Silly Little Girl

And then I shut my big fat mouth and posted stupid pictures

I spent a solid 45 minutes trying to write a post about The Crazy That Ate My Brain. I kept deleting and retyping, yet no matter how many times I revised it still seemed to me that I'd tried to jump on some invisible band wagon, waving my arms and screaming "Look! Over here! I'm crazy, too!" There are a few blogs that I really love that have been brave enough to share some of their struggles, and I almost feel like I'm cheapening their experiences by bitching about my own miniscule bullshit. So! Instead!

I'm just going to post dumb pictures of things that made me feel like maybe Crazy wasn't Eating My Brain.

I'm sorry. All I have is a crappy camera phone. Anyway, pictured is my son, holding the doll I lovingly and meticulously made out of play-dough. She had awesome string hair, a headband that matched her belt, and a pretty blue dress. She had eyebrows and pretty facial features and big, full, red lips. I made her able to stand on her own. I loved her. My son loathed her. As you can see in the picture, his eyes are full of malicious spirit, and he's ready to Fuck Her Up. First, though, he asked me what her name was. I decided she should be a Felicia. He decided she should be Felicia Poopy. The child obviously lacks any true respect for my creative masterpieces.

Felicia Poopy was completed manhandled, and after chasing my child around my living room (and the basket of laundry you see back there) I finally retrieved her, but alas, the damage was done.

Her left eyebrow is missing, her lips got rearranged, her boobs got smushed, and she is obviously mega fucking pissed about it. Felicia Poopy would like to know if you got a problem, because if you do, we can go right now.

Hem. Anyway. That brings us to today, where I am at work, being mad buzy buzy bee, y0. I was wicked productive this morning, and the only break I took all day (besides this fucking entry) was to draw this:

Clearly, that is Herbert, and Herbert will continue to rock my socks on the whiteboard until the end of days. Or, January. Whichever comes first.

Also pictured: Uneven Christmas trees with presents that may have come from the American Red Cross, and that spiral weird-fuck tree thing I've had forever.

 

Still don't know stuff

Hey, what's up to the person that got here by searching "coitus" in google blogs! Sorry if you were disappointed!

I'm sorely tempted to change the header of this blog to "penis vagina dirty sex panties foot fetish i love new york britney spears nicole richie is pregnant and lindsay lohan giving blow jobs" just for the search engine hits.

Ahem. Welcome to all you pregnant foot fetishists, also.

IN OTHER NEWS:

The Crazy that ate my brain took over the house last night and forced me to scream 'LAZY, INCONSIDERATE FUCK!' over and over again at my poor boyfriend. I still maintain that my initial complaint was justified, but the whole "I fucking hate you and never want to see you again" may have been a wee bit over the top.

Now I find myself firmly implanted into Friday, which is exactly where I've waited to be all week, yet I'm finding it strangely disappointing. Sure, I have jeans on, and I can be little more blatant about my inability to concentrate, but the fact that a pair of stiletto boots and 'nice pants' are waiting for me in the car is leaning heavily on my shoulder. No one should ever have to dress up on Friday, unless it's in a cocktail dress and involves, well, cocktails. But alas, I have an interview this afternoon for a job that I'm only slightly lukewarm about.

It's way closer to my house, and that's the biggest draw. My current position and the new one each have drawbacks and attractions. Let's observe them, in pretty list form.

Current: 35 miles away
New: Less than 3 miles

Current: Good Pay
New: Same pay

Current: $120 a month for the best benefits on the east coast for me and my child
New: $157 every two weeks for mediocre benefits

Current: Fully matched 401k, up to 6%
New: Partially matched up to 3% 401k

Current: Day one benefits, day one Paid Time Off of 21 total days. Also, paid funeral time for family and non-family.
New: Benefits after 30 days, accrual of PTO of TEN DAYS PER YEAR. Hi, that sucks really bad. Get your shit together and pay me to not be there.

In all honesty, I've got it pretty good here. I get paid rather handsomely considering I don't have a degree and I'm only 21. The thing that massively sucks is I'm not fond of my colleagues and the commute is starting to make me consider pouring tequila into a thermos for the ride in. Oh, also, I hate insurance. I freak myself out over this damn job every single day, and all for what? So some yuppie in California can get his fucking commission? I wouldn't mind being a basketcase all the time, if it meant that I was making some miniscule difference. Call it cliched or naive or whatever, but I do want my life to mean something. I do not want to be a corporate robot.

That's all I've got for this morning. At one point, I had a story in my head about the construction guy who got disgustingly close to my ear like he was going to lick it, then screamed 'HAVE A FANTASTIC DAY' but the memory of it is still pretty squicky at this point, so give me a little time to heal. 

P.S. Jesus thinks you're an asshole, too.

I like babies. I have one of my own. I like looking at pictures of cute, squishy babies. I am so not above oohing and aahing over some strange kid's apple white monkey cheeks, or squealing with unrestrained delight over newborn baby pictures. But if I hate you? I really don't want to see pictures of your kid. If you do stupid things to your child and take pictures of it, I'm going to be especially disgruntled.

I'm not talking about unconventional haircuts or goofy outfits. I'm ok with mohawks, and it's seriously only because no one will let me near my kid with a pair a scissors that my son doesn't have one. (The one time I asked a professional to give him a mohawk, she looked at me like I was batshit insane, and said "No. Nothing doing.") And I can't pretend for half a second that I never dressed my kid up in some ludicrous costume and took embarassing pictures to show future friends, girlfriends, and possibly employers. But, let's draw a few lines here:

Spiking your four year old's hair up with unreal amounts of gel and taking pictures of him while he yells at you: OK.

Showing cell phone videos of you cornrowing your 3 month old daughter's hair while she screeches because YOU'RE HURTING HER, JACKASS: Not ok.

Doing your kid's halloween makeup "accidentally" the wrong way on his 3rd Halloween and mercilessly teasing him about it: Totally OK.

Putting eyeliner, shadow and lipstick and fucking mascara on your 3 month old daughter: TOTALLY NOT OK.

Letting your 2,3,4 year old run around in his/her dad's/mom's whatever's clothes and trip all over them and laugh at them: Completely acceptable.

Putting your 3 month old daughter in a shirt that says "I'm a hoochie and I learned it from my  mama": COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE, even if the second part is totally accurate.

Snuggly yummy baby thigh and neck rolls, or obsessively pinching your toddler's fat little chipmunk cheeks: Totally, completely, and wonderfully ok.

Bragging that your 3 month old daughter is already 28lbs: N.O.T. O.K. I'm not surprised your mom threatened to call social services on you, and if I hear you bitching about it to your friend on the phone at the top of your voice one more time I'm going to call them myself.

(I tried to find a picture of the hoochie shirt online, but no dice. If anyone finds it for me, I will love them forever. I feel like this is the kind of post that needs illustration.)