Stupid title. Just staring at me, being all title-y. Smug jerk butthole doink.

When I was in about 6th grade to 10th grade, my best friend, Tina, had a condition that meant she was lacking a couple layers of skin, the epidermis, I think. This meant we had to be super careful when we were playing, because if you touched her too hard, she’d get a nasty, angry, black-and-blue bruise or even start bleeding from just a small amount of pressure.

I think I have that condition, only it just affects my heart.

I hate it.

I hate my feelings. I hate my tears. I hate my sensitivity.

I hate it. I detest it. I abhor it.


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I’m so tired.

Tired of trying so hard.

Tired of borrowing money.

Tired of disconnect notices.

Tired of dodging bill collectors.

Tired of not being able to give my kids a better life.

Tired of trying yet something else that may bring in some cash and it doesn’t.

Tired of feeling broken, both in body and spirit.

Tired of failing.


Juan Carlos is ruining my life!

I’ve had stories told on me more than once in this space and SOME of those stories MIGHT have been out and out lies and fabrications. The text message I’m about to relate is just one in everyday conversations that go on between Dory and myself. I think it’s her fault.

Me: I love you!


Dory: …




Dory: Driving.


Me: Where? DID YOU LEAVE ME?!?!


Dory: ?!?!


Me: Well, obviously you must have decided to divorce me because you’re driving somewhere!! AND YOU HATE ME!!


Dory: Ok. Yes, I love you. No, I’m not leaving you. Yes, you need to lay off the meth. Think of the children. The CHILDREN!!!!


Me: You make me happy.


Dory: *whispers* the children, Tom


Me: You’re insane. Really one of your best qualities.


Dory: Scott gave me $10 so I could make it to the nursing home.


So you see, she tortures me with her threats to leave me. I know what you’re saying, “She never threatened to leave you, moron!” And I have two things to say to that. 1) I don’t appreciate you calling me names. Sticks and stones and all that. 2) Were you NOT paying attention?!?! She didn’t answer me AND she was driving somewhere. CLEARLY, she was contemplating finding a boyfriend and moving to Aruba and getting a tattoo on her butt! Of a local goatherder named Juan Carlos after doing shots off his perfectly sculpted chest and Abs.

I hate Juan Carlos.

Isn’t that just the pickle on the crap sandwich that has been my week.

I’ve had this video up on YouTube for a couple years; it affected me positively, so I put it up to affect others positively. At first, I left comments open, but I had to close them down because maintenance took too much time. Every day I was having to spam and delete several nasty comments. That slowed them down, but I still get nasty messages on my public profile and in my inbox.

This one was from just a couple weeks ago.

message in my youtube inbox

Yes, it’s just a sad, sad, small person with substandard genitalia, but it still makes me a sad, sad, …person… with… serviceable genitalia.

Then shortly after I discovered that little gem in the inbox, Tom pointed this comic from cyanide & happiness.

Cyanide and Happiness, a daily webcomic
Cyanide & Happiness @

It’s disturbing, yet somewhat apropos.

Merry flippin’ Christmas.

I haven’t found a job/income yet; I’m depressed, but hangin’ onto the ledge.

By the skin of my teeth.

Some days it might be better not to post at all. Oops.

I’m all discombobulated.

Shuddup. That’s totally a word.

This job is such a roller coaster.

Some days I come home and think, my good Lord, I love my job. I can hardly believe how lucky I am to be able to help people and get paid for it.

Some days I come home and think, my good Lord, what the hell am I doing? They could pull a monkey off the street to do my job for free.

Some days I come home (at 8:15am!) and I literally pass my husband on the street; I’m on the way home and he’s on the way to work. And I feel sad.

Some nights I leave at 11:45pm as my husband is getting ready for bed, and all I want in this world is to crawl into bed with him and talk about his day until the conversation peters out and I drape an arm over his chest to feel it slowly rising and falling. And I feel lonely.

Some days (nights!) my husband wakes me up for work and says, I’m sorry, you missed your son’s school play while you were sleeping. He did great. It was unbelievable how amazingly he delivered his lines with just the right inflection. And I cry. Then that son says, I wish you could have been there, Mom. I felt you not there. And I cry some more.

I miss living my life with my husband. I miss my sons.

And I pray yet again, Lord, I want to be back in the real world, sleeping at night and living the day, just like everyone else. Am I missing a lesson here? Are you trying to teach me something that I’m just not getting? Teach me louder, Lord. I’m trying to learn.

But… silence. Nothing.

Some days I cannot bring you the funneh. I just don’t have it in me.

I’m sorry.