I've been awake about an hour and already, I've had enough of this day...
Christ sakes, man.
Maybe, if I'm lucky, all this shit hittin' me in the face first thing is just "getting it over with".I'd hate like hell to think it's just the beginning... First, I get woken up by that mo-fackin', got-damned alarm clock.
Bad enough.
THEN, he lays back down.
WHY?
So the damned thing can go off again?
I hate that.
TO THE CORE OF MY SOUL, I hate that. People.
If you have to get up to an alarm clock and the other person in the bed doesn't, it is the HEIGHT of ignorance, stupidity, and beggin' to have yer balls bitten off to engage in endless rounds of "snooze button relay".
In fact, if yer so damned deaf that your stupid alarm wakes up the other person, you're pretty much risking an ass beating to even lay back down the first time.
I mean, shit... since the other person is awake anyway, why don'tcha just cut the shit, tap 'em on the shoulder and say outright, "Hey. Just wanted to make sure you understand... I know I just woke you up for no reason whatsoever and I know you know that I'm aware of that. AND, I so do not care, that I am now gonna lay here til the fuckin' thing goes off again and again and again. THEN, I'm gonna act all "whipped dog" when it pisses you off. 'Kay?" Sure.
Fine.
Prepare to have a shitty day, then. Dork. Then, I stagger on down here only to find empty soda cases scattered hither and yon because ME CLEANING THIS HOUSE MATTERS TO NO ONE BUT ME APPARENTLY. Sonsabitches. I mean, yeah, I DO understand how frickin' hard it is to squash a flimsy piece of cardboard and stuff it into one the 8 million trash cans around here.
Not.
I do that very thing 82 times a WEEK.
And, I'm a GIRL.
So, why can't bull-riding, cow-rasslin' MEN do that? Must be the same physical/mental handicap that prevents them from lowering that 2 ton toilet seat WHICH they have no problem lifting.
What, does the goddamned thing gain weight while it's in the upright position? And, I'm guessing there must be a BUICK attached to the chain mechanism inside the tank because half the damned time it doesn't get flushed, either. Handle too hard to push or something? If y'all can flush it when ya shit, you can damned well flush it when you piss. Or, am I fuckin' nutser than I know? And, don't hand me that "If it's yellow, let it mellow" crap either. If I wanted yellow bowl water, I'd add food coloring or something. We have animals around here who, in spite of having 69 sources of drinking water, simply INSIST on a shot of toilet water every now and again.
That is WHY I don't have colored water in there. Blue would be pretty, yeah, but it'd also poison the animals and I ain't havin' THAT.
I'd also prefer they not drink piss-water.
Not to mention, it's just LAME not to flush a friggin' toilet after you use it. This ain't WAL-MART!!!! What's next? Writing on the walls with SHIT? Anyway... I wake up pissed because of the alarm clock and the laying back down crap.
Then, the stupid soda cases everywhere.
Then, Buford annoyed me because I called him to come downstairs, outta the bathroom, where he was barking at "his" cat.
(He has this one cat who just loves playing with him. He barks and flings his big, goofy head around and the cat plays percussion on his skull with sheathed-claws paws. They both seem to really enjoy this, but it can get noisy, hence the "Git down here and hush!" this morning.)
I call him, he looks at me and I see him decide to ignore me and return to the bark-fest.
SO, I snagged his ass up and pretty much drug his dumb ass down here. Like he gave a crap.
I felt like shit for hollering at him, he didn't even seem to notice.
*sigh* So, I take my cup of last night's nuked coffee on into the living room (while I'm waiting for the current pot to get done) and sit down here. Mr. Computer decided that today would be a good day to fuck with me. NOT. I flipped out, kicked the shit out of it and then wound up having to yank the stupid cover off the tower, remove approximately nine pounds of hair and dust, push on this, wiggle that, reconnect everything and finally, it moves with the speed of a glacier again as opposed to the speed of government, which doesn't move AT ALL, and I am able to take care of Gut Rumbles and then come here to piss and moan, which, if you know anything about wimmen, you know is the whole reason we have two sets of lips to begin with.
Right? I HATE dialup.
Even more than "snooze button relay". I'm also not particularly fond of duck shit on my clean floor OR snooze button relay dipshits taking the friggin' coffee before the pot has finished making, but...
if I let everything get to me this morning, I WILL wind up being an item on the noon news. "Several people beaten to death with bare hands in Gettysburg. Film at noon." Alla this on top of the Boss saw Buford yesterday for the first time.
Didn't seem pissed, according to what I heard, didn't say to get rid of him, which is good because, as of about four days ago, the "original owner" already wasn't getting him back, but still... I'm kinda holding my breath, waiting to see if he says anything to anybody about him today.
If not, all is well.
If he does, the dog still ain't goin' anywhere, but things could get ugly. I hate this kinda shit, too.
Just about as much as being stuck with damned dial-up.
And, the dumbassed duck geysering shit outta the cage onto the floor.
And, people waking me for no reason, then stealing the coffee before it's done, after having left TRASH all over the house in the form of empty soda cases. Not to mention, used dishes all over this computer desk... but, I ain't mentioning that. So, that was the first hour or so of my day.
Lovely, eh? But, I feel better now.
Less like kickin' ass.
Pretty much.
HOWEVER... if I were the world at large today, I'd leave me alone, if I weren't going to be helpful in some manner or another.
Know what I'm sayin'? I need to go to Giant, too.
We're out of their soda (hence the empty cases).
Also need chips and some "pot roast" things for the pork loin thing I'm gonna make today (which, yes, Dad, I realize was somebody's pig at some point, but, like I said, I didn't know the pig, so I'm okay with this, as opposed to EARL raising rabbits solely to MURDER them).
(Or hunting.)
(Or any other form of cruelty to animals.)
(And, yes, I do know I'm a mental case about this whole issue.)
(And, yes, I am currently laughing so hard I can barely type.) My whole point about going to the store is the idea that just came to me, since I've gotten alla this crap outta my head... When I go to the store for our shit, I'm also gonna buy the Boss a few bags of Dum-dums.
Yeah, lollypops.
He's 70 years old and completely loses his shit over these silly things.
I'll get him them, present them to him, and myself at the same time, giving him the opportuinity to discuss Buford with me, personally, instead of me having to rely on secondhand information from people to retarded to ask follow up questions of any kind.
Like... the guys. Then, if there IS a problem with Buf being here, we'll get it solved now instead of me having to worry about it. Which, I doubt there will be, but I wanna KNOW. And, these guys?
They NEVER ask any kinda follow up questions no matter how bizarre the story they heard is. For instance... Sr. told me a few weeks ago that his Boss told him that my old Boss from the horse farm is dying.
"Of what?" "Cancer." "WHAT? What kind? How bad is he? Is he getting treated? Is he already screwed? Is he okay for now?" The answer to which was "I dunno" to each question. So, why tell me this shit if ya don't KNOW ANYTHING, ya dipshit? Yesterday, Sr. does it again.
Tells me that the Boss was talking to him about one of his buddies around here who people kinda shy away from because they don't "get" him. They don't "get" him because he eats WORMS. In front of people. Yes.
Worms.
Bait.
Not sushi. "WHY does he do THAT?" "I dunno." *bang*
(That was my head on the desk.) How do you NOT ask follow up questions on a story like THAT, fer fucks sake? So, I'm supposed to be able to relax and not worry about Buford with dingleberries like THIS "handling" the conversations?
No fuckin' way.
Not this kid. Sr. also seems to enjoy telling me shit that I just do NOT need to know. Like, the guy down the road, Tony, the big basstid I yelled at for spotlighting the horse pasture a coupla months ago, the dude who is SO HUGE he coulda pounded me into the driveway of the State Police barracks (I did tell this story when it happened, didn't I?), he had goats.
I saw them a few times as I rode past his house.
I love goats.
So, Tony has a few.
He doesn't anymore.
That's because some ASSHOLE let his dogs get loose and they came to Tony's and killed all his goats.
So, Tony shot the dogs and the owner paid him for the goats and it's all over with.
It also happened a coupla months ago. Sr. told me this a week ago. WHY, I ask you WHY did he hafta do that? This is NOT something I needed to know.
Ya know? 'Tard tells me full stories of crap I don't need to know and then can't ask follow up questions about stuff like my old Boss dying.
(I don't think he's dead yet. I need to git my ass over there, by the way.) Meanwhile.... We went to a church dinner with the Boss the other night.
He's a Mennonite and the church he goes to has lots of dinners and activities that they do and the Boss gives us tickets to this stuff quite often. The first time we went there, I was talking to the Pastor and he asked how I liked it there.
I said, "Well, the fact the this place didn't burst into flame when I walked in is encouraging."
Thank God he laughed along with me, though I felt rather alone in the "turing bright red" category. You'd think I'd be more careful the next time, right? Well, you'd be wrong. We're sitting there the other night, me, Sr., Jr., George and another family we just met.
Father, mother and kid. We're talking about random crap and Sr. brings up the fact that Mr. Hess' farm is called So-Jo, pronounced "soho". Now, I know Mr. Hess' first name is John, but... it wasn't being said "So-Joe", so I asked ,"Well, who's the "Ho"?" In a church, I asked this.
In front of people I'd just met.
Without even knowing ahead of time that I was gonna ask it.
It just came out. So, basically, what I said was, "So, who's the ho?... Oh, Gawd..." as I slid under the table and everybody else laughed. I redeemed myself later, though. Mr. Hess was working the kitchen that night and he'd worn two shirts.
The first time we all looked at him, he had on a blue shirt.
The next time, he'd taken off that one and was in his T-shirt.
The lady sitting with us asked about that and I said, "Yeah. That's him. I think he just took off a shirt."
Then, Sr. pipes in with, "Yeah, it's probably hot in there, so he just stripped off his outside shirt."
I then leaned over to him and said, sotto voce, but loud enough to be heard on purpose, "Okay now. There's a joke in there somewhere about the "ho" thing and him stripping, but I'mina just let it go."
To which Sr. replied, "Thank GOD.", while, again, everybody laughed. So, see?
I fixed it. You can dress me up, make me wear my teeth, but you can't take me anywhere. Or, at least not anywhere a governor between the brain and mouth is required. BUT... at least my conversations don't require follow up questions. CPR for those who hear it, I suppose, but no questions.
*huge, cheesy grin* Last thing...
I called my dad at work yesterday to find out how to cook pork loin.
Or, more specifically... "Boneless Pork Loin Fillet", which seems kinda redundant to me, "fillet" meaning "boneless" and all but, anyway...
I wound up talking to him for 121 minutes and some odd seconds, about all kindsa shit (such as my psychosis about animals, among other things).
(Hence the "somebody's pig" thing earlier...) It was great.
I miss you, Dad, like a sonofagotdamnedbitch (which, I am the daughter of one of those [mom], but you know what I mean) and I love you so much, I wish I got to see you more often than once a frickin' year. And now, I am going to "library" for a few, then off to Giant to get lollypops with which to bribe the Boss into not noticing Buford.
Much.
And, minding him being here even less.
I hope. Peace
And, Dad... remember how we were talking about me and dead people?
Well, I do hope you realize that the way I am about "regular" dead people ain't gonna be SHIT compared to when I lose you. Again. Forever.
Especially after the way things have been for the last twenty plus years.
Talk about "coulda, shoulda".
Jesus.
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