I hate plumbing.
Let me rephrase that: I hate fixing plumbing.
As soon as you start to fix whatever is wrong with your plumbing, you’ll find something else that needs fixing because as soon as you touch one thing, another thing breaks. That’s because the way plumbing is designed is that it’s all connected. It’s fucking retarded if you ask me, and we all know who designed this crap, right?
No, I’m waiting for you to say it.
Look, you know I’ll say it, I’m just waiting to see if you’ll say it.
I think they must’ve designed pipes and plumbing around what they think a woman’s reproductive system looks like, without ever having actually seen it except for maybe in pictures at the doctor’s office. It must all be very confusing to the novice male to learn this about women, so maybe one of them decided they would try to decode it by attempting to recreate it in the plumbing system, then get as many young men to serve an apprenticeship as possible. You know, to prepare them for what lay ahead.
Anyway, I had to replace the stopper in my bathroom sink, but before I could do that, I had to figure out what the stupid thing was called, and to my surprise, it wasn’t “stupid thing”, it was “stopper”. Look, if you want me to know this shit, you’ll have to pay me $150 bucks an hour, which is what a plumber makes.
I learned a couple things in the process of changing my bathroom sink stopper. One: You always bring the old part with you to the hardware store so you don’t have to make two trips, and two: I hate fixing plumbing, it’s fucking retarded.
I watched a video on how to do it, but it’s never as easy as they portray it. Once you touch one simple thing, like for instance, the cap of a pivot rod, it unleashes a whole series of unexpected things, like say, a leak from a goddamn a pipe I didn’t even touch! Plus, I had to learn what a “pivot rod” really was when all this time I thought it had to do with the male reproductive system.
Taking apart the workings under your sink involves being willing to go to a very dark place. I’m talking really dark, like, darker than your worst nightmare… like, darker than suicidal thoughts. Have you ever smelled the pipes of your bathroom sink? Okay, well you need to try it in order to really appreciate how bad it is.
I nearly threw up when I undid the pipe and a long strand of some foreign material came streaming out, along with a foul smell of rotting corpses. If you ever want to know what dying feels like, smell your plumbing. If you ever want to know what a murderer feels like, try fixing it.
To top off this lovely activity, when I got up to the register at the hardware store, the checkout lady had to point out the cold sore on my lip. Yeah, I got a huge fucking cold sore on my lip for Christmas, how was yours? It’s so big and painful, it has its own heartbeat, so no one needs to mention it because it’s pointing out the obvious.
And this woman points it out, like, literally points at it with her finger and makes a comment about how big it was. She happened to be Indian and had a strong accent, so when she said my cold sore was very big, it came out like “werry big”. So anyway, I’m thinking to myself “Lady, you have some nerve pointing out my cold sore when you can’t even pronounce the English language.”
Now, if I had to criticize her appearance, it would be that she was short. Furthermore, I would go on to say that she shouldn’t be pointing out cold sores on others when I’d be more worried about the fact that it’s a lot worse wearing an awful hardware store t-shirt in that hideous color that doesn’t look good on you… and, and… well, you’re an immigrant!
I took on this whole project because I didn’t want to bother my landlord, seeing as how he had to replace my toilet over the summer due to an unfortunate accident (it’s not what you think). What happened was, I placed one too many objects on the shelf that sat above the toilet and it couldn’t hold the weight and came crashing down, splitting the tank in two and causing a minor flood. That was something else I learned. Anyway I didn’t want to bother him with this minor, shitty goddamn thing.
You’re probably wondering if I got the pipe to stop leaking. You bet your sweet ass I didn’t!
I don’t shave that often.
Well okay, I shave my face because everybody can see that right away, but not necessarily my legs, bikini line or underarms. I’ll let those slide for a few weeks until the leg hairs start poking through my pant legs… baggy pant legs.
What? Is that bad? 1-800-I-don’t-give-a-shit.
Yes, I shave my face. No, I do not have a beard. I have peach fuzz that women of a certain age get, barring the occasional tree branch that tries to grow out of my upper lip. I used to be a beautician and would have to tweeze those things out of my older client’s faces, now I have ‘em.
Life is cruel.
Actually, life isn’t cruel. If it was, I’d have hairy knuckles.
I’m single so why bother shaving? When I was in my youth, shaving was something I did religiously; I was in the shaver hall of fame! I started a shaving cult, because hair on a woman is evil, God be praised! For a long time I believed women weren’t supposed to have hair on their bodies, even though we do have hair on our bodies, for fuck’s sake.
We have hair everywhere men do (yep, same places) but women are made out to believe it’s some sort of genetic mistake; something grotesque that should be permanently removed. That’s how effective the media is. They make women believe they’re hideous creatures so we’ll spend thousands of dollars on their products.
“Hair on your body? You’ll never get a man! Here, buy this overpriced pink razor, which will appeal to your feminine side, and you’ll get rid of that unsightly body hair at the same time!”
“Gained weight? You’ll never get a man! Here, go on this diet for $300 dollars a month, which you’ll gain back within a year anyway because these diets don’t work.”
They’re all centered around getting a man too, as if being single is a crime. If it is, then lock me up and give me twenty! *snicker* *snort*
I mean, what man doesn’t want a chubby woman with hair all over her?! Shit, maybe that’s why I’m single. Naw… couldn’t be.
I’d shave if I had a man in my life. He has to shave too, though, and no, I’m not talking about shaving “down there” because that is so wrong. Look, if I wanted to sleep with a hairless, pubescent boy, I would. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. What I mean to say is, I’m not afraid of getting a pube stuck between my lips!
I like a man with hair on his body. Some hair, not a lot of hair. I’m not crazy about a mass of chest or back hair.
What I mean is, the man has to shave his face. He doesn’t have to be clean shaven; a goatee or Fu Man Chu is great, just no full on fucking beards. Jeez, I can’t wait ’til that goes out of style.
You know how when you’re at a restaurant enjoying your meal and then you feel a hair as you’re chewing your food and you go to pull it out and it’s long and not your color and you can’t eat your food anymore and you start to feel queasy? I can imagine that’s how having a beard is.
Gosh, I hope you’re not reading this while you’re eating something.
Why do people ruin things by doing something stupid when you’re just trying to be nice or polite? For instance, when someone thanks you for asking how they’re doing.
I’ll give you an example:
Person on the phone: “Hi, it’s Jason from (whatever company, who cares) how are you today?”
Me: “I’m doing well, how are you?”
Person on the phone: “Hey, I’m doing great, thanks for asking!”
There it is: Thanks for asking. Why are you thanking me for engaging in a societal norm? Should I thank someone for holding the door open for me? I think not. Well, okay I probably should.
If I thanked them for thanking me (which would be ludicrous) it would go something like this:
Me: “Thank you for thanking me for asking.”
Person on the phone: “Oh, well thank you fo…”
I just want to ask these people: Has the world become so full of apathy that no one ever asks you how you are, including your parents, so you have to thank some stranger on the phone because they asked? Is it that bad Mister?
If you’re hanging all your hopes on me, you’ll be very disappointed to find out I don’t really give a shit. I’m only asking because I’m responding politely to your question (I may be apathetic, but I can still be polite… to an extent).
By the way, not only do I not give a shit, I’m also annoyed that you’re being obsequious and you sound way too perky. I hate perky, it’s contrived. I know you want something from me; something I’m not prepared to give, and I don’t want to be bothered by you, so let’s get on with it already.
This whole thing… this, “thanking me for asking how you are” thing… reeks of corporate drivel. I’m picturing some bored executive sitting at his expansive desk, in his equally expansive office (you know, something big enough to contain his massive ego) thinking of ways to make people’s lives more miserable, when he comes up with this asinine idea and decides it would be wonderful if all his minions would respond to the question in this manner.
Memo from the office of Mr. Jackass, of The Jackass Corporation:
From now on, when you address someone, ask how they’re doing, and when they ask you how you are, thank them for asking you!
Don’t ask why, just do it.
“What a great idea, thank you!”
“Thanks for thanking me!”
“Why are you thanking me for thanking you?”
“Because you told us to.”
How ‘bout this one:
When someone is wanting to cross the street where they’re not supposed to, so you stop in the middle of the road for them so they can (illegally, but safely), cross… but then they ruin it by impatiently waving you on with these over exaggerated arm gestures (suddenly they’re a goddamn traffic cop) instead of just giving a wave of thanks and crossing. Is this a power play? Because it’d probably be safe to say I’d win since I’m in a car and you’re not.
I impatiently wave you on because I’ve already stopped in the middle of the street to be nice, and I’m trying to get you to understand that, but you’d rather make me feel stupid for stopping for you in the first place. Don’t you dare wave me on again Mister… just cross the fucking street already, I’m not getting into a waving contest! You created the problem, now you need to see it through.
As soon as they start to cross, that’s when I like to gun my engine and watch them run for their lives.
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that most of us single women are sick and tired of dating and all the work that’s involved.
That’s a no-brainer.
It takes a lot of time and effort for not a lot of return. As the proverbial saying goes, “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your Prince Charming”. Well ladies, you’re in luck! I’ve come up with an effective vetting system that’s been personally tested, over and over and over… pant, wheeze… and over again, and it’s based on one simple principle: The type of take-out food the guy orders correlates exactly with how he treats women.
If a guy doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about what he puts into his body, do you think he’s going to spend a lot of time thinking about what he puts into yours? Uhhh, what I mean is, if he doesn’t take care of himself, he’s not gonna take care of you either. If he eats a lot of shitty fast food, well, “You are what you eat”.
I’ve discovered that you can rate what kind of man you’re dating solely by the take-out sauce packets he has in his kitchen. I know, sounds too simple, but remember: KISS. No, no, no… not your favorite rock bank from the eighties… it’s an acronym, Keep It Simple, Stupid.
Let’s start with his kitchen: He’s gotta have one… and it’s gotta be his own, not his mother’s. Once you’ve established that, you’ll need to do some investigating, so start opening drawers. How do you snoop around without it being obvious? Easy. Well, the way you get into his drawers *snicker* is by bringing over a bottle of wine and conveniently forgetting a wine opener. That way, you have an excuse to go into the kitchen to look for one.
You’ll know you’ve found what you’re looking for when you get to the drawer that has nothing in it but some crumbs, a book of matches, a plastic fork, and some napkins. Bingo! This is where he would keep the take-out sauce packets.
And if there aren’t any, you ask? Don’t panic, that’s a good thing. It means he doesn’t keep them for ten years like some men, and/or doesn’t get take-out that often, which means he knows how to cook (bonus!!!) Hang on, before making that assumption, check his fridge to see if he’s actually savvy enough to store them in there. If there are none, there is a slight possibility his mother still cooks for him. If she does, I strongly suggest reconsidering the relationship; guys like that, have sex with their socks on.
If he does have take-out sauce packets in his fridge, carefully remove them using oven mitts or a set of tongs… you don’t want to touch them with bare hands. Take note of what kind of sauce packets they are. Are they taco sauce packets from Taco Bell?
GET THE HELL OUT NOW!
Yes I’m serious, have some self-respect! Make an excuse, it doesn’t matter if it’s believable or not, you’ll never see him again. If you can’t identify where the sauce packets are from, they may be from a restaurant that delivers, which could be a really good sign: He orders something decent from a local joint, like the Thai place a few blocks over.
Take another gander in the fridge. Does he have large bottles of ketchup, mayo, yellow mustard, and a corresponding package of Oscar Mayer bologna? He’s a fucking savage and great in the sack, so have sex with him, but don’t hitch him to your trailer. The only thing you can expect with this guy over the weekends is a lot of meat sandwiches on shitty bread while you sit on the sofa to watch the game. No amount of great fucking is worth that.
If you see a basket of fresh strawberries, some champagne and imported cheeses, with a pepper grinder and an espresso maker on the counter, you’ve just scored! No, not a romantic partner, a gay best friend! And hey, sometimes that’s better than a boyfriend anyway.
Pass the hot sauce, hot stuff.
Shoot, is it Thursday already?
There was absolutely nothing that happened this past week that stood out. I mean, as long as you don’t count the woman who was rude to me over the phone yesterday. Actually, rude may not be best word to describe her. Let me think… hmmm, how would I best describe her behavior? I guess… I guess it was more like fucking psychotic. Yes, yes, that’s definitely better, it’s much more succinct.
You see, I made a business call (which was my first mistake) and this secretary asked me to call back, as the person I was trying to reach was on the other line.
Call me a stickler, but isn’t the secretary supposed to take messages, not ask the caller to call back? Just a thought.
Anyway, I called back a short time later and she went ballistic. I mean, she lost the farm and everything. She screamed something about me calling back too soon. She was horribly upset, the poor thing, I think she was drinking or something. Maybe she’s bi-polar.
“LOOK, YOU JUST CALLED FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO, HE’S STILL ON THE PHONE ON A VERY IMPORTANT CALL TO IRELAND!!!!”
Wow… I’m, I’m terribly sorry lady. I should not have called at all, even though this was an important business call. I should never have bothered you, even though it’s your job to answer the phones and be professional. Gosh, I should have known that was beyond your capabilities. I’ll just go ahead and get the fuck off the phone before you explode and your guts go flying all over the office. Hope you feel better.
Wait, she’s probably gutless because she screams at strangers over the phone, so that wouldn’t happen.
You know, it really was my fault. You see, I’m supposed to be a mind-reader and I guess I missed clairvoyant class in college and now I deeply regret it because if I had only attended, I would have known ahead of time not to call this absolutely psychotic woman and destroy her afternoon.
I actually didn’t go to college at all. Unless you count beauty college, which really worked by the way, I’m absolutely stunning!
So anyway, the person I was trying to reach, who happens to be this woman’s boss, called me back, then began defending her behavior and I thought to myself “The coffee they’re drinking over there must have some serious alcohol in it.” He went on to say that she told him I was rude to her over the phone. Yes, it’s true, I can’t make this shit up (note to self: never drink their coffee).
I’m not shocked that there are such liars and delusional people like that out there. Hell, the world is full of them. I’m just shocked at my reaction to it all. I got pretty upset and allowed it ruin my afternoon, and then I felt worse that I was allowing people like that to get to me.
I feel much better today though, now that I have some perspective and can add humor to the situation. Plus, I can be passive-aggressive and write about what a cunt that woman is, along with her fool, idiot boss, right here in my posting *snicker*, *snort*
She’s gotta be one of the worst bottom-feeding, lying manipulators I’ve encountered. She’s actually giving Rudy Giuliani and Donald Trump a run for their money. She could totally run for office. Her pathetic, loser of a boss condones her behavior because he has all the personality of an egg-sucking contestant. He’s an incubus to her succubus and together, they’re out to ruin lives!
Yesterday was World Kindness Day, which was totally lost on Ms. Screaming Banshee and her boss, Peenie Weenie.
Glad it’s not today.
Something irritated the hell out of me yesterday.
My boss was telling me what he had for breakfast, he had a slice of apple pie, a banana and some sashimi, but instead of saying “sashimi”, as it is properly pronounced, he said “shashimi” and I nearly spit up my kombucha.
It took all my strength not to correct him, mostly because I need to let clowns be clowns but also, I was certain he would continue to pronounce it incorrectly because he’s stubborn and wouldn’t like the fact I corrected him, therefore continuing to bastardize the word. There’s nothing more I hate than someone who mispronounces a word and then is passive aggressive about it.
That’s not true, there are plenty of things I hate more than that, but that one’s up there.
Sure, it seems benign, but it’s not. If you want to label misuse of the English language as benign… okay in this case it’s Japanese, but whatever… if you want to say it’s nothing to get so worked up about, you couldn’t be more wrong! Words have to be properly pronounced, spelled correctly and applied in grammatically correct form, otherwise, where are we as a nation, under Dog… I mean, God… indivisible, with liberty and justice for all?!
That right there is a misuse of the English language. It should read “… with liberty and justice for all, as long as you have lots of money and political connections, otherwise you’re fucked.”
I suppose I should be more disgusted with what he ate for breakfast: apple pie, a banana AND raw fish? That’s disgusting! I can imagine how his stomach felt (and by the looks of it, not happy). How could someone have such little respect for breakfast that they would defame it in such a manner, and then brag about it like they did something extraordinary?
Because he was clearly proud of himself. He stood there reciting his meal like he was telling his mommy how he held his weenie and peed in the toilet without getting any on the floor, his face aglow and a twinkle in his eyes. It was like he was waiting for me to say, “What a good boy!”
Now I can’t decide what’s more disgusting.
I can only imagine some poor Japanese chef when my boss goes into his establishment to eat and refers to him as the “shushi chef who makes shashimi.” The Japanese have a very precise and dignified culture of respect and honor, and to have some fuzzy American come in and bastardize, not only their language, but also the chopshticks, the shoy shauce, the washabi, and everything else… is horrible. We already dropped a nuclear bomb on them, now this?!
You know what I wanna do when someone does shit like that? I wanna punch them in the face. But first, I want them to don a clown costume. Yeah, that’s right, a clown costume with a wig, full face of makeup, red nose, big, clumpy shoes, the whole bit… you know, like Ronald McDonald, who perfectly represents the “… with liberty and justice for all, as long as you have lots of money and political connections, otherwise you’re fucked” credo.
Then I wanna thrust my fist into their big, fat noses and watch as their smug expression gets smashed off the side of their face, a long string of gooey saliva flinging out the side of their mouth… all in slow motion complete with sound effects. For instance, the nose making a honking sound as my fist connects.
Actually, what’d be even more appropriate is if I smacked him across the face with a giant salmon… you know, on account of the whole sashimi thing.
What? Is that not normal? Because I implore you to find someone who’s never wanted to punch someone in the face before. Okay, maybe not with a fish while they’re wearing a clown costume… although with almost eight billion people here on earth, I can’t possibly be the only one. Just think about how many people would love to punch what represents corporate America in the face.
I just want you to know I’ve properly kicked off the fall season and upcoming Holidays by eating an entire loaf of pumpkin bread from Trader Joe’s don’t judge me.
No, not all at once… what type of chubby, middle-aged woman do you take me for?
Before I start, I just want to say: fuck pumpkin spice. Why is it every year around the start of Autumn does everything that’s known to man have to be flavored and/or scented with Pumpkin Fucking Spice?
The most disgusting thing ever created by man, the Pumpkin Spice Latte, has its own Twitter account and my questions is: how savage do things have to get?!
I know I’ve said this before, but I hate cinnamon. It’s cloying, it makes me gag, and it overpowers whatever you mix it with, so instead of a nuanced blend of flavors, all you get is a mouthful of cinnamon… blech! Why even bother making a chocolate dessert if you’re going to ruin it with cinnamon? Why destroy the delicate flavor of fruit if you’re just going to douse it with cinnamon?… unless it’s an apple pie?
Cinnamon is only good for one thing: toothpicks. And some Moroccan dishes… and cinnamon rolls.
Yes, I realize that’s two things. I mean, three things. Actually four if you count the apple pie.
Yes, there are cinnamon-flavored toothpicks, and those are delicious. No, not to eat, to chew on.
There are certain things that go together and certain things that don’t. Cinnamon is tree bark (did y’all know that?), so it makes sense to put it onto a wooden toothpick, but why on earth are you putting tree bark on desserts, chocolate and coffee?!
Look, it would be safe to assume most of you love sex, right? But you don’t have sex in church because the two don’t go together. Unless you’re a priest. What I’m trying to say is, there’s a time and place for everything and that goes for cinnamon too.
Anyway, back to the pumpkin bread. It’s a box mix from Trader Joe’s that’s only available around this time of year, and it sells out very quickly, and once they run out they don’t restock it, it’s gone until next year. Part of the problem is, it’s very easy to make and it’s even easier to eat; this stuff is addictive. I like to add walnuts and raisins to mine because when at all possible, I like to cram as much deliciousness into anything food, as possible (that’s bad English right there).
Anyway, I ate the entire loaf in a few days (meaning two) and the only thing that saved me from being the ultimate porker, was a friend stopping by and eating two slices that I purposely made extra big so I wouldn’t feel so guilty about eating the rest of it.
You know, the loaf is really not that big, is what I told myself as I was licking the crumbs out of the empty baking dish. I was just lucky I didn’t have any butter sitting around because then I’d really be in trouble. I vowed many years ago I was never going to buy their pumpkin bread mix again because I always eat the entire thing, but I was weakened this past weekend *snicker*
I succumbed to Trader Joe’s evil empire of pumpkin bread. If you want to go buy yourself some, it’s in a bright orange box, you can’t miss it. I highly suggest adding some hazelnuts or pecans to it if you don’t like walnuts, which I wouldn’t understand because why dislike something so innocuous as the walnut?
Anyway, I know what you’re gonna say… “Doesn’t the pumpkin bread have cinnamon in it?” and my response is: “Aww, it’s okay, pumpkin.
Bright eyed, good looking, middle aged woman with increasing waistline looking for workout partner to help with weight loss. Totally platonic, no exceptions. Unless you’re really hot and there’s chemistry… but under no circumstances can it be sympathy sex (grudge fucking is okay though). Must know a tremendous amount of varying exercises and weight training techniques to help stave off the mundane routine of working out, which I never fucking liked as much as I do eating; there are so many delicious things to eat, and in so many wonderful combinations, it never gets boring. Must have all necessary workout equipment, if you know what I mean *snicker… snort*
ahem… you know, like weights ‘n shit.
Must enjoy the unknown as there’s no way I can commit to doing this every damn day. Look, I have a life, unlike some of you gym rats, so don’t expect me never to call you and demand we work out on a whim. Also, must like to shut up. You can’t talk too much, or at least, you must know how to hold a goddamn conversation and not go on an incessant monologue like a lot of people I know and avoid (so annoying). Must like cats. No, not because I’ll be bringing them to the workouts, but because I like to talk about them like they’re my kids, as that’s what middle-aged, childless, single women do. No, not really, I’m trying to fit into everyone’s stereotype for approval because I have low-self esteem. No, not really, I’m making a point: middle-aged women can’t get a break, whether we’re accused of having low-self esteem, too many cats, for being chubby (okay, that part’s true), for being desperate, or having lost any interest in sex. Wait, I never said anything about being desperate!… and I still want sex, I’m just no longer willing to put up with bad sex! Which leads me to believe, men, of any age, who date younger women, do so because they know they can get away with giving them shitty sex because they think they don’t know any better. Not that I dated older men when I was younger, yuck… I didn’t want some old guy touching me! But in a sick twist of fate, now I do! I like those older men, find them attractive and want them touching me all over!
Younger men are not off the table though… just depends.
Oh, and I can’t pay you anything, this has to be totally free because there’s one stereotype about single, middle-aged women that is unarguable; we generally don’t make a lot of money, and we certainly don’t get paid as much as men for doing twice the work, all while wearing high heels, might I add (or flats when we need to kick some corporate ass!) And more than likely, there’s been a male charmer… aka, freeloader, user, manipulator, narcissist… in our lives at one point or another who took advantage of us financially and otherwise. Ironic, since women are the ones who are constantly being called gold diggers. You do realize that phrase was attributed to the male gender, don’t you? Remember the ’49ers? No, not the football team, the actual gold diggers from the turn of the 19th century during the California gold rush? Yeah, them. Funny how things get turned around. Anyway, this ad is costing me a small fortune because I like to use words; big, small, intelligent, foul, you name it.
If interested, call me at: 1-800-yourealonelypieceofshit
You guys probably don’t know this about me, but I have a serious physical disability.
It’s been really difficult, so I don’t really like to talk about it. But I’ve concluded that if I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable, to open up and share with you people a very profound part of me, then how can I be an inspiration to other fucked up handicaps?
If you saw me in person, it wouldn’t be immediately apparent. For instance, I don’t have to use a wheelchair or crutches or anything, but it’s still a serious physical disability. It’s called Menopause.
When this first happened to me, I was very upset because I knew what struggles lay ahead… and if you don’t, just Google it. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking “How can you be upset that you’re not fucking bleeding once a month anymore?” and I’m here to tell you, it was so much more than that.
For instance, I could use it as an excuse to get out of, well, pretty much anything. Especially work, exercise, and sex. I could use it as revenge. I could use it to mark my territory, like with a boyfriend; I could easily leave a smudge on his jeans, or wallet, or sock, so everyone understood that, yeah, he’s mine.
Look, periods have meaning, period.
I should have seen it coming, I had all the symptoms: weight gain, hot flashes, an unusual fascination with anything cat related. Like I’m obsessed with watching cat videos because not only are they entertaining, they’re really educational. Have you guys seen the one with the cat that gets caught on the ceiling fan and is spun around and around until it gets flung off and thrown across the room? I learned a lot from that one and so did my cat.
I just can’t get enough of cats, I even went out and bought hand towels with cats on them. Not only that, if I don’t stay on top of my semi-annual Botox injections, I’ll have resting Grumpy Cat face.
I’m in deep.
I just want you to know I didn’t take this lightly. As soon as I got diagnosed, I did the responsible thing and immediately went to the DMV to get my handicapped placard.
I always do the right thing.
I’ve discovered once you’re in Menopause, you’re automatically banned from the opposite sex, did you know that? Men want nothing to do with me. It’s like I have leprosy or something. I guess I’m not desirable anymore just because I’m handicapped… how fucking rude! Okay, so I have some gravitational pull on my tits too, big deal. It’s not like I look like a dog that’s had several litters. However, every time I jog, I get slapped in the face by two water balloons.
Which is bullshit because I’m willing to tolerate everything that’s wrong with a man… starting with his own sagging body parts; two used wet tea bags and matching coffee stirrer (they come in a set). I am truly perplexed as to why men choose to ignore their own disabilities while judging a woman’s.
I’ll have you know, this isn’t my first time at the handicap rodeo, I have other physical disabilities that have affected me my entire life: being a woman, chubby, and blonde. But despite my physical limitations, I’m still mentally strong!… sort of. I mean, sure I have some issues like forgetfulness, suicidal thoughts, and then there’s the cat thing… but nothing a little medication could probably take care of, if I were interested in that sort of thing.
But hell, who’s got the inclination for that crap, huh? I certainly don’t. I hear it just numbs you and turns you into a zombie fuck. Well, screw that, I say! Unlike my body, I need my brain to work at full capacity in order to navigate this thing called “life”.