The Prisoner Posts!
Apparently, because I do not express my towering rage in a way that others find palatable or pleasing (mostly by having the temerity to be bothered at all), my feelings are therefore invalid.
From what I can tell, the coddling of small children and the enabling of their useless waste-of-protoplasm maternal generative unit trumps the validity of my experience every time. Little shitbag's crying because who the fuck knows? Oh, well, that's okay. Just let her cry and cry and don't make any attempts to change her behavior, because it's more important to ask her dumb questions like "why are you crying?" when YOU FUCKING KNOW her answer is going to be "glub blub waaaaaaaanh glurble blurble *cough cough*", which means precisely jack shit to everyone except the little shitbag.
And when other people attempt to express their contempt for your methods, well, that just means that THEY suck and have no right to comment/attempt to modify the situation AT ALL. Because that would be WRONG. Children should never ever be taught that there's shit that deserves to be cried over and shit that doesn't, because that would somehow be, I don't know, infringing on their rights as a human being.
Sweet fucking Jesus in a goddamn flaming peach tree, I am so fucking tired of this shit. I am seriously thinking about selling as much of my shit as I can bear to part with (I already sold my scooter to my brother, which I'm regretting already... Not that he's been using it or anything, since it's still in storage) and asking if I can build a little hut out of blackberry brambles and pine/fir boughs across from my aunt's back yard in Seattle.
I don't know how I can make anyone else understand why it bothers me so much when the little shitbags* are doing whatever it is they're doing -- running around like idiots (and subsequently falling down/running into things and getting hurt, which surprises them), shrieking or otherwise making noise, fucking CRYING over every last little thing, etc. It's like sandpaper on my brain, but that's apparently not good enough for some people.
Have you ever had a cat lick you, particularly on the face? You know what that feels like, right, with the designed-to-rasp-meat-from-bones papilliae scraping across your skin? Right. Okay, so pick the most sensitive part of your face, and imagine the cat licking you there, non-stop: past the point of 'just tasting the salt' and into 'drawing blood' territory. That's what it's like to be in my head while the little shitbags are jumping up from the table after one bite of dinner to go do something else and otherwise NEVER SITTING STILL and/or making so much GODDAMN NOISE at the same time and the TV is ALWAYS FUCKING ON and no one's watching it and if you turn it off then there's WHYYYYYYYY I WAS WATCHING THAT! whining and if you say No you weren't then there's more whining and the TV's back on and fucking moron "mommy" is glued to her fucking COMPUTER sucking up all our fucking bandwidth watching TV shows because watching TV is WAAAAAAAAAAAY more important than actually fucking sucking it up and BEING A GODDAMN PARENT and and and...
Seriously. Last month? Our house surpassed our 60-gig bandwidth cap to the tune of $240 in overage charges. It was AAAAAAALL Bev, too -- ever since she got her Kindle for Christmas, she's been fucking OBSESSED with watching shit online. She started with Glee and went from there. And of course the fact that she has all of this VERY IMPORTANT TV to watch is far far far FAR more important than paying attention to her children. The TV's on and it's tuned to an "educational" channel, so they'll be FINE. Never mind that they should FUCKING GO TO FUCKING PRESCHOOL INSTEAD OF WATCHING FUCKING TV ALL FUCKING DAY AND MAKING EVERYONE ELSE'S LIVES MISERABLE.
So now I have become a prisoner in my own room. I did finally remember that one of my dog-walking clients said I was welcome to use their house as a sort of office, and I haven't taken advantage of their offer for a couple of different reasons (not the least of which is that I didn't want to take advantage of their generosity)... But now I'm beginning to think maybe I will. If nothing else, I KNOW that it will be quiet there...
But then I will eventually have to come home. Ugh.
* Yes, I know it's not nice. I am not a nice person. I used to think I was, but now I know better: I'm only nice in certain situations, to certain people. Otherwise I'm a fucking hellbitch who'd rather pour gasoline on you if you're on fire than water.
From what I can tell, the coddling of small children and the enabling of their useless waste-of-protoplasm maternal generative unit trumps the validity of my experience every time. Little shitbag's crying because who the fuck knows? Oh, well, that's okay. Just let her cry and cry and don't make any attempts to change her behavior, because it's more important to ask her dumb questions like "why are you crying?" when YOU FUCKING KNOW her answer is going to be "glub blub waaaaaaaanh glurble blurble *cough cough*", which means precisely jack shit to everyone except the little shitbag.
And when other people attempt to express their contempt for your methods, well, that just means that THEY suck and have no right to comment/attempt to modify the situation AT ALL. Because that would be WRONG. Children should never ever be taught that there's shit that deserves to be cried over and shit that doesn't, because that would somehow be, I don't know, infringing on their rights as a human being.
Sweet fucking Jesus in a goddamn flaming peach tree, I am so fucking tired of this shit. I am seriously thinking about selling as much of my shit as I can bear to part with (I already sold my scooter to my brother, which I'm regretting already... Not that he's been using it or anything, since it's still in storage) and asking if I can build a little hut out of blackberry brambles and pine/fir boughs across from my aunt's back yard in Seattle.
I don't know how I can make anyone else understand why it bothers me so much when the little shitbags* are doing whatever it is they're doing -- running around like idiots (and subsequently falling down/running into things and getting hurt, which surprises them), shrieking or otherwise making noise, fucking CRYING over every last little thing, etc. It's like sandpaper on my brain, but that's apparently not good enough for some people.
Have you ever had a cat lick you, particularly on the face? You know what that feels like, right, with the designed-to-rasp-meat-from-bones papilliae scraping across your skin? Right. Okay, so pick the most sensitive part of your face, and imagine the cat licking you there, non-stop: past the point of 'just tasting the salt' and into 'drawing blood' territory. That's what it's like to be in my head while the little shitbags are jumping up from the table after one bite of dinner to go do something else and otherwise NEVER SITTING STILL and/or making so much GODDAMN NOISE at the same time and the TV is ALWAYS FUCKING ON and no one's watching it and if you turn it off then there's WHYYYYYYYY I WAS WATCHING THAT! whining and if you say No you weren't then there's more whining and the TV's back on and fucking moron "mommy" is glued to her fucking COMPUTER sucking up all our fucking bandwidth watching TV shows because watching TV is WAAAAAAAAAAAY more important than actually fucking sucking it up and BEING A GODDAMN PARENT and and and...
Seriously. Last month? Our house surpassed our 60-gig bandwidth cap to the tune of $240 in overage charges. It was AAAAAAALL Bev, too -- ever since she got her Kindle for Christmas, she's been fucking OBSESSED with watching shit online. She started with Glee and went from there. And of course the fact that she has all of this VERY IMPORTANT TV to watch is far far far FAR more important than paying attention to her children. The TV's on and it's tuned to an "educational" channel, so they'll be FINE. Never mind that they should FUCKING GO TO FUCKING PRESCHOOL INSTEAD OF WATCHING FUCKING TV ALL FUCKING DAY AND MAKING EVERYONE ELSE'S LIVES MISERABLE.
So now I have become a prisoner in my own room. I did finally remember that one of my dog-walking clients said I was welcome to use their house as a sort of office, and I haven't taken advantage of their offer for a couple of different reasons (not the least of which is that I didn't want to take advantage of their generosity)... But now I'm beginning to think maybe I will. If nothing else, I KNOW that it will be quiet there...
But then I will eventually have to come home. Ugh.
* Yes, I know it's not nice. I am not a nice person. I used to think I was, but now I know better: I'm only nice in certain situations, to certain people. Otherwise I'm a fucking hellbitch who'd rather pour gasoline on you if you're on fire than water.