Caterwauling

I asked Cocoa to send me a song whenever she is ready or able.

I didn’t know what to ask for. It’s not like the 400 songs I made up to match the 400 names I have for her are breaking past any of Taylor Swift’s 10 albums in the top 10 on Billboard, Spotify and Apple.

Alas, my girl came through tonight in a spectacular way.

“Country Grammar” came on as I pulled into my compound. Mom and I love us some Nelly, so we started singing.

* Shimmy shimmy Cocoa butt *

The moment it was out of my mouth, the tears started. We sang that to her when she still lived under the Target truck.

Mom saw her first Target truck today since we lost our baby. She lost it then too.

I was already in my head so it didn’t affect me as directly.

Oh, who am I kidding. Everything affects me directly when it comes to my girl.

Thank you for “our” song, baby.

After Cocoa passed, I cleaned her litter box and put it away.

I gave her medicine to a Baltimore kitty.

I gave her little plastic lid that she liked to sleep in to Bella. Who loves it.

And I let Magic have the pillowcase that was the last thing she physically touched.

He was a dick to her, but he won’t let me wash this …

My baby didn’t have much else, other than my whole heart.

She still has two tiny Christmas trees. She didn’t want to come out of my room in the end. So I had a little pink tree and a little green one, to keep her company while I worked.

The lights burned out on both the day she left. The. Day. She. Left.

Anyway, that litter box. I had swept up and cleaned the floor, since she missed it once or twice in her final days. She always got to it. Just couldn’t get her tiny legs up into it anymore.

Cocoa was gone about two days, maybe three, when one of her brown-and-white claws appeared where her box used to be.

Now, I had shaved some of her fur off. Stole one of her white whiskers with the brown roots. Wished I had kept a discarded claw, but I always got rid of those so Mom wouldn’t step on them and get hurt.

How in the cinnamon toast fuck did Cocoa manage to FIND a rogue claw, let alone leave it for her Momma to see?

The others saying bye to their sissy …

God I hope she is the reason they are nuts. I told Cocoa to give it to them like they did to her. They worship that tiny box. As they should.

There was a pack of two catnip strawberry toys at Five Below for Valentine’s Day. Every time I looked at them, I thought, nah, I have three kiddos.

I’d found three Christmas bulb toys in a pack. And three Hocus Pocus broom toys before that. And three Peeps. You get the idea.

Eggy. We had bacon and avocado toast too.

Today I was in 5B and there was one pack of twin strawberries left.

I bought them. And cried all the way to the register, remembering that I don’t have my gray baby to go home to anymore.

I always tried to bring something home for her. Ribs. Chicken. A cheeseburger. Which, McDonald’s fucked up Cokie’s last cheeseburger. I said plain and it was covered in ketchup. Just like Olive Garden fucked up Kadie’s last fettuccine Alfredo. I am not even sure what they gave me, but I had to go back. I wasted that time. I didn’t waste that time for Cocoa. Let fuckups be fuckups.

My northern family is in town tonight. I have been looking so forward to seeing them for months. I just canceled. They don’t need the sad girl there to ruin their good time.

Of course, that leaves me to wonder if I might not see all (or any) of them again. Like, should I have sucked it up because, god, they are my long-ago-workplace family?

Got into a rip-roaring fight with Carl from the next building. He figured out that I’m the 6 a.m. community cat feeder. He is the reason I am no longer the 6 p.m. feeder. And why that gal goes later if she sees Lurch out patrolling the lot.

Get him, Cocoa.

Carl is very mad that Meatball sleeps in his bushes. And that Meatball pooped in the bushes and buried it in the sand. I said cry me a fucking river. He said he can’t keep his windows open. I said I can’t either because everyone here is a fucking chainsmoker. He said I am very nasty for not sympathizing with him. I said you are nasty for taking photos of my crotch eery time you see me (as that’s how he approached — with his camera on me).

We yelled at each other for a good 15 minutes. The cats, who had been eating, scattered. Then people started walking their ugly fucking dogs. So I scooped up all the wet food with my hands and threw it away at home. I told him those cats hate you and that’s why they must be near you. He said you know NOTHING about animals. I said I know you’re trash and so is your daughter. He said well I am not my daughter. Like WTF kind of answer is that?

He’s just a small, miserable wuss of a man. And I sincerely don’t understand why my baby had to die but Carl and every piece of shit loser asshole who has to stalk and harass me online and off is still alive. I mean, what a goddamned waste. No one will miss any of them a quarter as much as I miss my little girl. Not even an eighth, I’d bet.

Anyway it’s no fun coming home without immediately seeing Cokie behind the door. Without scooping her up and her purring louder than the pipes rattle when I wash dishes because the dishwasher doesn’t work and the walls are literally made of paper. Without cutting up a cheeseburger into a thousand little pieces because she had no toofs, and watching her gobble it like I gave her the greatest gift the land could offer.

So, no, Carl, I genuinely do not give a fuck about your stupid windows or you being mildly inconvenienced, for that matter.

Oh and he did harass the night shift, too. We’re both blonde and the same height, so he yelled at her too and said something odd to me about having this discussion with me before. Like, so your MO is basically just harassing women in the dark and taking photos of them squatting. AND you drive a child predator van with Ohio plates. Real fucking prize, there.

He must hate that we all think he’s a joke. But really, he hasn’t given us reason not to. We all sent him running and crying to his blind daddy. Who he should be spending time with, not us, right?

If only I could trade my baby’s life for Carl’s. For just about anyone’s, really.

The anger stage is real and it’s my favorite so far.

I had put in a Target order for coffee. But the only store that had any left (Dunkin, pumpkin) in January was the Greenacres store.

So, Momma and I took the ride. Armed with birdseed, because the property has a little reservoir where dozens gather.

After we fed ducks, we drove behind the store to see if there were any others who could use a beakful.

There was a gorgeous gray kitty lounging under a Target truck. I didn’t see her but Momma did. Momma said pull over and she sent me into the store for food.

I came out with Kitten Chow and a couple cans. Cocoa knew I was a friend and let me come into her space.

She gobbled everything I had to offer. I asked her if she wanted to come home with me, but she settled back into her spot.

First photo:

I promised to come feed her again. And we did … every night till April 4, 2020, when I finally succeeded in catnapping her.

Gotcha day:

We attracted at least a dozen more kiddos. And birdos who eat cat food. We came back every day for a year before some illiterate Target employee got us escorted off the premises.

Legend had it that a lady in the trailer park next door had taken on 16 cats but was ordered to stop either housing or feeding them. A man with broken English told me this, so thats all I got of Cocoa’s origin story.

Cocoa always got the first food I doled out. And when we had rotisserie chicken, mom’s job to distribute, she always gave Cocoa the most. Cokie was her little “Nibble Nibble Munchkin.”

Then Cocoa would stroll with me around the parking lot. She would sample what I gave other kitties, since they all liked different flavors and brands and I tried to accommodate who liked what.

I made it a point to never post about Cocoa on social media. I was nervous that someone crazy in that neighborhood would try to harm her. So I posted about the rest and kept my little treasure to myself.

First “us-ie”:

After I finally got my girl, I finally stopped sobbing all the way home without her.

I wasn’t in the market for a new cat. But I literally died every night when the feeding time, evening stroll and saying-bye ritual had concluded.

I enjoyed new rituals that involved baby blankets and her grooming me to sleep at night.

My little Cubbie. She didn’t even look real once she lost the stress from being outside in the heat amid the trucks and the drunks of Greenacres.

Baby bear cub:

Alas, I loved this baby so much that I never missed an opportunity to hug and kiss her.

She loved me back from day one. She purred louder than any Mustang I’ve ever driven when I would say her name or touch her.

I took her to the vet four days after I nabbed her. Can’t tell you how many thousands we would go on to spend on vet bills, or tens of thousands on specialty foods and meds. And chickies, ribbies, turkeys, cheeseburgers, etc. That child loved spices!

Moar please:

I have always worried about this child but she has always bounced back from some really bad days.

And she was an excellent road trip partner:

But last Wednesday the 24th, she refused chickie and the dark meat turkey I specially ordered for her from Sprouts. Which is as close to a red flag as you can get with her.

On Thursday, she refused the Lil Soups and Delectables and even the watery Weruva and Tiki Cat baby mousse that she had just devoured two days earlier.

So I made my final work call (to offer someone a job) at 1 and called off for the next day. I took Cocoa out to the balcony and rejoiced that she would drink water and sleep.

She never minded my presence or my Mardi Gras toes:

She had a hard 32 hours.

Every time I picked her up to hug her, she immediately nuzzled and loved on me, like always.

We spent most of Friday in the living room. She only showed energy when I hugged her.

It was like she saw death coming and fought like hell to get back to the floor, to the little plastic lid she loved to sleep in on my bed. Her claws never retracted. So she hated fabrics. She preferred the cold marble floor and Costco boxes and this lid.

Cokie’s last photo. She left me soon after:

I have a thousand more photos and a million stories to tell about the baby who made me love again. She is the reason I acquired nine others. It all started with her.

She gets to leave a legacy. I ordered her final methimazole refill two weeks ago. When I parted with the $80, something told me she wouldn’t use it. But with weather events, I wanted to have it anyway.

Well.

I asked my FB crew to DM me if they could use it. And I mailed it off to an adorable tortoise cat — same colors as Cokie — who lives in Baltimore.

I also sent foodz. My lil jabronis haven’t had an appetite since Sissy went away. And it costs too much to toss.

Baltimore kitty got his package last night. And his brother, who also has health problems, loved the food I sent.

So, my baby’s legacy lives on in more than just my broken heart.

On her way out of this world, something told me pick her up. It is your last chance.

She fought, of course. Her little headdy rested on my shoulder for a few moments but whatever came for her, came. And she was mad as hell to leave her momma.

I kept her in my arms and she quickly went limp, her adorable little bummy on my lap.

We sang all of Cocoa’s songs. I didn’t cry or lift her to look at me. I knew, just “love her out.”

I always called her my baby. But I was hers, too.

I wrapped her in her giraffe baby blankets, put her in her box lid, and put her where she used to sleep on my bed next to my head.

We have two aquamation places here. One was as rude as the other, when I called the next day. But the one I picked did a nice job and, one more annoying interaction later, I have my baby back for good.

I only had her four years. But I loved her with all I had. I always always always will.

I cried while she was alive, knowing this day would come. I just wish it hadn’t come so soon.

Even now, I say bye to her when I leave … say good morning, Totes when I wake up (she always came to the bathroom for morning scritches) … and say “night-nite, Totes” first before I say it to Momma, Bella and Magic as I fall asleep.

She will never not be first. My Momma understands. Momma callee

Md

Night-nite, Totes. Your momma loves you to the moon and to Saturn.

You weren’t just my best friend. You were my best four years.

It’s been seven and a half years since we lost Sia.

I think about her a lot. Maybe not as frequently as I did. But still more often than I’ll ever let on.

Today makes seven birthdays without her.

Today also marks the first birthday without another friend of mine who passed unexpectedly last year.

I hadn’t bothered to wish her a happy birthday in years. I mean, neither of us did. But we spent a lot of birthdays together over the years. So it’s not like either of us could forget.

I messaged one of her family members today. I should message her ex, too, since he’s the one who broke me the sad news to me last year.

The ex had instructed me to tell our mutual friends. But I thought about it and said nah.

She was so private in life. You cannot even get a Google result for her. Believe me, I’ve tried.

There is no reason to let anyone think she is doing anything but her beloved hobbies and being unintentionally funny.

God, how she made us all laugh.

The irony is not lost on me that this used to be a day of celebration. Now it is a day of reckoning that “we’ll get together soon” now refers to whatever lies beyond the veil.

Happy birthday, ladies. I will never forget it … or you.

Am I back? TBD.

I have to say thank you to HB for blocking the one account of hers that I bother to check in on. I see she’s been here nearly every day for nearly five years. She likes to say “I hope you heal” near-daily. I hope she visits every site and account I have, every day, until the feigned hysterics turn into actual mania. I appreciate being able to stick to my resolution to not read her insults. THANK YOU!

Anyway. 2023 was a good year.

It was one of my best income years.

I got to see The Eras Tour Live, TWICE. Once in Tampa and once in Pittsburgh.

Tampa was fun. I took the girl kitties with me. We stayed on the Riverwalk and drank at Cigar City and some Gen X bar. And we spent time in Ybor City. Great fun. 10/10, no notes.

Pittsburgh was amazing. I was supposed to travel there with my BF. But his dad declined quickly and entered the process of dying. RIP Larry. Who I liked better than his son, anyway.

I took my cousin M. to Taylor. I haven’t seen since she was a baby. My momma and her momma were super close though. Like sisters who didn’t fit into the broader fucked up family.

In any event, I’m so glad we met up. I got a great friendship out of this and that was the real souvenir from this trip. That and fat from all my favorite bars and bakeries.

I nearly went to see my paternal grandmother while I was in town. I didn’t. Ironically as all fucking hell, my half-sister’s daughter was in the section above us. (They live like three states away.)

M and I had killer seats at Heinz Field. (Thank you, Capital One presale. I got SO LUCKY.)

I checked my half-sister’s FB page and holy crap, she and her kid had THE SAME VIEW. Just up higher. Like what are the fucking odds?

They did go to see our (ugh, “our”) father briefly on the way out of town. His dopey wife moved in her dopey daughter and her FOUR kids by four dads. And she goes to Liberty University.

(I seriously love that the man who told me he wanted nothing to do with me, his kid –because his then-girlfriend didn’t want him to — has to raise the wife’s kid AND her waiflings.)

Anyway, my flight home got canceled. I should have kept the Mustang convertible and driven the 16 hours. Instead I flew to my BF’s town for a layover. (The opposite of hilarity ensued there.)

What I should have done was stayed in PGH. M’s mom Elaine wanted to see me but we didn’t make it happen.

Now, I’ll never see her again. E went and died on us three months later.

What the fuck, Caucasian male God?

We endured eight deaths this year. I don’t want to talk about all or any of them, really.

I say it was a good year because I got to travel and see Taylor and I am still employed and Cocoa is still with me. But it was a trying fucking year.

2022 ended w losing my Uncle Tom. Not Elaine’s dad Tom, who we already lost, but her stepdad Tom, who loved her like his own.

In 2023, we lost my cousin Jim to bladder cancer around my birthday.

T’s dad died shortly after I came back from Pittsburgh, to pancreatic cancer.

Elaine died of colon and liver cancer in September.

M was on her babymoon, one week after the concert, when her mom got diagnosed.

She took care of Elaine till she passed in September … four days before M’s daughter was born.

I can’t imagine becoming a mom four days after losing yours. My cousin is badass. Bad fucking ass. She is also a doctor. And the most liberal person I know.

I am so proud of her. And I miss her mom so fiercely.

Imagine — had we not gone to the concert together, we wouldn’t be friends now. I wouldn’t get baby pics and old videos of her mom to make me laugh and cry. I wouldn’t get cool care packages from Pittsburgh because she was so grateful I said don’t pay me a dime for this ticket, after she was thisclose to paying $1,400 to get resale.

I love that I could do that for her. It was nothing. I got so much more in return. So much.

I LOVE my cousin to pieces and her little girl is cuter than any human kiddo I’ve ever seen. I tried to send an “I snuck into the Eras tour” onesie for Xmas, as I am the peddler of Swiftie baby gifts, but it turned out disastrously though.

There is another death I can’t post about. I wanted to tell my Old Friend(TM) about it at the concert.

O.F. had agreed to meet me there. We didn’t. Not for lack of me telegraphing my location at all times.

I don’t know if his GF kiboshed that meetup or if he himself was afraid I’d jump his bones after 30 years in front of 70,000 other people. (Bitch, I might. LOL)

He stopped returning my messages the moment I stepped on the flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Atlanta. But he liked every FB post I made about my trip.

So, guess what, buddy. You don’t get to know. You don’t get to know how fucking broken I have been and how fucking broken you should fucking be, with me.

And not 10 minutes later, metaphorically anyway, one of my fellow directors died of gliboblastoma.

Not the one I call Feather for reasons best left unexplained. One the world actually misses and sucks a little more without.

I mean, in the end I knew Kris’ tumor had come back. Where Nanny sows discord on purpose and yet I somehow get blamed, Kris was inadvertently mixing stuff up at the end.

My staff was so frustrated and so was I. But I couldn’t tell them why I was so incredibly patient and they should be, too.

One of my staffers (I lost 16 people last year. Story for another day. Or never.) lost her mind when this nice lady passed. Like, she wouldn’t have been so angry at her if she had known. I said you can only react within the bounds of the information you have. Now you know, you don’t always get the full story.

I hate to say I forget who else died. Those were some fucking big ones. And somewhere Heinous Bitch is out there saying I deserve all the hell and hurt I get.

And to that I say, I’m sorry.

That’s what she wants, an apology. Fine. I am sorry that she had to post that she was going to my colleague’s funeral — that I DID NOT GO to because K. deserved better than potential drama.

K deserved to live. I am not sure I can say that about some of the survivors in the stories I’ve told you about today.

Looking back, two Eras Tour trips doesn’t really seem to offset all the sadness that continues to this day.

But again, M. is one of my close friends now. And with the death I can’t post about, it was good to reconnect with their ex (who broke the news). Even if his page is too tRumpy and religious for me.

But I did reach out to my friend’s niece, B. And we’ve developed a rapport we never would have had otherwise. I share old stories and provide as much insight as I can.

I suppose I could talk about my own health adventures. Just grateful to be here another year.

Not grateful for all the jagoffs who waste my time. Like, hi, if you lived through MY 2023, you’d see why I cannot stand to waste a moment of stress on Nanny and Linda Blair. (Another who thinks it’s cool to tell us what failures we are to them.)

But I really do stress about them. And the 16 I lost. And my asshole neighbors who can’t stand to see a community cat eat an ounce of food without them sticking a camera up my cooter to try to intimidate me. Like, literally — I am not joking.

In any event, I know what makes me special and I hope that the people who think I am special (in the good way) don’t get that view (too) influenced by the others.

I got enough to deal with, without worrying about how to afford all the retail therapy I require to get through all the rest.

The hardest part of a new year is officially having to leave behind those who will never see it. That and looking at those who don’t deserve to still be here.

I won’t claim that I won’t go snoop on whack jobs in 2024 and find new ways to piss them off just by existing. But I do promise to still be a better worker, human and citizen than any of them could ever hope to be.

Not just an excellent Beastie Boys song, but also the title of my autobiography, apparently.

I ignored Medellin for a while. He asked if I was mad at him. I said no, I’m just over people.

Then he sent his usual series of good morning, beautiful and good night, gorgeous texts.

The stuff girls dream of, right?

I don’t know. I think I was still put off from him sending me a photo of myself when he said I had blue eyes, I said I had green (I actually said, “Wrong girl”). I mean, again, wouldn’t any girl LOVE that. And here’s me like OK, how about no.

After a few days of silence, I would say I got good and drunk but I really only had one Guinness and four ounces of Cabernet.

But I texted that maybe this is the wine talking, but I really don’t have capacity for small or any kind of talk. Hope you have a great rest of your trip and safe travels home.

I actually also wrote, “Hope you have a great time in Europe this summer,” but I deleted it. At least, I hope I did. I haven’t been brave enough to read my text or take my phone out of Focus mode.

For my entire career, I’ve said I don’t have the bandwidth to take on someone. That includes friends. But I also have been so freaking hurt by so many people, it’s definitely a crutch.

I mean, shit, how many times have I used mom as an excuse to not hang out with someone? Of course, let’s be real, I didn’t want to hang out with them.

Some got the hint after a few years. (Seriously, it finally took someone voting for TFG twice to recognize that i don’t fucking want tRumpers in my goddamn life.) And don’t get me started how I marched against TFG and said person takes me to dinner. Like, not a day for TFGers yo. But, damn I like Mexican.

Anyway, when I sent my message, I felt relief. Like finally. I don’t have to worry about having to fit this person in. I don’t have to stop hoarding clothes that don’t fit and I don’t have to be sad at neglecting my mom, cats and job that I am perpetually behind at.

Then when I woke up, I was like shit.

I mean, nobody closed any doors. But I rebuffed enough advances, and ignored enough calls, that any normal person would be like OK bitch. Maybe there wouldn’t just be small talk if you’d fucking write something of substance to talk about.

I read somewhere that self-sabotage isn’t sabotage. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s having been hurt or seeing how you could be hurt and going, nah.

Still. I feel heavier. Like, I had one person outside this house who gave a shit about me and I said, nope!

And while I suck at emoting in the moment, I’m like this boy is just as breakable as you are, honey. He likes you. Sure, maybe he’d slice you up and put you in a trash bag in the sea behind Burdine’s. But, you know, maybe he’d buy you some of their bacon-wrapped shrimp first.

I mean, what do I want? Someone nearby-ish but not. Someone with a home in the Keys. Someone who makes good money. Someone who writes in perfect English. Someone a little younger.

WTF is wrong with me? Oh yeah, I’m old and fat and anxious and surrounded by sickness. Even though I know I’m a goddess, I also know that I can undervalue myself more easily than I’d like to admit.

I just find it so hilarious that I asked Tarot if I could find love this year. Tarot said yes. I asked if he could be someone important to me. Tarot said yes. And what the fuck do I do but send him away.

Plus, I lost over seven pounds while we were talking. Just for me. But I felt like, hey, I would like to feel better and more confident when I see this boy finally.

And guess who’s packed on two pounds of pasta and bread in the past couple days? Fat. Ass.

If that isn’t typical me — getting this close to what i want and sending it away — then I don’t know what is.

So I have this guy who likes to text and call. And I like to toss the phone across the room.

I don’t have a reaction to him. Just the whole communicating thing.

Like, it’s already a foregone conclusion in my mind that whether he turns out to be a friend or boyfriend, he’ll just fucking ruin my peace and be a mistake like every other person I’ve ever met has been.

I mean, there IS this thing in my head that what if he isn’t. You know? What if he’s the guy I’ve waited my whole life for? The guy who takes me around the world and worships the very ground this goddess walks on?

Of course, I got a fright the other day when he told me he can’t wait to see my beautiful blue eyes in person. Um, what?

I said you got the wrong girl. They’re green.

Not 30 seconds later, he produces the photo I had sent to him when he still worked at Weiss, to edit for the website.

That version of the photo is NOT on the website. HE FUCKING KEPT IT.

I mean, maybe there’s something romantic and poetic in all this. But I think of how fucking Psychofag, Scoots and Cuntbreath cannot stop fucking following me around after all these years. Do I really need another stalker?

I’m back to ignoring him and he’s back to trying to get me to talk again. The last time I went dark, I said I was over people and work and I put my phone in my car for extended periods sometimes.

I think it’s more that I think back to 2019, when I figured I wouldn’t get hurt since I didn’t have any feelings. But it turned out I got very hurt and those feelings hit me like a ton of bricks the day after the plug was pulled.

Like, what good did all that do me? I gained another fucking stalker out of it. His bitch face wife became more enamored with me than he ever was, and that’s saying something.

What kills me is I’ve spent more time agonizing over all this for nothing. Just say hi back to the poor guy, Dawn. Would it kill you to be nice to someone who is taking time out of their life to pursue you the way you deserve to be pursued?

Yes, actually, maybe it would kill me.

I got a bunch of notifications overnight from Blogger, telling me that my posts have been moved behind a wall because they are so offensive.

The posts are from 2004. They are quotes from my mom, answers to old Friday Five surveys, stories about my vibrator selling days, etc.

I mean, it’s aggravating enough that Zuckerberg keeps putting mom in Facebook jail for memes she posted three to five years ago. But this is goddamn ridiculous.

I just heard yesterday that internet providers are getting threatened by our christo-fascist government if they continue to let people access information about abortion. Are the Nutzis trying to ban cussing and sex too?

It’s been a beautiful few days without Heifer. Who may be reigning in hell this week or something. Don’t know or care.

Heard that name at a meeting yesterday. Apparently someone proposed to this beast. And everyone rejoiced.

Except me. I don’t wish ill on anyone but you are never going to catch me wishing someone well who fired my friends, who is always finding fault with everything, who creates work where it is not needed and who basically is incoherent on a good day and snappish on a bad one.

I can’t really tell if anyone likes this jerk or if they are just genuinely nice people. I will go with the latter, since said jerk quitting and becoming a hausfrau doesn’t seem likely what with all the travel and conference and other perks they get.

I can’t imagine anyone missed my absolute lack of engagement at the news. And I’m the only one who didn’t type congratulations in the group chat.

I did however text the two employees she and her minion fired and said my toast is that she gets treated exactly the way she treats others.

Even they are like why are you even telling us. I’m like I know. It just feels like we are the only ones who look at this person and don’t see why they are so blessed with happiness and money and titles and promotions and the freedom to run roughshod over actual kind and productive human beings.

I imagine the other cunt who can’t stop posting about me would probably say I’m jealous. Bitch, choke on that water bottle you fellate.

I got plenty of mens on unread. (Hat-tip to Baby Girl Lisa who got mens in all 50 states.)

In fact, I do my level best to drive them away. All of them. The fact that they seem to love the neglect proves my point that men love the challenge, not necessarily the woman.

I’d pity this poor asshole who just wasted his money on jewelry and signed up for a ruined life.

And I’d fear that I have to chip in on a group gift or party.

But if this sucker doesn’t wise up soon, hell if all these suckers don’t wise up, that’s not a “me” problem.

One of my wishes is to not work at the same company with this person. I hope it doesn’t have to be that I have to leave for that to be possible.