I am not a morning person. At. All. I get up and stumble around until The Man leads me to my cup of coffee. In silence. You see, I can not and do not want to speak until I have coffee and look out the window to confirm that the world did not end overnight. Because if it did, this bitch is going back to bed and calling in apocalypse to work. Imagine the cute little dogs dancing around begging for attention, the fuzzy adorable kittens mewing for a love pat, The Man hugging me…all of that shit is on pause until I wake up. Which happens at about 7:45. Until then, I need silence and zero issues. So imagine this morning – when we had to wake up at six-please-just-shoot-me-in-the-face am because we had to be out to the AFB so Mr. Man could get an id card, insurance and all of the other military goodies for me because I suckered him into marrying me. I was especially uncooperative, in a foul mood and begrudgedly crawled over to my closet-room to scope out an outfit. I wasn’t feeling particularly creative or giving any fucks to the fashion show points I could earn this day of WTF am I doing up before the chickens. I grab for my go to -no thought needed outfit. Cute black tunic thingy, black leggings and cute black flats. Check, check and holy shit balls the cat threw up in my flats. Tada- I’m awake!
Call me crazy but I immediately picked that little fuzzy bastard up and held his little face in my hand and kissed and hugged him. Poor kitten was sick and he needed some wuvs and cuddles! What? I know- totally dropped everything to offer him cheese, cracked open a can of tuna, made special little bread balls and opened two different flavors of cat food just to get him to eat something and feel better. Little bastard melts my spinning ball of rock and ice heart into a puddle of ooey-gooey rainbow and cupcake shitting unicorns. How is it that this little retarded kitten that pukes all over everything everyday makes me all antsy with let me please you feelers but a human that stepped on my toe and chipped my new pedicure gets a lifetime of hate. Hate like if they were on fire- I would totally give them a bucket of gas and a flame thrower . I can’t explain it, which leads me to some other things I hate -yet can’t really explain.
Kids Shows: Screw water boarding and vicious German Shepard Dogs biting at my head- true torture is Barney, Dora, VeggieTales, Disney shit and the like. I might be dated on those but I am totally ok with never getting to know the new mind burning -make- me -lose -my -shit- kid shows. For seriously- I can’t tolerate the sing-song voices, special moral lessons, creepy puppets telling me to share and everyone in your class deserves a cupcake doucheclownery. Listen here, Dora, you get your own wine and Xanax you little monkey fucking hooker and when I want some how -to-make-friends advice from a retarded giant dinosaur – I’ll buy a ticket to Jurassic Park and try my luck with a T-Rex, okay? Know what I would do if some darling child I was charged with asked me to watch Dora? Slit my wrists and spray that selfish little brat in a bath of shame and guilt splatter art called “You Made Mommy Kill Herself”.
Buffets: Might as well show up to a land fill with a spork and zero personal dignity. It’s a heap of bad , low rent, barely-passed-the -health inspection “food” with an array of communicable diseases. At most places, you get a free ice cream after dinner! Hoorays! Free ice cream- how can I say no to that! I’ll tell you how. I went to a Chinese buffet with my sister and her family (only had a cup of soup thankyouverymuch) as they busted a munch on all things chinese-ish, including corn dogs (for reallies, China Buffet, corn dogs? ), I was trying to avoid looking at their plates by looking around at the people. One of them lost track of their snot dripping devil spawn as she was busy getting one of those free ice creams. With her mouth. Directly on the thingy the ice cream comes out of. After said snot monster moved on to picking up egg rolls, licking them and putting them back on the tray- some one else got some ice cream and sprinkles of whatever that brat wasn’t vaccinated against. Imma bet she didn’t wash her hands after she went to the bathroom, too. Thanks, but I will totally pay $30 for a fresh, cooked to my order, unadulterated meal any day over saving a buck on a buffet just so I can call in sick for two unpaid days and possibly go to the ER because I’m shitting water and puking up aliens.
Shaving: I hate shaving. When The Man is out of town- I totally skip it and run around like a shaggy alley cat. Pits and legs go all Jungle Book because the only people who are gonna see that are the cats and dogs. Those little fucks can’t say much about unwanted fur. The very worst shaving is the big shave from above the knee to the naughty bits. Let’s be honest- it’s dangerous. There you are with one leg propped up on the tub, slippery soap in one hand and sharp razor in another. Not only are you trying to avoid looking like a Freddie Kreuger vs. ChiaPet crime scene- you can’t see with water and conditioner burning your eyes. You are trying to keep your balance on one foot that is slipping all over the tub because the soap and conditioner have conspired together to make you fall on your big dumb vain head. Any pride you have left will be sucked out of the room as your man swings open the door and breaks your nose because he heard you pull down the shower curtain and smash your big ass onto the hard cold tile. You won’t be able to move – much less have the presence of mine to suck your gut in and flip your tit back over your shoulder – while he laughs his ass off at you. Then he’ll try to be helpful and suggest you get a Brazilian Wax to avoid pisshaps and save time. Sure- just as soon as you let me use my dull tweezers to pluck your ballsack hair out one by one. Then I’ll let some stranger rip my ass toupee off with molten burning wax. You first, Sweet Concerned Man Unit, otherwise prepare to embrace the late 80’s Madonna bush.