' freaks corner you with the relentless and infuriating bloodsucker inquisition. I’ll usually try to politely break the news that 'Twilight' isn’t really my thing, and hopefully gently deflect the topic. Very rarely does the information that I haven’t read any of the books get a pass. Thus begins the conversation I've had a thousand times:

“Really, you haven't read 'Twilight'?! Oh, you should, they’re great.”
"Yeah, I've-"
"They're not just for kids! You should read one, you'll love it!"
“Nah… I don’t think I’d really enjo-“
“That’s what I thought and then I read just one, and now I’m hooked!”
“Great, but I’m still not –“
“Just read one, I promise you’ll get into it! You can borrow mine.”

Damn people, back up OFF my puss - are you getting paid for this? Is this a pyramid scheme? Wait, I get it…this is Scientology, right?

I swear these people are a hair cut and a robe away from crazy. I’m talking matching turquoise running suits crazy. 

Listen 'Twilight' people, I haven’t read the books. I will never read the books. Ever. Understand? Actually, you know what? I don’t think you DO understand me, so let me make it very clear…

I would rather swallow a roll of razor wire.

I would rather eat a used baby diaper.

I would rather forcibly shove a glass thermometer deep into my cervix and smash it with a hammer.

I would rather ride a unicycle with a machete for a seat.

I would rather sucker punch a gang member and try to run away wearing ski boots.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I get invited by Bill and Ted to travel back in time to cut Jesus’ umbilical chord with a lightsaber.

I would rather drink a gravel and Drano smoothie.

I would rather wipe my ass with fiberglass insulation.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day Mr. T stops pitying fools.

I would rather have unprotected sex with a Taiwanese transsexual.

I would rather swim in a dumpster full of vomit.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I stick my tongue out at the Pope and knock his hat off.

I would rather siphon a septic tank.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I breakdance fight a sasquatch, and lose.

I would rather open mouth kiss a crocodile.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I have a three way with the Green Lantern and Skeletor on the back of a unicorn.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I pull a switch blade on E.T. over an argument concerning Brazil’s steadily growing agricultural market, and the impact on U.S. farming economy.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I have a harmonica jam with the FOX news anchors.

I would rather brush my teeth with shitpaste.

I'd rather be buried alive.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I give Papa Smurf a beej in the bathroom at Castle Greyskull.

'Twilight' fans, listen to me. And listen good, you vile buncha conformists... STOP trying to recruit me to your inner reading circle! I will NEVER read 'Twilight'. Ever. Truth be told, I would prefer to read a more creative work of fiction. Something that's REALLY 'out there', as opposed to yet another tired vampire saga. You know, something a bit more imaginative... like the bible.

You have all been named douchebag of the day for your poor reading list choices. On a scale of one to ten, fuck off.

It was so romantic, I swooned.

Right off the bat, I'd like to announce the winner of Monday's Douchebag of The Day.

Here's how it went down:

I was at a fairly crowded pub yesterday, having a beer with a friend of mine. We were engaged in deep and philosophical conversation about religion and the meaning of life. Um... Okay, I lied. We were actually talking about lip gloss... so what? Even sarcastic and cynical girls like to look pretty. A well conditioned lip is very important, in fact it is practically a law in 48 states. Is it okay with all of you judgemental bastards if we move on now? Gee, thanks.

Anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I could see him approaching. I see him at this bar frequently. I almost talked to him once, but his attire alone told me he was "one of those". His pants were like a cheap hotel - no ballroom. They were so tight, I could make out his camelnose from a distance of thirty feet. Gross.

My plan was to make the ol' fake call to my imaginary boyfriend, but he got to me before I could retrieve my cell phone. Damn this huge purse! Damn it to the bowels of hell!

I was just about to say "I'm married. To a UFC fighter. A BIG one. Plus, I'm a lesbian. A crippled lesbian. In fact, I'm a married, crippled BLIND lesbian. Oh, and did I mention that I'm bipolar to boot? You wanna take me out?" but he beat me to the punch, and came out with this brilliant one liner:

"Have you always been this cute?" Ugh. Really? That's his big opening dazzler? I wanted to punch him in the neck. But before I could make a fist and wind up, he continued his charming introduction with another question;  "My face is leaving in 5 minutes. You wanna be on it?"

Say whaaaaaaattttt !?!?  This guy obviously has a death wish. I just sat there, speechless, debating about whether I should hurl my drink at his face, or donkey punch him in the balls. But before I knew it, I was talking. Aloud. Without knowing what I was about to say. Uh oh.

What I ended up saying was "Hell yeah big daddy! Lets go - I lovvvve to party!!! Wait. Do you have a condom? Eh, nevermind. I'm already 5 months pregnant anyway... Hey, can we grab some whiskey and a little bit of meth before we go? And I have to stop at my house because my "business manager" is supposed to come by to collect. Oh, by the way - you DO have cash on you, right?" Then I shut up and just looked at him.

He blinked a couple of times, then turned around and ran to the exit. Literally jogged... Hah! Take THAT, asshole. How'd it feel to be degraded? And I heard your friend, who was obviously embarrassed, say "You can WALK home. What the fuck! You ALWAYS gotta fuck with someone!"

So in recognition of his illustrious accomplishment, this pitiful caveman is awarded my raised middle finger, along with a two year supply of behind-the-back trashing of his character accompanied by snickering, pointing and snide remarks. It'll be impossible for him to live it down.

There's one more thing.  To honor his bravery in the face of danger (kimminentdanger, that is)  his name will be engraved on the well known and much talked about "Wall Of Scumbags None Of The Girls At Any Of The Bars and Clubs Will Ever Even THINK About Sleeping With, Even Out Of Pity or Desperation" . 

Congratulations fuckface; your parents must be so proud.


Ok - with that business out of the way, I want to announce that tomorrow's post is already in the works, and it features an actual transcript of one of the funniest conversations I've ever had via instant messaging. It DOES get a bit politically incorrect... some people may even call it insensitive and obnoxious. If you can't stand controversy, don't come around to read it.

I do have a disclaimer to protect myself from lawsuits, and will be posting it by morning.

Hey kid! Your Flying Michael J. Fox Impression Is Underwhelming At Best

Yeah. I saw it. Great. Amazing.

What?! Yes, I'm watching...Jeez. I said it was great.

No. You know what? No more. Come here. It's your fifth birthday, right?

What? Seventh. Really? You're seven?

Okay, okay. You're seven. That just makes this gift all the more important. Listen, I've decided to give you the gift of truth. In my years as your mommy's friend, I have shielded you from the truth on various occasions. There are things that most people never reveal to children. I've decided to pull no punches.

First of all, your swimming jumps are less than impressive. And by, "less than impressive," I mean that you look like a jackass. Please stop asking me to watch. Just fucking stop. I spent the last hour counting how many times you yelled, "Watch, watch!" Thirty-eight, my boy, which is just unacceptably ridiculous. Why do you feel that a dead sprint into the swimming pool requires my undivided attention? Jesus, I just want to get through one fucking page of this book! It's not like you are doing anything impressive - it's the same herky-jerky bullshit every time. Have you ever heard of going in head first? At this point, anything other than your flying Michael J. Fox impression would be a relief.

What would your reaction be if I endlessly called out for you to watch me run in an uncoordinated manner at the pool, pinching my nose closed and pumping my other fist like I was a drum major on crystal meth. Sticking your arm out as you awkwardly hurdle yourself into a swimming pool does not qualify as a "sweet dive." I know I said it was, but I was lying. No more.

It would be like me making you watch every single time I bit into a hamburger! Eating a hamburger actually has a higher difficulty level than your assaults on the deep end and my pride.

"Hey, watch! This one has hickory-smoked bacon on it. Watch, I'm going to open my mouth real wide, shove the burger in my mouth, and bite up and down for a few moments. Hey... watch, I'm going to do it again. And again. And again. And again."

You know what the worst part is? It's not the mind numbing void of creativity, skill, and shame. It's watching you prance and leap with an almost total lack of athletic talent.

Secondly, you aren't fooling anyone with that tee shirt. If anything it just accentuates the size and depth of your massive belly button. Every person here knows you are fat. All that giant, wrinkled Sponge Bob shirt clinging to your oversized torso is doing is letting them know you still watch that ridiculous kid's cartoon too. I know you're only seven years old, but you were too old for it a minute ago when I thought you were only five, too.

What do you think people say when they see you? "Wow, that kid has a really thick shirt on." Well, they don't. They say, "Look at the tits on that kid."  Listen, if you're going to continue to eat only fast food and fish sticks, you've gotta embrace being the fat kid. Develop an obnoxiously loud laugh, start making self-deprecating jokes, and be super friendly. You should be doing cannonballs and soaking the cute girl's towel. Look on the bright side, though... fat kids are harder to kidnap.

Now, here's twenty bucks. Fuck off and let me read my book.

Even A Blind Guy Can See That This Design Is Stupid

So, I was pouring all the quarters from the bottom of my purse into my spring water jug-slash-piggy bank just like I do EVERY time I notice that my handbag is tipping the scales at around 15 pounds. But for some unknown reason (unknown because the only thing that would have made my mind go off in this direction at 4 in the morning would be if I was stoned on marijuana - you know, that stuff the kids smoke... they call it "The Pot", which I most certainly was NOT! - hi mom -  In fact, I don't even know what stoned MEANS...)
Um. where was I? Oh yeah... quarters. For some unknown reason, I could not get past my delirium induced notion that I was "Top Dawg State Quarter Design Critic Extraodinaire".  Here's my final analysis and official report. Bottom line: least appealing design goes HANDS-DOWN to Al-er-bamm-er.

Alabama dropped the ball with their quarter.... I mean, Hellen Keller! What the fuck, guys?

For some states, choosing a design was probably tough. States like California (Condor) and New York (Statue of Liberty, of course) have so much cool shit to choose from that it must have been hard to decide. For other one-trick pony states like Indiana (an Indy car) and Kentucky (a racehorse) it was probably a no-brainer. Even the most useless states like Iowa (lame-ass school house) and West Virginia (some stupid bridge) came up with something that at the very least didn´t make the state look any shittier than it did before. Then there’s Ala-fucking-bama!

The top minds from across the state got together and decided that the most fitting symbol to represent their state was none other than Helen Keller. Helen Motherfucking Keller. Nothing against her, but what does it say about your state when its most distinguished citizen’s greatest achievement was being forced to learn how to communicate with the outside world. Stupid rednecks! How did it come to this?

Alabama’s Governor: OK, listen up people. We need a symbol for our state Quarter that captures the essence of our citizens, history, and culture. So put down your moonshine & grits and get to it!

Top Aid: Uh, how about a blind, deaf mute?

Alabama’s Governor: Bingo! Now crank up the Skynyrd while I cook up some Meth for the NASCAR rally. Robert E. Lee was a great man. I’m so poor and illiterate.

As the cheap joke above demonstrates, Alabama, and the South in general, already has to contend with enough in the way of negative, mostly undeserving, stereotypes. Being compared to Helen Keller, with all her preexisting jokes (…so you can read her lips; …you’d be sad too if your name was ararhahrgahaghgraghagr), is just going to add to Alabama’s image problems. Not to mention the fact that she wouldn’t have been blind, deaf, or mute had she been born in good state, or at least one that wasn’t a scarlet fever-ridden hellhole. Is that something Alabama wants to publicize? What the fuck, guys?

A lot of people are going to say “Listen bitch, Helen Keller is a stirring symbol of overcoming adversity.” Granted, overcoming adversity is something Alabamans probably need to learn about, since they have to live in Alabama. But surely there were other stirring symbols of humanity that that could have been chosen. A quick trip to wikipedia.org’s list of famous Alabaman’s brings up lot’s of great candidates. If it’s inspiration you want, why not Jesse “Fuck Hitler” Owens? Why not Hank “Babe Ruth was a pussy” Aaron? Why not Rosa “I’ll sit where ever the fuck I want” Parks? Oh, wait. Alabama. Never mind.

In Birmingham they love the gov´ner...
And when it comes right down to it, what did the woman accomplish?

“Well, she learned to read Braille and write! Pretty impressive for a blind, deaf mute.”

Bullshit. Her movie isn’t called “the Miracle Worker” because she taught herself to read. Anne Sullivan, her teacher, was the miracle worker. If anybody should be on the fucking quarter it should be her. She taught a blind, deaf mute to read and write, for Christ’s sake! Nobody fawns like an idiot over the people J.C. miraculously cured. They give props to the J-man himself. So why does Helen Keller get to hog Anne Sullivan’s limelight? What a fucking sham!

“But what about all the books she wrote? That’s pretty impressive!”

Big fucking deal. The only way she could communicate with the outside world was by writing things down. It’s pretty easy to write a book when you have to scratch out a paragraph every time you want to pee. That’s like being impressed by a crackhead who’s good with a lighter. It’s what they do.

Now if she had written a graphic novel, even one that was kind of shitty, that would have been fucking impressive. But she didn’t. Maybe her story was inspiring to people in 1902, but in today’s world where exploding alligators are fighting with pythons and pop stars are having crack babies, that shit just IS NOT gonna cut it. By the way, what was your favorite book by Helen Keller?
Exactly.  Me either.

The only things that could have made this design seem like less of a really bad  decision would have been if Idaho's choice was the Aryan Nation compound, or Wyoming chose Matthew Shepherd’s death fence. Way to go Alabama. You’ve lowered the fucking bar yet again. 

Note: When you are done trashing this post, why not list some other shitty state quarters, or even Hellen Keller jokes? Hey - my blog is NO PLACE to be politically correct.  

I Couldn't Find A Baby To Shake... I think Jane Has Them Bound & Gagged In Her Basement

Jane unravels under pressure

*twitch* *twitch*........  My work here is done.

http://intentions.wordpress.com/2009/06/14/angry-bipolar-patient-posts-personal-attacks-about-my-hair/#respond

Sounds like SOMEBODY could use a Xanax! 

Dog Abusing Douchebag

I betcha you can all guess who today's douchebag is. Yup, you guessed it. Michael Vick. This assface has the NERVE to announce to the world that he will now be an animal rights advocate? Really? That's like Michael Jackson becoming a foster parent. Sickening.
*ring ring* Hello? Do you have any douchebag repellent? *click* now if I could just stop twitching...ouch...


I wouldn't let this monster get within 3 feet of my dog.

In fact, I'd rather:

** Contract Swine Flu
** Sleep with Dr. Phil (another douchebag)
** Dip my face in a vat of battery acid
** Pull my toenails off with a pair of pliers
** Shave my head
** Drink a hobo's urine
** Wear a hobo's socks
** French kiss a hobo
** Let a hobo spit in my mouth
** Rub broken glass in my eyes
** Wash my face with vomit
** Sit on Jerry Falwell's lap
** Give Pat Buchanan a massage with a happy ending
** Slice my nipples off with a serated steak knife
** Jam an ice pick into my ear canal
** Beat myself with a trout
** Have planet's axis inserted up my ass sideways with no lube,wrapped in
several layers of barbed wire and drenched in rubbing alcohol).
** Jump into a kettle of simmering tar and cardboard box full of feathers


Hey Michael Dick, I mean Vick: fuck off and die in a fire screaming, you heartless douchebag.

Douchebag In The Elevator May 13, 2009

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR KID'S SOCCER GAME!

Because, goddamn it, I want to know! When I said “What’s up?” to you in the elevator ten minutes ago, I certainly didn’t mean “What’s up?” as a convenient and all-but-universally acknowledged euphemism for “I know you and must acknowledge your presence but I have no actual desire to talk to you and/or hear about what has been happening in your pathetic joke of a life.”

No siree, I asked you that obviously heartfelt question with genuine interest and a burning desire to know what you, that wooly mammoth wife of yours, and those just-as-dumb-as-they-are-ugly kids of yours have been up to. And I was especially hoping that you would be kind enough to share a George Michael Sports Machine-type recap and analysis of nine-year-old Taylor’s latest adventure in the world’s least watchable sport.

And you were definitely hip to the excited subtext that I was laying down. Most people would’ve responded to my seemingly innocuous query with a simple, “Hey,” or perhaps a perfunctory “Not much,” in some misguided attempt to abide by the unspoken rules of workplace conversation.

But a guy like you isn’t constrained by such generally agreed-upon social conventions. No, you’re too much a maverick to play society’s little parlor game. And for that I salute you. When someone asks you “What’s up?”, by golly, you’re going to give them their money’s worth!

Or perhaps you’re just a raging egomaniac who has convinced himself that whatever happens to him and his physically repellent family must surely be of interest to others—even when those others have easily discernible bags under their eyes, two days of facial growth, and several other unmistakable indicia of the severely hungover and thoroughly uninterested.

Whatever the reason, you jumped at the chance to give me an excruciating little summary of your family’s weekend. As a result, I am now the proud owner of way too much knowledge regarding the following events:


I'm just saying, 'What if?'

1.) The Sears run you made on Saturday to get a replacement filter for the air conditioner in the den. That was some fascinating shit. That part about how they didn’t have the right one for your exact model so they had to order it? Ri-goddamn-donkulous. I’m amazed you didn’t kill yourself right then and there. You might actually want to think about that. Seriously.

2.) The “little one’s” Sunday morning swim class. Words can’t begin to express how little I care about that or how much I’d like to douse your genitals with hot coffee.

Quick question: what would happen if one of the kids at the swim class drowned? Say, for example, your kid? Would they cancel the rest of the class that day? Would the other kids get a partial refund? I bet if your kid drowned – or ended up dead some other way – you would have to miss work and wouldn’t be able to tell me what’s been "up" for at least a week. Interesting.

3.) Taylor's soccer team's thrilling 1-0 victory over the Lions. By the way, “Taylor” – is that a boy or a girl? (I guess I never asked because I never really gave a shit.) A boy, huh? Nine-years old – has he come out of the closet yet? What am I “suggesting”? I’m not suggesting anything, douchefuck. I’m straight up implying that your son is gay. Newsflash: when he asked you after the soccer game if he could go over to Todd’s house to watch movies, he was really asking if he could go and smoke Todd’s pickle. And Evan’s. And Jacob’s. And Todd’s grandpa’s. Seriously, I read all about it on gaysonsofguysIwanttokill.org. Hey, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but that’s “what’s up” with that kid.

Okay, you got me – I’m not all that sorry to be the one to tell you that your son’s gay. In fact, I enjoyed it almost as much as little Taylor enjoyed licking Todd’s grandpa’s wrinkled shaft.

Die.

I've got a label for YOU, pal. - (Kim)

We're always telling people to share their feelings... "Don't be ashamed," we say. "Having bipolar disorder is not shameful and it's not your fault!" However... those of us that stick to that line of reasoning and start talking to others about our disorder are still a problem for the general public. AARRGGHH!! Damned if you do, and damned it you don't. Some douchebags take issue with people who DO publically share the knowledge that they are mentally ill. Especially those who announce it for all to hear (like me!) .

There have been many accusations chucked at me, but the most frequently used accusation (by a landslide) is “You’re an attention seeker”.

What the general population doesn’t know is that THIS attention seeker went through ten years of hellish episodes and denial, denial, denial before I accepted that something was mentally wrong with me. The reason for the denial??? I thought I was an attention seeker. Ha! And I thought all my problems were so insignificant that if I did try to get help, the doctors would laugh at me and say "Do you need a little atten? Ha Ha Ha"...

I have always been fairly open. The VERY DAY I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1, Rapid Cycling with Mixed States, I went out with my friends and told EVERYONE IN SIGHT!

What I was seeking was general reassurance, naturally. (DUH!) I know that left to my own devices, I would have self-destructed. I openly discuss my mental illness because I'm working on SELF PRESERVATION; NOT ATTENTION! Jackasses.

Another reason I am open (especially now) about this is because I don’t want people like

me to be tarred and feathered, then labeled "seekers of attention". Manic depression is an illness, like diabetes; like any incurable disease that needs to be treated ...

There's just something about mental illness that makes the general population blink from the glare and look the other way. We are falsely accused - we're told "You're bringing this on yourself" or that we're doing something to cause ourselves to spend all our money, talk really fast, not sleep, not eat, fight with everybody, cry, think of dying... Yeah - you're right "Einstein"... all of that stuff is something I love so much that I intentionally bring it into my life... Asshole.

Bipolar, as you probably already know, is something that's difficult to explain, BUT IF MY STORY HELPS JUST ONE PERSON TO UNDERSTAND AND ACCEPT THIS DISORDER AS A REALITY, THEN I'LL SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE EXPLAINING IT!

There’s more to this than documentaries interviewing fuzzy haired artists tell about in their litle indie flicks... And more than the mental wards you see on 20/20 or 60 Minutes. It isn’t all about crying in your bed, or just sitting, always simply being mentally ill. Nor is it about running down the streets half dressed (although I have done a fair amount of that, too). Our life revolves around taking medication and coping with the problems that go along with it..

Pills for the Mentally Interesting have pretty tragic side effects. I really don’t blame people when they go off their meds. It seems to me that they'd prefer going insane over having side effects like the dreaded Lamictal rash from the pills they're taking. I've been tempted to throw the little fuckers down the toilet too! But because of the hundreds of thousands of banner-waving depressives, boasting about their “meds” and wearing t-shirts listing their mental problems, people get nervous about it and put it on their politically correct list of "Things You Must Never Talk About". They raise their eyebrows at the mentally ill; they can't stand it when we bring it into the light and encourage open conversation about our disorders. "Taking medication & mentioning it means you’re proud" they say. You’re showing off. You’re oh-so-fucked up. Blah blah motherfucking blah. How DARE they put a label on me?

I've got news... I have a label for YOU too: "IGNORANT"!!! I'm not a fucking dress on a rack at Macy's... I'M HUMAN!!! (I just live in technicolor while they have to settle for a black and white world)

My Apologies...

I feel the need to publicly offer my sincerest apologies to the poker genius I insulted last night when he pushed me over the edge with his incessant shit talking... I believe my exact words were "Hear that? That's the sound of logic screaming in agony .... but thankfully, brain trumps mouth..." and for that, I am truly sorry.

What I meant to say was "I'm sorry, I don't speak fluent caveman, but I'm pretty sure what you just said translates to:  'Please come across the poker table and shatter my jaw because I am an utter imbecile and deserve to have my obnoxious ass beat down until I stop breathing and die- then I should be brought back to life just so I can have my ass kicked again.' or something to that effect. And by the way, motherfucker,  is that your face or did you just block a kick?"

So, truly, if I said anything out of line, please believe me... um... that's it. Just please believe me.

Tag the Stupid People

Fuck stupid people. No one likes them. Of the numerous things that really piss me off, stupid people account for the vast majority. One thing that drives me to my absolute breaking point is when I see a doe-eyed, overweight housewife, whimpering, and gazing in astonishment at a psychic’s every word on television.

“Can you talk to my dead grandma?” a woman pleads. Her hand is cupped by Montel Williams.

“I am seeing her now. She says she loves you. She is saying something about a kitchen,” the amazing psychic responds.

“A kitchen? Holy shit! My grandma lived in a house with a kitchen!” shouts the woman.

I almost choke on my Slim-jim. She’ll question the psychic more. I mean, she won’t buy it that easily… right? This psychic will have to prove it with a hell of a lot more detailed information than that. No one is that dumb. Nope. No way. Hold on... she isn’t questioning it. She’s clapping and crying. People are applauding the psychic. What in the fuck is going on? All of a sudden, I realize that I am punching myself in the face and turn the television off. What could this woman really offer society? Besides a “Don’t go there!” t-shirt, not much.

Stupid people, while entertaining at times, slow the progress of life, and make being in public frustrating as hell. I could go on for hours about it. Anyone could. The one thing that we can all agree on is that there are too many dumb fucking people in the world today. Instead of just bitching about it, I have a solution. I have a noble idea for the assholes that make you scream in your car, and throw dishes and cutlery at your dog. No, my idea is not a psychotic, murderous solution, like Hitler, or Darth Vader would come up with. It is just an option that would help improve the quality of life.

Dumb people should be tagged. Like the animals they match in intellect, they can be avoided and tracked.

You believe a psychic is real because she told you that your uncle said he loves and misses you from beyond the grave...

Tag.

You shoot your friend with a shotgun while hunting for quail…

Tag.

While driving, you come to a complete stop before you make a right-hand turn…

Tag.

The minute someone illustrates stupidity this horrendously, they should be pointed out. We would have a warning when we were about to encounter a person with an I.Q. the equivalent of a urinal cake. The advantages would be astounding. Think of the shitheads you could avoid. Oh yeah... I'm starting NOW.

A Rant .... Submitted by Heather Al-Juboori

This post was submitted by Heather, who obviously has some strong feelings on the matter... Thanks Heather!

Hey I got something to submit if your still looking for outside info for the blog..


" You are right on target here. Labels are a biitch, no we aren't the center of attentio n seekers, and hey you know the fuck what??? If I had a choice I would make it all just go away and not have the dramatics in my life.. Hell I have tried to ignore this bipolar shit for years. You know what happens when you do that with out help? You fucking cycle and then it gets worse. If your lucky it won't get followed up with anything that leads to legalities. ANd the sad thing is your right. It is a sickness, Its not a fucking tabboo subject. Its fucking life. The autistic the children born with down syndrome, mental retardation, or even are just a little slower on grasping things are born with it too. Too fucking bad you wanna shut it off and walk away and pretend its not there. None of us fucking can!!! Its a living hell battling with yourself everyday teetering between the social ideas of normaility and your reality of normaility. Its as though at times we bipolars are possesed or short circuting. Its a spiral of confusion. Yes we eventually learn to cope and live and be able to function but thats those that are lucky. And then there are those of us that just dont know what is wrong with us or are crying for the help and never get it end up in trouble in our lives not knowing whats up or down. Its a scary thing to face that reflection that you see in the morning...You just can't walk away and pretend they aren't there. You never can walk away from you..I agree Kimmie, Society just doesnt make things any fucking easier for us. the question is are we really that fucking far from the old days? Have we progressed or is it all just another form of putting us in mental institutions and forgetting we exsist to wallow away in our own filth??? I say no. It is up to us to take up our bretheren in this God awful mental war we face daily. We help each other and stand tall and say Fuck off!!! WHo the hell needs your views??? Live in my fucking shoes and live my fucking real horrors in real fucking life both physical and mental and then you can judge me. Fuck off! The normaility is that noone is without fault and in some point int anyones life they can agree they have lived to some small extent at the least of what we live in a day. Don't take pitty, don't look away, and don't fucking stare. Have some fucking balls ask a fucking question and fucking empower yourself you moronic assholes, get educated and stop judging and being afraid of what you know nothing about. Reality and experience in my life suggests that yes sometimes education is scary, because you face cruel realities...but its also what leads to the epiphany of OH NOW I UNDERSTAND!!!

And if you wanna get right down to it..we can be damned good parents, because there are those of us, like myself, that care very much our children. We are very intune with thier needs. We are often able to see warning signs of any emotion issue a child may have...because hey we have lived it. My life has been sure hell. We have endured allot more then allot of any red blodded Americans could take in my family. And because of that, I knew what that meant for my kids...None of it had to do with me or anything I had done. Everything had to do w/ prejudices and morons. And children were the biggest victims. I am damned proud to say that I signed my kids in for counciling and you know what?? The councilor told me that I had children that were very healthy, especially in mental health...Because I learned long ago how to slow the anger, forgive, and move on. And taught it to them. I know this may sound contradictory here but every once in a while someone has to open thier mouths to help those that fucking cant!!

I teeter between meds or no meds. And you know what? I am me, take me or leave me. I am a devoted friend, spouce and dedicated mother, who will rip a fucking head off for those she loves. I advocate for those whom I can, I help the disabled and elderly without any compensation....and you know where I can find the most comfort??? WIth my grandmother..she suffers from althimers and demntia. She is basically feeling the same types of things I am with different labels..

Yeah people,like Kimmie said Labels are a bitch. Too bad Dementia is one of those bitches. I read an online article stating there was a theory that mental health is diagnosed on what it is in different decades of a persons life, ADHD, Bipolar, Depression, Dementia, The theory was that each label was at times difficult to differentiate, if I am not mistaken about this. But it suggested that bipolar and dementia are closely related. SO SOCIETY Shove the labels and looking down the noses and shoulder shrugs and side stares up you ass!!! No matter what a person does someway somehow it happens to everyone. Especially depression, a job loss, a death...Look in the mirror and then prtend that ones not there! HAHA fucking HAHAHA"

IF its good and you wanna use it go for it, edit it I dont care..lol If not its just my POV on agreeing with you. HUGS

My Control Will Self-Destruct In 3...2...1...

As you can see, my blog is ALMOST back to it's usual beautifully laid out with the exceptionally hard work and blood sweat and tears or yours truly who is about to explode if this template guy doesn't fix it COMPLETELY this time because I am simply seething right now and I'm afraid that if I end this sentence or even attempt to represent a pause of any kind with punctuation including a period or comma or semicolon or even colon for that matter the result will be that i will go purely apeshit and by apeshit i mean i will freak the fuck out like nobody has seen me freak the fuck out before i mean i am talking smoke frfom the ears foaming from the mouth gripping meat cleaver just rocking back and forth with a maniacal grin plastered under my nose but above my chin repeating the phrase must carve the meat must carve the meat over and over again until i find the solution to this problem all on my own or hunt down the template guy and exact my revenge but i think i probably should just take a deep breath for now and try to regain my composure

(((((((((((((((((((((BREATH)))))))))))))))))))))))))

Maybe I should go for two breaths just in case it falls apart...

(((((((((((((((((((((((BREATH))))))))))))))))))))))))

I think my forehead veins are only Oak Tree trunk thick as opposed to Redwood. That's a good sign. Right? RIGHT??????

Doesn't this guy know that he's dealing with a crazy person here??? (booga booga)