Every little thing is gonna be alright
Tequila and Klonopin. Fabulous concoction if I do say so myself. Should one blog when one is seriously fucking blogged up? Probably not. Not one coherent thing shall pour from my slumped body typing, backspacing, then re-typing my words. Maybe just one more Klonopin will help things along.
Shopping today was utterly ridiculous. My sister, very twisted individual that she is, suggests shopping to pull me from the depths of depression. Shopping? On a mother fucking budget? Bad idea, people, bad idea. All it does is fuel my desire to spend, spend, spend. So I did. I guess I better get doing tricks to cover those checks. Which makes me more depressed, which makes me want to spend money I've yet to earn, which makes me all the more depressed because of the way I earn it. Vicious cycle? Yes.
Mr. Self-Destruct has not, I repeat, not called this weekend. One very cute and long message Friday night at some silly event. I'm sure the Mrs. was somewhere nearby. Or maybe not. I don't know. Does it matter? Not really. I am painfully aware that we are going nowhere, but sometimes I daydream and play house in my head. The only thing I can see when I play house like this is arguing about where we should put the Fiesta Ware. He's so charming when he wants to be and I know he knows this. Those fucking dimples.
People with dimples should be issued permits. They should have to take classes. Like a hunter's safety course. Don't aim them at another person, loaded or not. Don't use them on weaker animals than yourself. Don't wield them in an unsafe manner. The consequences should be severe. Like dimple license revocation. Then the second offense would be something like temporary dimple removal... like wearing a mask. The third offense would be like the three strikes thing... permanent dimple removal. Surgical if necessary.
Fucking dimples.
Shopping today was utterly ridiculous. My sister, very twisted individual that she is, suggests shopping to pull me from the depths of depression. Shopping? On a mother fucking budget? Bad idea, people, bad idea. All it does is fuel my desire to spend, spend, spend. So I did. I guess I better get doing tricks to cover those checks. Which makes me more depressed, which makes me want to spend money I've yet to earn, which makes me all the more depressed because of the way I earn it. Vicious cycle? Yes.
Mr. Self-Destruct has not, I repeat, not called this weekend. One very cute and long message Friday night at some silly event. I'm sure the Mrs. was somewhere nearby. Or maybe not. I don't know. Does it matter? Not really. I am painfully aware that we are going nowhere, but sometimes I daydream and play house in my head. The only thing I can see when I play house like this is arguing about where we should put the Fiesta Ware. He's so charming when he wants to be and I know he knows this. Those fucking dimples.
People with dimples should be issued permits. They should have to take classes. Like a hunter's safety course. Don't aim them at another person, loaded or not. Don't use them on weaker animals than yourself. Don't wield them in an unsafe manner. The consequences should be severe. Like dimple license revocation. Then the second offense would be something like temporary dimple removal... like wearing a mask. The third offense would be like the three strikes thing... permanent dimple removal. Surgical if necessary.
Fucking dimples.