Thursday, May 26, 2011


Tornados—especially ones that park themselves next to hospitals—can fuck right the fuck off.

Looters. Looters can fuck right off to the special level of hell reserved for child molesters and those who talk in movie theaters.

People who complain about no music on radio stations offering storm and recovery coverage 24/7—and are helping people find their loved ones in the mess in Joplin—can fuck right off. Listen to your iPods or CDs. We're working on surviving.

People who complain about no cable or internet when they're still pulling survivors out of the wreckage in Joplin can fuck right off. You can complain when everyone is accounted for.

I'm posting this early because while we're safe, we had to go to my mother's to get internet access. And I'm too mentally exhausted to get worked up about this.

Friday, May 20, 2011

I really shouldn’t be complaining…

Having to set my alarm to get up an hour or two before the baby so that I can get things done can fuck off. I adore both my kids, but I really wish herding the butt limpet (really, he runs up behind me, wraps his arms around my hips as far as they'll go, and presses his face into my butt, giggling when I try to shake him off), and dealing with days of "I won't sleep unless you're holding me and I'm nursing" exhaust me to the point that I can't get much done after they both go to bed.

I can fuck off for complaining, but damn if I don't need a babysitter sometimes.

Friday, May 13, 2011


We are having our yearly infestation invasion of ants. We cannot figure out where they're coming in, why they're coming in, nor can we prevent them from coming in. And with a toddler and an infant, we can't spray all of the routes we've found inside—most are in the kitchen, but many are in the baby's room, or right behind the toddler's potty chair in the bathroom.

Ants. Ants can fuck off. Ants can fuck off with a giant can of ant and roach spray. I HATE ants with a bloody purple passion.

Friday, May 6, 2011


All four members of my family being sick with a cold at once can fuck off.

Not being able to ease my children's stuffed up sinuses can fuck off.

Not being able to take Sudafed can fuck off.

My state contemplating making pseuduoephedrine products available by prescription only can fuck off with rusty razorblade lined baseball bats. Lubricated with ghost pepper oil. May the sponsors of that bill be ass-plowed by the First Wookie on a four-wheeler wearing her giant prick of a husband as a strap-on.

That's all for me, but I think that's enough.