I just tried to send an email to the account where incoherent messages were sent.
The message bounced. Mailbox full.
I probably missed a few more missives, then.
That’s the fun part of having a name that’s a noun. Love or hate me, you’ll never forget me.
You’ll understand that I won’t be returning the favor.
Have a nice day, and drink your water!
Someone once claimed that l am anti-LGBTQIA and anti-people who seek mental health treatment (or should).
I considered the source. Which should have been the end of it.
But I got to typing about it with my “sister” and she gave me the perspective no one else has, or could have.
So I guess this post is a two-fer.
The bipolar, borderline one who
Is glued to the couch
(It’s a nice couch)
Verbally assaults her mom
Drags her men
Barely knows her kids
And embarrasses herself all over social media
Comes to mind
What? I was talking about the “Teen Mom” cast.
Still LOL’ing tho at the one who thought I was calling them Moldilocks.
Way to advertise their hygiene to 800 people.
I had this assclown who worked for me for a long time.
She wasn’t always an assclown. We were quite good friends for several years.
But apparently she said something about her mother (a New Yorker) wishing she lived in Florida so she could vote for Ron DeSantis for governor.
DeSantis, I knew, was a tRump puppet. And there was no fucking secret that I think tRump is a destructive piece of shit who was sent here to hand America over to Russia and plagues and what the fuck ever.
Oh hello, which of us was right?!
In any event, I was joking with her and I don’t remember what I said because that wasn’t the nature of our relationship to tiptoe.
But apparently I said Mom better stay home on Election Day because I might run her over in the parking lot before she got to pull the lever for DeSantis.
Literally, I do not remember any of this but I do remember this chick treating me like absolute garbage from that day forward.
Meanwhile she would never follow dress code. She would boo-hoo about her tummy and bunny troubles and I would let her stay home. She had an odor about her most days, too. And she was super-productive at home anyway.
At some point I approached her and said hey if you are looking for another job, give me a heads-up. She asked why I would say that and I said you haven’t spoken to me in weeks and I don’t know why and you keep saying everything is fine.
Sure enough — after she WALKED THE FUCK OUT two hours before my vacation started — someone finally told me a few weeks later that she was trashing me all over the company.
Funny that she was making too good a money for her talent level, but she was suddenly butthurting about a joke I don’t even remember making.
In any event, I am sitting here watching Ron DeSantis — who refused to lock down the state and we are the next New York as far as coronavirus hotspots — now on live TV, telling us to go back to school and work.
And I say this.
Not only should we have mowed down every old fart who didn’t like the Democratic African American gubernatorial candidate before they got to vote for the asshole who makes his predecessor Rick Scott look like a great governor …
Rick Scott who somehow won a Senate seat over the awesome Bill Nelson …
And don’t get me fuckin started about that asshole Marco Rubio or that human shitshow Matt Gaetz …
But yeah. How do you fuckers like me now, when I was RIGHT about all their corruption?
Suck a dick, all of you.
Although you probably can’t even get THAT right, either.
I have been singing “Stacy’s Mom” 20x daily for the last two weeks. Great handwashing song.
So I’m a little rattled that the songwriter just died from coronavirus.
OTOH, are there any tRump-related songs I can sing?
Halfwit neighbor across the way plays a song at top volume every night from 9:55 p.m. to 10 p.m. Usually Lee Greenwood. They all clap and hoot and holler. Like they’re at a MAGA rally.
I’ve shouted across the tidal basin to knock it off. (This fucker ruins the ending of all my shows. Also, that’s a tRump anthem if I ever heard one.)
They yelled back to fuck off. In a sleepy retirement community. Classy.
Maybe I’ll play some “Stacy’s Mom” tonight at 9:54.
Prepping for coronavirus is like waiting for a hurricane. Only it’s slower and it’s not like it will pass or hit and then life will go back to normal within the week. But you can always count on your president to do nothing to prevent it and botch the response.
But unlike a hurricane, there’s no joking around anymore with your fellow shoppers. Everyone’s just nuts right now. And not hiding their crazy.
No carts left at Publix
I went to a couple Dollar Generals yesterday because Mom likes their brand of birdseed. (And Big Lots. Both of which, we mix with oatmeal from Aldi’s. And peanuts from Texas Roadhouse. And corn shaved off the cob. And grapes. Mom’s oat blend brings all the birds to the yard …)
Anyway, it’s exhausting. But it makes her happy and therefore we drive all over Palm Beach to collect and distribute this stuff.
We know this car!
(And I do it for stray kitties too. They like some natural food that I happened to grab once and now they turn up their cute little noses at everything else. Oh and they love them some Costco rotisserie chicken. Costco cannot close or else I will not be able to face my babies.)
Bella likes salmon, not selfies
In any event, when I’m not being a witch, I’m being Snow White. Ever closer to earning that Disney wedding!
In any event, this cranky old hag chastised me as I was bouncing through the store with all my loot. She said what’s the damn hurry.
I said there are no carts, I have 12 pounds of seed and groceries for two days. I’d like to not drop it. Would you please move over a tad so I can sneak by you?
She grumbled and barely moved. Whatever.
I saw her again and she said, “You need to tell me your hurry.”
I said well I have other things to do today. I have lots of errands to run.
Like WTF dude.
Finally I was in line and she was blocking the doorway and setting off the alarm, waiting for her husband to pull up.
One day the universe will explain why these vomit and headache types seem to find nice ones to bully and emasculate.
Toxic women ruin good men.
But ONE MORE TIME this heaux says, “I DO NOT GET YOUR HURRY.”
I did not say, “Tell me, what is it that qualifies completing a shopping trip for seven items in under 10 minutes a hurry? There is literally NOTHING LEFT TO BUY.”
Her empty cart. Grr.
I did say, “If you are asking if I know something about this pandemic that you don’t, I will say that your president is a disaster and I have people depending on me. I’m happy for you that you do not seem to have that pressure.”
BOOM.
I went to the crystal shop around the corner after that.
The room where it happened.
Bought more black tourmaline, because my last one fell out of my bra and smashed into a million pieces on my marble floor. And selenite, because every witch needs a magic wand. And some heart-shaped lapis lazuli. Because, why not.
Seriously, this social distancing shit is sounding better and better every day.
Spirit’s Messenger dreamed she threw a punch and said, “You can’t troll with swollen eyes.”
She’s still love and light.
She can be more than one way.
She’s a Gemini, after all.
Thirty days sober.
Social media sober.
Although hey, thanks for the gift off my Amazon registry. Damn, that’s some next-level stalking. But I love presents. So, thanks.
In any event, it’s been 30 days since I visited any of the near two dozen sites that chip away at my IQ.
Mmm chips.
A couple friends are still seeded and one asked if I want an update for old time’s sake.
I said hard pass, G. And unsub yoself. You live in the Acela corridor. Look outside instead for some high-speed wreckiness of the train variety.
Unsub Yoself.
I gotta get me that on a T-Shirt.
Best month ever. Looking forward to repeating it.
But first, chips.
ETA 3/13: Math never was my strong suit. It was 32 days at the time of writing. 36 today.
I just told my West Coast crime partner I can physically feel my IQ rising again.
I read that Michael Bloomberg is hiring malignant narcissists and comedy writers to serve on his communications team. You know, to appeal to the deplorables. It’s genius, really.
Just writing it here in case a couple of Floridians need a job. It’s one of those rare times when I would give a throaty recommendation.
Speaking of, I was literally at my new job three days when someone from my past decided that they need a job there. They declared to a fellow industry friend that I’d be the one to get them in.
I laughed.
Then my new publisher called. You know, because word travels THAT fast.
I did one of my usual, super great person and easy to work with. The kind of person you tell them what to do, and they do it.
Code for: Interesting but not compelling.
Literally the guy was my boss three days and he said, hmm. “What is it you always say, Goddess? Interesting but not compelling?”
Further validation of my recent life choices.
In any event, I am reminding myself that words matter. You never know what’s going to get through to someone. And you really never know what’s going to wound them. Or their reputation. Or, you know, their personal economy.
As for me, maybe I’ve encountered enough mean-spirited fools over a lifetime that I can take most everything with a grain of salt and glass full of margarita on the rocks.
But I got to thinking about my MN from the past. The comment I’ve been sitting on for 20 years … the one that will shut that person up forever.
Funny I’ve never used it. I’ve needed it. I’ve wanted it. I’ve had occasion. But even I don’t want that level of regret in my heart for hurting that particular person.
As Aaron Burr sang in “Hamilton,” he’ll forever be the villain in Alexander Hamilton’s story.
[Gotta love when the self-appointed victims realize the role they create in our lives.]
Funny also that my latest MN has used a similar dig on me twice now. The one too low for even me to bring up to someone else who actually put my physical and mental and economic status in jeopardy.
So maybe words don’t matter.
But the fact that I still care how they land means there’s hope for me yet.
Be well. Be blessed. And please, for the love of God, be gone.
When Jimmy took me to Delmonico’s for the first time, he said …
“Only pretty girls get to go to Delmonico’s.”
Jimmy always was a liar.
