Okay, this woman got slightly irritated with me because I didn’t want to buy her car. Yes, I’m buying a new, used car because the relationship I have with my Swedish car is coming to an end.
We were never compatible to begin with. The Swedes are… well, they’re fucking boring… not exciting, not sexy. They’re great at socialism and other things though: Have a problem with needle users, homelessness, trash? Like blondes and fish dishes? Sweden, baby. Anyway, I never wanted a vehicle with a name that closely resembles parts of a woman’s vagina. Makes me feel weird whenever I have to say it.
Volvo. Are you happy now?
Anyway, this woman was eager to sell me her piece of crap… I mean, car. She was even willing to bring it to me, but I really didn’t want it, so I made excuses (all valid), like it was dinged up and part of the front bumper was torn off. Plus, you could tell she was desperate, which is a real turn off… you can smell desperation a mile away.
Just come with me on my next date and take a big whiff.
Have you ever noticed people selling their used cars can adopt an air of haughtiness? What gets me is they act like the car is so valuable. The fucking thing is used. They don’t even want it anymore, but they want to try to squeeze every damn dollar out of it like it’s a friggin’ diamond, even though it’s lost its value and is more like a cubic zirconia. The buyer is doing them a favor by taking it off their hands and reusing it anyway.
If it’s so fucking great, why don’t you keep it?
I’m all for buying used and re-using; I think we could all benefit from being more conservational and less wasteful (no, that word was not conversational, please re-read).
Like, how about not taking more than you need, for instance? I mean, how many napkins do you need when you’re eating your tacos? Fifty? Because you sure took enough for that many people. You just grabbed a massive handful with your big, fat, banana hands without even thinking whether you need fifty fucking napkins.
Just don’t come crying to me at the end of the world when there are no more fucking napkins. That’s because there are no more fucking trees left because you took a huge stack of napkins you didn’t need to wipe your fat mouth and left the extra ones discarded on the table, creating unnecessary waste. But hey, as long as you get to do whatever the fuck you want, it doesn’t matter, does it? and now you’re crying because there are no more fucking napkins because there are no more fucking trees… how the hell does that make you feel?!!
Uh… where was I? Oh yes, being used. No, no, no, no… not being used, reusing. Anyway, I think we can all benefit from it.
I do a lot of driving, which means I’m on the freeways a lot. It’s how us southern Californians live; we are deeply enmeshed in a car culture.
For those of you who have never experienced what it’s like driving in So Cal, let me paint a picture for you: Every other driver on the road is SpongeBob SquarePants, Satan is your passenger and he’s giving you an enema, and Alex Jones’ InfoWars is blaring out from the speakers and you can’t change the channel.
You good? Okay, let’s move on…
I’m developing a tick.
You ever yell “Learn how to drive!” at shitty drivers? I’ve done it, it’s a waste of time. People aren’t gonna take the initiative to learn how to become better drivers… why would they? They already have their driver’s license and are navigating the roads… as shitty drivers… and the problem is, they believe they’re driving just fine. They’re blissfully unaware, which is the most annoying part because my goal is to make them realize what shitty drivers they are.
Any idiot moron can go to the DMV, take the driver’s test and get on the road within hours. In fact, every idiot moron does… and they’re all on the freeway. It should be called confinedway, as there’s nothing “free” about it.
Foreigners are the worst offenders. Hold on… before you start slinging the word “racist” at me, know this: I am right. Also know this: I am a foreigner, along with my entire family. We all came over to this country on a boat (a big one, not the kind that requires rowing). No, I don’t have an accent, I speak California just like every other normal person… and I’ve always been an excellent driver… maybe not a conscientious one, but a skilled one.
But like I said, my family and I are all foreigners, and the very first day my dad learned how to drive a car, was the day he drove a car across the United States, from New Jersey to California.
Let that sink in.
My mom already knew how to drive. She “taught” my dad for a few hours, then we hit the road so we could drive across the country… and I’ve never claimed my family was normal or sane. Maybe I was adopted. I mean, clearly, there’s nothing wrong with me.
It probably goes without saying, but my dad did not have his driver’s license. Eventually he had to get one, so twenty years later… yes, I’m serious, he drove in the United States of America for twenty years without a driver’s license… he asked me to accompany him to the DMV and help him because he was worried he wouldn’t pass the written portion of the test. Rightfully so; he was never instructed how to properly drive a vehicle, so he was a shitty driver.
So off to the DMV we went. Back then, things were different (besides the fact you could drive without a license for twenty years as a shitty driver and not get caught), but also the way the written portion of the driving test was administered was they handed you a piece of paper and a pencil, and told you to take the test in a segregated area inside the building, away from anyone who could help give you the answers, which was stupid because who the hell was watching, DMV employees? Haha… hahahahahaha!
That’s not what we did. We took the test paper, left the building, went home, looked up all the answers on the corresponding study material, went back to the DMV, turned in the test, and my dad passed with a 100% score. They never knew we left. As for the practical portion of the test, I am truly perplexed as to how he passed it since I was not involved.
Maybe his instructor was a foreigner.
You know, I am just now realizing, I took part in something that bugs the crap out of me today; facilitated a foreigner getting behind the wheel of a car without proper training.
So I was with this hot, sexy guy last night, and we were really getting into it. You know, arguing a point.
What? You think we were actually having sex? Well we were going to, until I asked him if he would be interested in exploring my erroneous zones, but he balked and said “Don’t you mean erogenous zones?” I told him “No, erroneous zones. That’s where I get to point out when someone is fucking wrong, and a moron, which sends tingling sensations all over my body, sparking my passion… then it leads to angry sex. Now I get to point out that you thought I was stupid for using the wrong word, when it was you who was wrong. And stupid. I’m really turned on, do you wanna have sex now?”
He didn’t. I was hoping he’d at least want to grudge fuck me.
Instead, he got really offended and we argued for a few minutes, then he left and I had to take things into my own hands. It’s just as well. He probably would’ve dove right into the pink panther instead of taking the time to explore my most important erogenous zone: My brain.
I need to maybe stick with the plain or ugly dudes. They’re more willing to please than the hot guys, who think they can get any bitch they want, any time they want… which is probably true *sigh*
Ugly guys try harder and they’re not as picky.
Am I saying I’m someone who someone who isn’t picky is the perfect someone for someone like that?
Clearly, this guy couldn’t handle my sexuality, passion and intelligence. Good riddance! I want a man who can hold his own…
while I wax poetic…
about all the idiots…
there are in the world…
then we’ll take it from there.
I’ve discovered how to determine if someone is losing their fucking mind.
I met my friend for a hike at one of my favorite trails. It starts out from a residential neighborhood, and at times, there can be lots of activity and people parking on the streets surrounding the houses because it’s a popular trail. There’s one particular house on the corner that sits right next to the actual trail head and the owner of the house is not happy about all this activity.
You’ll soon find out how I know this.
Hiking in our area has become increasingly popular over the last couple decades. We have lots of beautiful open space; we’re in suburban hell, so besides eating, fucking and overpopulating, there isn’t much to do out here. Oh wait, there’s Starbucks…
I’m sure the influx of people in these areas must be frustrating for the residents, because whenever you have large groups of people doing something, it’s very obnoxious. It’s just the nature of large groups of people together doing the same thing. Think: herds of buffalo, or sheep… or MAGA supporters.
Anyway, when I approached my friend’s vehicle, she told me the owner of the house that sits next to the trail head, came out and told her she couldn’t park in front of his house, which is on a public street with no parking restrictions. Remember, it’s the suburbs, and the only thing we call all agree on about living here, is that the parking is great.
By now, you should probably know where this is going.
Let me preface this by saying there are two characteristics of people I detest. Okay, there are lots of characteristics of people I detest, but the two that stand out the most, are liars and hypocrites. Now I’m not saying I’ve never been one or the other from time to time… what I am saying, is I fucking hate it when people are habitual liars and hypocrites, then act like they’re not when they know they are. If you’re gonna be like that, just own it; own up to your asshole-ness.
My friend, who is non-confrontational… at least, not anymore (ask me one day about the time I repeatedly had to pull her out of a girl-fight on a Saturday night), said she’d just move her car because she didn’t want the guy to do anything to it. That pissed me off, because he was trying to intimidate someone through lying, but also because this wasn’t the first time he was being a jerk. I had parked in front of his house once before and when I returned from my hike, he had left a note on my windshield that he called the tow company and they were coming to tow my car; a complete empty threat.
What a weenie.
But I wanted to handle the situation in a rational, mature way, so I turned toward his house and gave him a raspberry and the finger. I was only going to give him a raspberry, but it just didn’t feel complete. I knew he was lurking behind his blinds watching us too. Then he did exactly what I expected he would; came outside to confront us.
Like I said, weenie.
He started to utter some baloney, but I just spoke over him in my loud voice (yeah, I can be loud), and told him he had no right to tell people not to park in front of his house; it’s public parking, people have a right to park wherever they want, and to stop scaring people away.
Let me re-iterate what he does: He stands watch over a curb; a piece of concrete attached to asphalt that sits adjacent to what he considers his domain, and he doesn’t want anyone near said domain, even though he lives with thousands of other people in a town where there are cars and streets and other domains. Remember the Unabomber? This is his cousin.
Not only that, he does it every weekend! He must stand at his window for hours, watching for vehicles parking in front of his house so he can pounce on them or leave fucking idiot notes on their windshields.
That is the definition of insanity, my friends.
I’m surprised Trump hasn’t hired him to be the Secretary of Transportation. I’m certain this guy is having sex with Betsy DeVos, and post-coitus, they talk about how they’re gonna fuck up people’s lives: She with the disabled and he with anyone who parks. They get so turned on by their discussions, they fuck over and over again, just like rabbits; because it’s over very quickly and they’re trying to repeatedly conceive so as to colonize with large groups of other insane people.
I’ve been recovering from a stomach virus. It’s taken me five days to be able to convince my stomach it’s okay to keep food down, but that hasn’t stopped it from protesting by issuing disturbingly loud noises. So disturbingly loud, I haven’t gone out anywhere because I’m afraid someone will call the cops on me.
To top off my wonderful week of vomiting and subsequent negotiation with my stomach to have some soup, I went to an appointment to see my gynecologist. I should’ve re-scheduled but since I haven’t had a date in… well, never mind how long, I figured I’d just go and get fingered.
I’ve never seen this particular gynecologist before because I just got new insurance, and because insurance companies dictate who and when you can see a health care provider, I had to choose someone I’ve never met or heard of before. I chose a woman because a male gynecologist is an oxymoron. Or, just moron. Anyway, we did the usual question and answer routine and sized each other up. She seemed knowledgeable enough and had a pleasant manner, so I felt comfortable in working with her to address my issues.
Never mind about my issues
Ask any woman, of any age, what it’s like to go to the gynecologist for a check up, and you’ll get the same response: Ugh, which always denotes trepidation and a quiet dread. Not only because you don’t want any bad news, but because of the contraptions used for the exam. I’m talking a pap smear, people… which is an awful phrase. Couldn’t they come up with a more appealing term, like flower inspection? I don’t even know what a pap is.
So I climbed up onto the saddle and planted my feet firmly into the stirrups. Ladies will know exactly what I’m referring to, and men… well, you’ll have to ask your wives or girlfriends for an explanation if you don’t already know… you dumb fucks. Oh, you didn’t realize I was gonna walk you through my appointment and it’s making you uncomfortable, huh? Welcome to the jungle, baby! (I haven’t had a bikini wax in a couple years either).
Aaaanyway… after the soothing sound of the snapping of latex gloves, she started with the speculum, which is Latin for “this is gonna be awkward”. The speculum is a contraption that spreads the vagina open, much wider than if it was about to invite a hot guy’s bulge inside of her… or something to that effect. One of the reasons I like to see women gynecologists is because they know how to use them, taking into consideration how it feels, whereas men have no fucking clue. Most of the time they can’t even find the vagina’s most precious jewel, so how are they supposed to be a fucking gynecologist, for fuck’s sake?! (please see paragraph three).
After that uncomfortable part of the exam, this gyno (shortened from the word gynecologist to save time and effort) had to feel around inside my uterus, and she got a little rough. I get that she wanted to be thorough, but after a minute of this, it started to feel like I never gave her permission in the first place, if you know what I mean. To give credit where credit is due, men can generally be more, um… caring, when it comes to feeling around up there, but she was just going to the rodeo! She shoved her fingers so high up inside me, at one point she mentioned I needed a filling in my upper molar.
How the fuck?
After her exam was completed, she said I might have some spotting later in the day and I thought to myself: Spotting? I’m probably going to have a full on period… and I’m in menopause. If there was anything good to come out of my visit, it’s that I definitely want to start dating immediately. She awakened a passion in me… a desire of something that’s been dormant for a long time:
Pets become part of the family, don’t they? They’re like our kids, especially when it comes to keeping them on a tight leash… metaphorically speaking, of course. I don’t actually put kids on leashes (only because it’s against the law). Still, I think it’s a stellar idea. Kids out in public need to be controlled at all times. Just think about when you’re in a restaurant, the parents letting their kids run around like it’s a friggin’ playground while you’re just trying to do your job as a goddamn waitress and the little fuckers almost trip you up as you try balance a tray full of drinks!
Just like when dogs are out in public, they need to be controlled at all times too. No, I don’t have kids or dogs, I have cats, and yes, I can almost hear the squawk of an argument coming out of your mouth right now, but you can just forget about it because as far as I’m concerned, both kids and dogs belong on leashes.
Of course there are times when you should be allowed to let your kids and dogs run free: In your own backyard, or in the middle of your living room… let ‘em run around in circles until they wear themselves out… and maybe you should join them. Come to think of it, you should suck your own dicks, too!
Anyway, I’ll give you a perfect example: I was hiking the other day, and, like countless times before, I encountered dogs off leash while the family was meandering along on the trail behind them. It’s really unsettling to have strange dogs coming towards you because you never know how they’re going to react. Dog owners are often quick to defend themselves with stupid statements like, “I want my dogs to be unencumbered and run free.” Well I wanna run free inside a fucking bank vault, but do I? No, because it’s illegal.
Here’s the irritating part… wait, it’s all irritating… but this is the most irritating part of the irritating thing: As the family got closer to me, the dad said “I hope you weren’t bothered by our dogs.” wah, wah, wah.
You “hope”? So does Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption dumbass, so you can take your hopes and your thoughts and your prayers and stick it ‘cause I don’t need them. What I need is for you to put your dogs on a leash so I’m not afraid I’m going to get attacked by a strange animal.
I know you want everything to be hunky dory while you enjoy your stroll with your family… yay! Well fuck that shit. How would you like to encounter a grizzly bear on your stroll and have the owner say “I hope you weren’t bothered by my man-eating bear?”
Why would you even ask me that question instead of just putting your dogs on leashes? Wait, don’t answer that, it’s a rhetorical question. I already know why. It’s because you know you’re doing the wrong thing, and you want me to pardon your irresponsible behavior by saying something to the effect of: “Aww, it’s okaaaay” <insert fucking smiley emoji>
What kind of example are you showing your kids with that behavior anyway? Okay no, I don’t really give a crap about your kids, I’m just trying to make you feel more guilty. Every day, there are people out there breaking tiny, little laws, like speeding, letting their dogs run loose and cheating on their taxes (which reminds me…) and they think it’s okay as long as they don’t get caught or no one says anything, so where does that leave us as a society? Unleashed, that’s where!
Hmm… now where did I put that muzzle?
When I die and get reincarnated, I want to come back with a body like Pamela Anderson had in the nineties.
I want to know what it feels like to be adored by a standard of beauty that is completely unattainable and unrealistic for ninety nine percent of the female population… without a major plastic surgery overhaul. Which brings me to the other night in Hollywood; a person that had a knock-out body with unreal proportions walked by me in a green bikini and little else.
It was about 60 degrees outside and I was impressed by her ability to handle the cold (and the stares and snide remarks). I guess having a great body makes you do things few of us regulars can. For instance, I always wanted to be a full-on slut, but wouldn’t, because I could never live up to the expectation naked.
At first, I was certain this person in the green bikini was a woman, but after careful inspection (no, not that careful) I discovered she was a man… or a previous man. Yes, there was an Adam’s apple and unusually broad shoulders, but holy crap, the rest of her was amazing: Gravity-defying, luscious, extraordinary!
I’m all for becoming whomever and whatever you want to become, so more power to her. She looked fucking great, plastic surgery and all, and it made me feel like, if a man can do it, so can I! Except, I don’t want to go under the knife. Never have, never will. Probably. Look, my mom always told me “Never say never”, and she was right, because as soon as I do, I turn around and do the exact thing I said I’d never do.
Except for the following never
I never had that type of body and never will. Being a full-on slut is still an option though.
I have the type of body that was more appreciated during times like the Renaissance or Cretaceous period, so I’m a few hundred (or million) years out of style. I’m more suited to be carved out of marble and put in a museum to be adored, than to walk Sunset Blvd. in a green bikini and drooled over.
Hey, maybe that should be my next career move! No, not Wonder Woman, a statue.
I do have a few things going for me that I can appreciate though: I have good hair, I’m somewhat tall, somewhat proportionately constructed, long legged, nice hands, and I’m funny and can talk in complete sentences.
Want my number?
But sometimes I wish I had things I don’t have now, and never will. It’s not that I don’t appreciate myself or what I do have, but I think about having something else from time to time. I dream about what it would be like to fit into this idea society has falsely created: That to be skinny with big tits makes you better than other woman… more desirable, and more beautiful, which I know is a complete waste of time and does nothing for cultivating the gratitude I’m supposed to have.
Comparing yourself to someone else is the kiss of death, this I know. So how come it’s so difficult to stop doing? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way… I don’t want to get a bunch of comments giving me advice on how to stop doing it: “Just focus on yourself and don’t worry about other people”, or “There’ll always be people that wish they had what you have” or this one, which has got to be the most fucking annoying of all: “Just do you!”
I already “do” me, every single day of my life. You do me, see how you like it. Okay, you’d probably like it. I mean, hey, it’s not that bad being me. It’s society that has made me bad because I have flesh, curves, meat on the bones… and some stretch marks. Oooh, how fucking horrible, you have that?! Yeah, I do… so I should be a self-loathing recluse then. Wait, I am a self-loathing recluse.
No, not really
I just want to look in the mirror and say “Hey gorgeous, you have an awesome body.” No, that’s not all I want, I want the world to say it too. Is that too much to ask?!
You know, there’s nothing like being underestimated… when someone completely misjudges your capabilities, character and intelligence.
Yes, there are different ways people underestimate each other. Sometimes it’s done with innocence, they don’t mean to… but sometimes it’s with malignity, jealousy, or small mindedness.
I’ve dealt with being underestimated my entire life: I’m a woman, blonde and I’m decent looking. It’s not fun being underestimated, but I’m not surprised when it happens, which is not to say that I don’t get annoyed, because I am human after all. But I take a lot of pleasure in knowing when the people who’ve underestimated me, will come to realize the error in their underestimation, and will be duly educated, if not completely shocked.
That’s the fun part
Why just the other day, a guy, who admitted he stalks me online, asked me if I got my content from the internet, in what I can only describe as a not-so-subtle way of accusing me of stealing (and posing this question in front of others), so I clarified if that’s what he meant (it was). Maybe it was his way of trying to minimize what was clearly overwhelming him and his ego: My abilities and talent, so he was having a difficult time wrapping his mind around the fact that I have a brain and know how to use it; I don’t need to resort to stealing other people’s ideas. Maybe he does, I don’t know.
We also underestimate ourselves
We all have moments when we wish we were more like someone else. The difference is, we don’t act out on our jealousy and try to usurp their ideas, we create our own and then we become our own best selves. Holy crap, is that Tony Robbins in my head?! Tony, get the fuck out of here, I’m busy inspiring people!
My personal experience has been that more men are intimidated by smart women than women are intimidated by smart women, even though society likes to perpetuate the idea it’s the latter. There are a lot of men out there who tend to underestimate women on a regular basis; it’s firmly implanted in society. Funny thing is, I’ve had more men be jealous of my accomplishments and try to usurp my projects and ideas than women.
Look, if you’re gonna be one of those types, perhaps you should forget trying to assert yourself into more worldly experiences, it’s probably too much for you. Maybe it’s better you stick to simple things like sitting behind a computer viewing the latest porn, your greasy fingers wrapped around your Taco Bell burrito. Don’t forget to wank the noodle while you’re at it! (sexual release dulls the mind, so you’ll be relieved of all erroneous judgments and decisions, however brief).
Perhaps instead of challenging your fragile egos with well-written humor, you could try your hand at reading nursery rhymes like Humpty Dumpty or Dr. Seuss so you won’t feel so insecure. Wait, I take that back, Dr. Seuss is much too clever… maybe just stick to visuals.
And if you’re jealous or threatened by someone else’s accomplishments, keep it to yourself, why act out on it? Stop underestimating people. Go get therapy, go get educated, go fuck yourself (see above suggestion about wanking the noodle). Don’t poo poo others’ accomplishments, make your own, you won’t feel so shitty.
Oh wait, that would mean putting in the work by taking a good hard look at yourself, admitting your own shortcomings and examining your own character instead of others’, and that’s way too fucking hard because that takes courage. It takes blood, sweat and tears! It would mean questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself and asking what you’re gonna do about it.
It would mean you’d have to stop underestimating yourself.
Just ask me, I know.
Have you ever noticed how many objects there are in the world that resemble a man’s um… a man’s, uhhh… hockey stick? Even a hockey stick resembles one. A broken one perhaps, but one just the same. Why we’re absolutely swallowed up in phallic symbolism everywhere we turn!
For instance, I was drinking a delicious coffee this morning (decaf, on account of my outbursts) when I noticed a man doing landscaping… with a leaf blower… which isn’t really landscaping as much as it is GODDAMN LOUD AND ANNOYING!!
He was holding his “leaf blower” in front of him, down low, right around the crotch area, and he was swinging it from side to side… as I would imagine a man would do with that kind of thing in his hands… and it made me realize just how many wieners there are out there.
A lot of ’em live here in my quaint little town and drive BMWs, Teslas, Jaguars, Mercedeseseses… ahem… Range Rovers and Audis, but you can spot ’em in any ‘ol car CLOGGING UP THE GODDAMN FREEWAYS AND ROADS STARTING FROM 2 PM WHEN THEY PICK UP THEIR SNOTTY NOSED BRATS WHO ARE TOO FAT, SPOILED, OR LAZY TO WALK TO AND FROM SCHOOL, MAKING MY COMMUTE A MISERABLE EXPERIENCE!!
Wow, this decaf tastes really bold
We live in a man’s world and they happen to design a lot of this crap, so it makes sense that a lot of objects we use in daily life would look like one. Look around you right this minute and tell me that you don’t see at least one giant dick right in front of your face…
What? No, I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t trying to get personal it was… it was meant to be a metaphor and… well how the hell was I supposed to know that you were in the middle of… well maybe next time you should double-check that your computer camera is turned off!
Where was I? Oh yes, wieners… well they’re not just objects designed by men, they’re also a food product designed by men, which begs the question: Where did they ever get the idea?
Supposedly wieners are back in style ’cause there are tons of places that serve them. First it was the hamburger that was getting all the attention with the stupid “sliders” trend… now it’s the hot dog. Watch, they’ll probably come up with a hot dog slider, which I personally, would call a “dog sled”. Wow, I’m so fucking brilliant.
Anyway, I see those damn wiener places everywhere. In my neck of the branch, they have several joints where you can get a wiener, not including Hot Dog on a Stick, Wiener schnitzel, or the Thai massage place on the Boulevard…
You know, I used to be able to shove those things down my throat, no problem. But that was when I was young, eager and into eating those kinds of things. Now I can’t even look at one, much less think about sticking one in my mouth.
Burp… oh excuse me.
Day 1 on coffee – Half a cup of a delicious decaf with a splash of regular and some cream first thing in the morning. Not that Starbucks shit either; a good cup of European coffee from this great bakery near me. Didn’t get any baked goods either. Willpower! I took a digestive enzyme and probiotic beforehand and didn’t have any adverse reactions. I felt alert without the shakes, got lots of stuff done, feeling great!
Day 2 on coffee – Half a cup of a delicious decaf with a splash of regular and some cream first thing in the morning. Another cup of that European coffee from the bakery and no baked goods. Willpower! Also took a digestive enzyme and probiotic beforehand. Felt great and sort of, high. Forgot how wonderful caffeine is! Decided to drink some of the remaining half cup later that afternoon. Superwoman… haaad a bit of a tough time falling asleep. Oh well, nothing a cup of coffee in the morning wouldn’t fix.
Day 3 on coffee – Feeling invincible! Thoughts while drinking my coffee: “Why am I buying coffee at the bakery every morning when I can just buy a bag and brew it myself at home and save money?” What a great idea! Went to the store during my lunch hour, bought my favorite brand and some coffee filters. Immediately opened the bag and deeply inhaled. God I love the smell! Kept huffing it for the rest of the day. Couldn’t wait ‘til morning when I could brew a cup… so excited! Fuck, I wish I could have a cup now.
Day 4 on coffee – Woke up ready for my fucking coffee and realized I no longer had a goddamn coffee maker. Got rid of it years ago. What the hell am I gonna do? I can’t not have a cup of coffee in the morning! Boiled water, stuck filter in a strainer over cup, poured water over the coffee – BAM – strong fucking cup of coffee! A huge mug too, none of this half cup bullshit. Drank the whole thing standing over the sink while considering brewing another cup to bring to work with me. Decided against it. Passed everybody on my commute, gave some slow driver the finger.
I’m Super… fuckin’ jacked right now!
Day 5 on coffee – Feeling… kinda restless, jaw hurts. I forgot I grind my teeth at night when I’m on coffee. Bags under my eyes. Friend commented she was worried about me yesterday. Slipped me a brochure of the Twelve Steps and patted me on my shoulder with that look in her eye. Fuck her. Didn’t sleep well last night. Tossed and turned, dreamed of a coffee cup chasing me down the rabbit hole, calling me Alice. Immediately brewed some coffee to snap out of it.
Day 6 on coffee – Cleaned my entire house. Yelled at my cats. Laughed when my neighbor fell down the stairs.
Day 7… off coffee: Couldn’t focus. Kept nodding out and jerking awake at the slightest sound. Dragged myself to my car during lunch hour for a nap and fell into coma. Woke up groggy with a flushed face. Was hungry, so decided eating some goddamn peanuts (my other nemesis) would help (didn’t). Got home and promptly had a one-on-one with the toilet. In a bad mood. Feel like a zombie. I hate myself. What happened, I used to be so nice?
Fuck coffee! I’m never drinking it again. Went to a Twelve Step meeting.
What do I do with this bag of coffee I just bought? Can’t throw it out, what a waste! Give it to the neighbors?
I’ll keep it… just in case.