Accordingly to many silly people, the world is going to end on December 21, which is a mere 15 days away. We took the liberty of coming up with fifteen fantastic tasks to accomplish before this happens.
1. Go on a hot air balloon ride with Patrick Dempsey.
2. Create a time capsule that can't be opened until December 20 (Two weeks from today)
3. Go to Denny's and eat all the cheesecake
4. Adopt a black baby
5. Dress up like a princess all day
6. Dress up like a pirate all day
7. Buy new lampshades for every lamp
8. Buy some stocks and sell them the next day and make a fortune
9. Hoard gasoline
10. Learn American Sign Language
11. Go to a single's ward at a Mormon church
12. Get married
13. Tell your kids Santa is not real
14. Open the time capsule
15. Listen to the Tim McGraw song "Live Like You Were Dying" and realize you've been living your entire life wrong, and make a resolution to be a better person starting tomorrow.
Get it? Cause there will be no tomorrow by that point? You're basically saying you will never be a better person, which is probably true.
The moral of today's blog is that if you really do believe the world is going to end, at least make your days worth it. Don't go and do a bunch of drugs to turn yourself into a man made zombie just to fulfill a prophesy you don't even know to be true. Drink some tea, buy some slippers, take a stroll, hug your kids, and buy at least ten cases of water.
The End
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Sweatology
We recently did a study on sweat. Did you know there are different kinds of sweat? Each affects us in a different way. We happen to have the perfect guinea pig. Miss Dennie Lynn Hedges. She, is a sweat machine. We put her through a series of experiments, and we are now prepared to share our results with you.
The Cold Sweat and the Fever Sweat
We had Dennie hang out in a playground around a multitude of snot nosed children. She wore nothing but a tube top and granny panties in 36 degree weather. We made her leave the combat boots at home, so she instead wore flip flops. She took the experiment very seriously. She played on the monkey bars, pushed kids down the slides, licked all the swings, and slid down the germ infested pole. She did this for a solid 5 hours.
She was sneezing and sniffling before we even arrived home, just as we hoped she would be. After getting inside, we refused to give her any kind of medicine, to ensure the virus would spread. Soon, she was bedridden. Feverish and freezing, she went to bed. This is where the measurements began.
When Dennie woke up in a pool of sweat, her hair stuck to her face, and her granny panties riding up way to far, we removed the blankets and made her get up. After documenting the size of the pool, and the salt saturation, we came to the conclusion it was just enough to break a fever. So then we made her sit in a freezing cold room, still sick.
She continued to sweat, but this was a different kind. It was less salty, and more tangy. Not quite as severe, but just as disgusting. We gave her the medicine so we would no longer have to endure the gross secretion of smelly substance out of her every pore.
The Work Out Sweat
Once Dennie completely recovered, she was placed on a treadmill, set to continue running, no matter how many times she tried to quit and turn it off. This, my friends, really built up a sweat. Four minutes and twenty seconds later, when she passed out from exhaustion, we rushed to her side. Not to make sure she was okay, but to examine the sweat.
It was all over her body, and even after the activity ended, it continued. We were mildly worried she was going to lose too much sweat. But we pushed our fears aside and carried on. This sweat was thick and even more rancid smelling than the sick sweat. We didn't know if it was due to a lack of showering on her part, or the actual sweating, so we were unable to get conclusive results. We gave up, carried her into the shower, and left her there for a while.
The Standing Over A 350 Degree Grill For Three Consecutive Hours With No Water Breaks And No Way Out Sweat.
This part of the experiment took place at her work, In N Out Burger. We watched as she began. Things seemed okay for the first seven minutes, but then it got out of control. It all started pouring out from her hairline. But it didn't create a pool there, instead it ran down her face, and covered her entire body. Her shirt was drenched, her socks were soaked, and her mustache was standing out due to all the sweat droplets getting stuck on it.
We realized it must have a high salt content when it got in her eyes and she cried out in pain. We didn't let her go fix things though, we made her continue. It got worse. Eventually it seemed as though her hair was getting too damp to stay in her hat, and began falling out, all around her face, creating a chaotic array of strands. She was finally released from the experiment when the manager got angry and made her go fix her appearance.
Luckily, before this occurred, we were able to snag a few meat patties for examination. We tested the taste of regular salted meat, as opposed to sweat salted meat. The taste was essentially the same, maybe a bit more juicy on the sweat patty. We all then realized what we had done and immediately went and vomited. That's when we decided we had taken this study much too far.
The only solid conclusion we were able to come to is that Dennie is completely disgusting while sweating, no matter what conditions she is placed in. We advise that you stay very far away from her if she is doing any strenuous activity, such as doing the dishes, dusting the shelves, changing the pillowcases, feeding the fish, or tying her shoes.
Although sweating is good for you for some random health reasons, in Dennie's case, it can be deadly. She is not dead, but we can't guarantee that no flies were harmed in the making of this blog topic.
The Cold Sweat and the Fever Sweat
We had Dennie hang out in a playground around a multitude of snot nosed children. She wore nothing but a tube top and granny panties in 36 degree weather. We made her leave the combat boots at home, so she instead wore flip flops. She took the experiment very seriously. She played on the monkey bars, pushed kids down the slides, licked all the swings, and slid down the germ infested pole. She did this for a solid 5 hours.
She was sneezing and sniffling before we even arrived home, just as we hoped she would be. After getting inside, we refused to give her any kind of medicine, to ensure the virus would spread. Soon, she was bedridden. Feverish and freezing, she went to bed. This is where the measurements began.
When Dennie woke up in a pool of sweat, her hair stuck to her face, and her granny panties riding up way to far, we removed the blankets and made her get up. After documenting the size of the pool, and the salt saturation, we came to the conclusion it was just enough to break a fever. So then we made her sit in a freezing cold room, still sick.
She continued to sweat, but this was a different kind. It was less salty, and more tangy. Not quite as severe, but just as disgusting. We gave her the medicine so we would no longer have to endure the gross secretion of smelly substance out of her every pore.
The Work Out Sweat
Once Dennie completely recovered, she was placed on a treadmill, set to continue running, no matter how many times she tried to quit and turn it off. This, my friends, really built up a sweat. Four minutes and twenty seconds later, when she passed out from exhaustion, we rushed to her side. Not to make sure she was okay, but to examine the sweat.
It was all over her body, and even after the activity ended, it continued. We were mildly worried she was going to lose too much sweat. But we pushed our fears aside and carried on. This sweat was thick and even more rancid smelling than the sick sweat. We didn't know if it was due to a lack of showering on her part, or the actual sweating, so we were unable to get conclusive results. We gave up, carried her into the shower, and left her there for a while.
The Standing Over A 350 Degree Grill For Three Consecutive Hours With No Water Breaks And No Way Out Sweat.
This part of the experiment took place at her work, In N Out Burger. We watched as she began. Things seemed okay for the first seven minutes, but then it got out of control. It all started pouring out from her hairline. But it didn't create a pool there, instead it ran down her face, and covered her entire body. Her shirt was drenched, her socks were soaked, and her mustache was standing out due to all the sweat droplets getting stuck on it.
We realized it must have a high salt content when it got in her eyes and she cried out in pain. We didn't let her go fix things though, we made her continue. It got worse. Eventually it seemed as though her hair was getting too damp to stay in her hat, and began falling out, all around her face, creating a chaotic array of strands. She was finally released from the experiment when the manager got angry and made her go fix her appearance.
Luckily, before this occurred, we were able to snag a few meat patties for examination. We tested the taste of regular salted meat, as opposed to sweat salted meat. The taste was essentially the same, maybe a bit more juicy on the sweat patty. We all then realized what we had done and immediately went and vomited. That's when we decided we had taken this study much too far.
The only solid conclusion we were able to come to is that Dennie is completely disgusting while sweating, no matter what conditions she is placed in. We advise that you stay very far away from her if she is doing any strenuous activity, such as doing the dishes, dusting the shelves, changing the pillowcases, feeding the fish, or tying her shoes.
Although sweating is good for you for some random health reasons, in Dennie's case, it can be deadly. She is not dead, but we can't guarantee that no flies were harmed in the making of this blog topic.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Dennie's first time
It started with a bowl of Chili. A magnificent, giant, bowl of chili. It had a healthy array of beef and beans. The spicy kind. I ate it with a spoon. It slid down my throat and into my digestive system like no bowl of chili ever had. But that's where the nightmare began.
I remember it vividly. After the bowl of chili, I was craving a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. So I went to the nearest gas station and purchased a package. Outside, I removed one of the cups and placed the entire magical candy goodness into my mouth. Wrapper and all. That's when I knew something was terribly wrong.
The tears started. Not the kind where one slips down your cheek slowly, followed by another. It was a flood of tears, I felt like an animal left behind when Noah built the Ark. I didn't have any idea why I was crying though. All I knew was I was feeling things I shouldn't be feeling.
I returned to the place where I was given the chili. My friends all watched me, seeming confused by my actions. No one had any answers for me at all. The trauma continued. I spent the next three hours in a complete meltdown. I was offered showers, prescription drugs, a bed, and absolutely no comfort. I took the shower.
It wasn't your average shower. I couldn't focus on anything I was doing, and had no memory of anything that was happening even five seconds earlier. Imagine how many times I had to shampoo my hair. When the shower concluded, I felt absolutely no better. If anything, I felt worse.
I decided to lie down. Staring at the ceiling but seeing nothing at all, I accepted my fate. I was dying. This was the end. No more eighth grade. No more Boy Meets World. No more boyfriends. No more tying my shoes. No more Kool-aid. This was it, all the things I loved most, being torn away from me by the evil beast inside of me, the mystery Chili. I eventually cried myself to sleep.
Two Months Later
I was alive. I went back to the place. A friend said to me "I heard about the Chili!"
*Dennie was given a bowl of chili with illegal plant substances in it. It was her first time, and she was completely unaware.*
I remember it vividly. After the bowl of chili, I was craving a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. So I went to the nearest gas station and purchased a package. Outside, I removed one of the cups and placed the entire magical candy goodness into my mouth. Wrapper and all. That's when I knew something was terribly wrong.
The tears started. Not the kind where one slips down your cheek slowly, followed by another. It was a flood of tears, I felt like an animal left behind when Noah built the Ark. I didn't have any idea why I was crying though. All I knew was I was feeling things I shouldn't be feeling.
I returned to the place where I was given the chili. My friends all watched me, seeming confused by my actions. No one had any answers for me at all. The trauma continued. I spent the next three hours in a complete meltdown. I was offered showers, prescription drugs, a bed, and absolutely no comfort. I took the shower.
It wasn't your average shower. I couldn't focus on anything I was doing, and had no memory of anything that was happening even five seconds earlier. Imagine how many times I had to shampoo my hair. When the shower concluded, I felt absolutely no better. If anything, I felt worse.
I decided to lie down. Staring at the ceiling but seeing nothing at all, I accepted my fate. I was dying. This was the end. No more eighth grade. No more Boy Meets World. No more boyfriends. No more tying my shoes. No more Kool-aid. This was it, all the things I loved most, being torn away from me by the evil beast inside of me, the mystery Chili. I eventually cried myself to sleep.
Two Months Later
I was alive. I went back to the place. A friend said to me "I heard about the Chili!"
*Dennie was given a bowl of chili with illegal plant substances in it. It was her first time, and she was completely unaware.*
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
5972 Days of Summer
*Post based on a recent study of the Google search, "Things you don't tell your bestfriend"*
Dennie and I were always under the impression we were supposed to tell each other everything. The way bestfriends do. But then, as usual, Google said we were wrong and showed us the light. The following list is taken from an article titled "7 Things Your Best Friend Won't Tell You."
1. I don't like your boyfriend
2. I can't believe you didn't get me a wedding present.
3. You never want to talk about serious issues
4.Your husband hit on me
5.Your children drive me crazy
6.You complain but then never take my advice
7. You don't lean on me
Due to the fact that the two of us have violated more than one of the things on this list, we are going to examine the worst case scenarios, if you do, in fact, tell your best friend these things.
"I don't like your boyfriend."
Let's say Dennie has a boyfriend. Yes. Big shocker. We will pretend he is a major tool, and I hate him. Being as what Google would define as a bad best friend, I'm going to tell her I don't like him. This can cause a variety of reactions. We're going to assume it will make Dennie want to do everything in her power to make things work with Mr. Tool.
She'll probably start making him breakfast, texting him incessantly, she'll go to the gym with him, buy him a new house, replace all of his tvs, wait in line on black friday for the best ping pong table around, do photo shoots with him, and eventually secretly get pregnant, and convince him that marrying her is the only option. All to spite my comment that I do not care for tool face.
This will of course make me even more angry. Which brings us to item number two.
"I can't believe you didn't get me a wedding present."
When Dennie is unwrapping the thousands of gifts she received at her wedding, she is bound to notice she is missing one. The most important one. The gift of all the gifts. The gift that only I, her best friend should have gotten her. The lint roller 5972. This lint roller is unlike the other 5971 lint roller editions ever created. It rolls lint like none other. And she needed it.
She may be hesitant at first to approach me about not giving her a wedding present, but then, her anger will overcome her fear, and she will eventually say something. I'm going to be defensive about it. I am going to be enraged by her audacity. How dare she ask me why I didn't get her a present. I don't need to explain my actions. What gives her that right?
This whole uncomfortable situation is going to make our friendship go downhill. Which brings us to item number three.
"You never want to talk about serious issues"
Dennie's angry with me because I won't talk with her about the above occurrence at all. She continually will pester me about it on every social network possible. She will go so far as to create a twitter account, just to tweet about her hateful feelings. I will then, become even angrier with her, do to all the serious situations I've talked her through in the past.
Her extreme Herpes outbreak. Her violent tourette syndrome. When she got in trouble for stealing all the Christmas supplies in Whoville. The time she lost her favorite pair of socks. When she accidently bleached her black sweater vest that she needed. The list goes on. But you get the picture, I've been with the girl for a lot.
Despite all of this, I will be mature and overcome my anger. I have to be there for her baby Tool. So I will apologize, we will reconcile, and I will attend her first doctors appointment. Afterall, the whole argument was just over the lint roller 5972, that's not worth ruining a friendship over. Unfortunately, this takes us to number four on the list.
"Your husband hit on me"
It all starts when I go with her and Mr. Tool to their appointment. Little do they know, I am madly in love with the doctor they are seeing, Dr. Anthony Leon Beckett. He's uncontrollable attractive and witty. So I am dressed to impress. I show up, wearing my best Gucci princess ball gown, complete with crown and sparkly shoes. Dennie, is wearing an oversized Pepsi sweatshirt, soffe shorts, a matching fanny pack and combat boots.
I draw the attention of everyone in the office. I assume it is because of my radiating beauty, and not because I am over dressed at all. What I am wearing is completely appropriate. However, I start to feel strange when Mr. Tool will not stop staring at me. Everytime I walked past he wolf whistled and slapped my ass. During the ultrasound, he grasped my hand. I thought it was because he needed support during this extremely emotional time. Then he called Dennie a grenade. I knew this was not right. Dennie was completely oblivious.
After the ordeal, I tried approaching Dennie about it, but she didn't believe me. She thought it was all over the jealousy I had, that started when I first told her how I felt about her husband. Nine months and 5972 hours of labor later, Luna Devine Tool was gracefully brought into this world. She was all a tool could be. A real loony tool. Which takes us to number five.
"Your children drive me crazy"
Luna is only one child. But with her complete psychotic multiple personality disorder, along with her genetic herpes and tourrettes, she was completely intolerable. While playing tag with herself, she would go into a fit of rage, having seizures and rolling all over the ground. Dennie thought it was darling, I saw it as a severe issue. Eventually, I couldn't hang out with them anymore. I rejected all the dinner invites, park play dates, christmas tree lightings, sewing machine cleaning days, and all other pointless activies I was expected to be a part of.
Finally, after months of rejection, Dennie asked what was up. I told her plain and simple. I hate your child, and I don't want to be any part of your life if she is going to be around. This is it. Me or the kid. Dennie sighed, and introduced me item number 6.
"You complain but never take my advice."
To begin with, you should have a look into advice Dennie has given me in the past. Don't go to college. Only bathe with organic soap. Don't eat apples with stickers already taken off of them. You get it. She is a terrible advice giver. How dare she accuse me of not taking HER advice, when here she is, Mrs. Dennie Lynn Tool, mother of the infamous Luna Devine Tool. There are no words to describe my frustration with her. After all I've tried to do to help her, and she throws that in my face. Which brings us to the final, most fatal item on the list.
"You don't lean on me"
It was a mutual feeling between the two of us. We couldn't depend on each other for anything anymore. Neither one of us wanted to spend any time together. We were, essentially, not best friends anymore. This is cause for extreme depression in both of us. How do you go from the greatest friends of all the great friends, to the dirty kitchen of a mess we were in? The only option was a romantic double suicide. We did it together, a last, testament of the friendship we used to have. Using nothing but plastic spoons and bubble wrap, we went out with a bang. Not a literal bang. No guns were harmed in the making of this suicide.
*All situations above are merely hypothetical. We do not know that any of these things will actually happen.*
Moral of the story: Google is not a healthy remedy for boredom. It can, and will be disastrous.
Dennie and I were always under the impression we were supposed to tell each other everything. The way bestfriends do. But then, as usual, Google said we were wrong and showed us the light. The following list is taken from an article titled "7 Things Your Best Friend Won't Tell You."
1. I don't like your boyfriend
2. I can't believe you didn't get me a wedding present.
3. You never want to talk about serious issues
4.Your husband hit on me
5.Your children drive me crazy
6.You complain but then never take my advice
7. You don't lean on me
Due to the fact that the two of us have violated more than one of the things on this list, we are going to examine the worst case scenarios, if you do, in fact, tell your best friend these things.
"I don't like your boyfriend."
Let's say Dennie has a boyfriend. Yes. Big shocker. We will pretend he is a major tool, and I hate him. Being as what Google would define as a bad best friend, I'm going to tell her I don't like him. This can cause a variety of reactions. We're going to assume it will make Dennie want to do everything in her power to make things work with Mr. Tool.
She'll probably start making him breakfast, texting him incessantly, she'll go to the gym with him, buy him a new house, replace all of his tvs, wait in line on black friday for the best ping pong table around, do photo shoots with him, and eventually secretly get pregnant, and convince him that marrying her is the only option. All to spite my comment that I do not care for tool face.
This will of course make me even more angry. Which brings us to item number two.
"I can't believe you didn't get me a wedding present."
When Dennie is unwrapping the thousands of gifts she received at her wedding, she is bound to notice she is missing one. The most important one. The gift of all the gifts. The gift that only I, her best friend should have gotten her. The lint roller 5972. This lint roller is unlike the other 5971 lint roller editions ever created. It rolls lint like none other. And she needed it.
She may be hesitant at first to approach me about not giving her a wedding present, but then, her anger will overcome her fear, and she will eventually say something. I'm going to be defensive about it. I am going to be enraged by her audacity. How dare she ask me why I didn't get her a present. I don't need to explain my actions. What gives her that right?
This whole uncomfortable situation is going to make our friendship go downhill. Which brings us to item number three.
"You never want to talk about serious issues"
Dennie's angry with me because I won't talk with her about the above occurrence at all. She continually will pester me about it on every social network possible. She will go so far as to create a twitter account, just to tweet about her hateful feelings. I will then, become even angrier with her, do to all the serious situations I've talked her through in the past.
Her extreme Herpes outbreak. Her violent tourette syndrome. When she got in trouble for stealing all the Christmas supplies in Whoville. The time she lost her favorite pair of socks. When she accidently bleached her black sweater vest that she needed. The list goes on. But you get the picture, I've been with the girl for a lot.
Despite all of this, I will be mature and overcome my anger. I have to be there for her baby Tool. So I will apologize, we will reconcile, and I will attend her first doctors appointment. Afterall, the whole argument was just over the lint roller 5972, that's not worth ruining a friendship over. Unfortunately, this takes us to number four on the list.
"Your husband hit on me"
It all starts when I go with her and Mr. Tool to their appointment. Little do they know, I am madly in love with the doctor they are seeing, Dr. Anthony Leon Beckett. He's uncontrollable attractive and witty. So I am dressed to impress. I show up, wearing my best Gucci princess ball gown, complete with crown and sparkly shoes. Dennie, is wearing an oversized Pepsi sweatshirt, soffe shorts, a matching fanny pack and combat boots.
I draw the attention of everyone in the office. I assume it is because of my radiating beauty, and not because I am over dressed at all. What I am wearing is completely appropriate. However, I start to feel strange when Mr. Tool will not stop staring at me. Everytime I walked past he wolf whistled and slapped my ass. During the ultrasound, he grasped my hand. I thought it was because he needed support during this extremely emotional time. Then he called Dennie a grenade. I knew this was not right. Dennie was completely oblivious.
After the ordeal, I tried approaching Dennie about it, but she didn't believe me. She thought it was all over the jealousy I had, that started when I first told her how I felt about her husband. Nine months and 5972 hours of labor later, Luna Devine Tool was gracefully brought into this world. She was all a tool could be. A real loony tool. Which takes us to number five.
"Your children drive me crazy"
Luna is only one child. But with her complete psychotic multiple personality disorder, along with her genetic herpes and tourrettes, she was completely intolerable. While playing tag with herself, she would go into a fit of rage, having seizures and rolling all over the ground. Dennie thought it was darling, I saw it as a severe issue. Eventually, I couldn't hang out with them anymore. I rejected all the dinner invites, park play dates, christmas tree lightings, sewing machine cleaning days, and all other pointless activies I was expected to be a part of.
Finally, after months of rejection, Dennie asked what was up. I told her plain and simple. I hate your child, and I don't want to be any part of your life if she is going to be around. This is it. Me or the kid. Dennie sighed, and introduced me item number 6.
"You complain but never take my advice."
To begin with, you should have a look into advice Dennie has given me in the past. Don't go to college. Only bathe with organic soap. Don't eat apples with stickers already taken off of them. You get it. She is a terrible advice giver. How dare she accuse me of not taking HER advice, when here she is, Mrs. Dennie Lynn Tool, mother of the infamous Luna Devine Tool. There are no words to describe my frustration with her. After all I've tried to do to help her, and she throws that in my face. Which brings us to the final, most fatal item on the list.
"You don't lean on me"
It was a mutual feeling between the two of us. We couldn't depend on each other for anything anymore. Neither one of us wanted to spend any time together. We were, essentially, not best friends anymore. This is cause for extreme depression in both of us. How do you go from the greatest friends of all the great friends, to the dirty kitchen of a mess we were in? The only option was a romantic double suicide. We did it together, a last, testament of the friendship we used to have. Using nothing but plastic spoons and bubble wrap, we went out with a bang. Not a literal bang. No guns were harmed in the making of this suicide.
*All situations above are merely hypothetical. We do not know that any of these things will actually happen.*
Moral of the story: Google is not a healthy remedy for boredom. It can, and will be disastrous.
Ten Things Not To Say To The Wedding Singer At Your Bestfriend's Wedding After The Bride Just Ran Away
*Disclaimer* All stories are better told in person. Please read out loud in your best Dennie impression for full effect. Thank you. All stunts are performed by trained professionals with appropriate safety gear. Do you attempt at home?
It was a fairly warm morning in late September. That's when the shitting started. I woke up with severe stomach cramping and a mild case of the pukes and violent bowel evacuations. It was clearly food poisoning. This was not your average food poisoning, mind you. It was the kind where you are scared to leave the bathroom for longer than the span of time it takes to retrieve more toilet paper. I couldn't parent my child at all.
I, being the most reasonable, logical, intelligent person that has ever walked the planet, decided to go out that night. I had my typical bar experience, filled with whiskey and coke. Bad choice. The night ended around 1:30 AM and I made my way home. I was panicked, due to the whiskey quickly making its way down my body and needing to then make it's way out. I got home, and continued with the day's previous activities, spending some more quality time in the bathroom.
Thinking I had reached my shit limit, I went to bed. Little did I know, my bowels are bottomless. I went to sleep, soundly, might I add. About ten minutes later, I woke up, under the impression nothing unusual had happened during that time. That's when I realized. Nothing about the situation I was in was normal for a 22 year old woman, mother, licensed driver, working individual, pretty much anyone old enough to read a novel. You get the jist.
My pants had become the victim of a serious shit rape. Not just the pants though. It was a gang rape. The sheets were tarnished, and my ego was even more violated. My self esteem was lower than Eeyore's after a really rainy day. Actually, let's go with muddy day. Cause my day, was muddy as shit.
I'm not the kind of person to end a great story without a moral, so leave with this: Lather, rinse, and repeat. Again, and again and again.
It was a fairly warm morning in late September. That's when the shitting started. I woke up with severe stomach cramping and a mild case of the pukes and violent bowel evacuations. It was clearly food poisoning. This was not your average food poisoning, mind you. It was the kind where you are scared to leave the bathroom for longer than the span of time it takes to retrieve more toilet paper. I couldn't parent my child at all.
I, being the most reasonable, logical, intelligent person that has ever walked the planet, decided to go out that night. I had my typical bar experience, filled with whiskey and coke. Bad choice. The night ended around 1:30 AM and I made my way home. I was panicked, due to the whiskey quickly making its way down my body and needing to then make it's way out. I got home, and continued with the day's previous activities, spending some more quality time in the bathroom.
Thinking I had reached my shit limit, I went to bed. Little did I know, my bowels are bottomless. I went to sleep, soundly, might I add. About ten minutes later, I woke up, under the impression nothing unusual had happened during that time. That's when I realized. Nothing about the situation I was in was normal for a 22 year old woman, mother, licensed driver, working individual, pretty much anyone old enough to read a novel. You get the jist.
My pants had become the victim of a serious shit rape. Not just the pants though. It was a gang rape. The sheets were tarnished, and my ego was even more violated. My self esteem was lower than Eeyore's after a really rainy day. Actually, let's go with muddy day. Cause my day, was muddy as shit.
I'm not the kind of person to end a great story without a moral, so leave with this: Lather, rinse, and repeat. Again, and again and again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)