And maybe I went a leetle bit overboard on the “description” when I repinned it.

and the princess didn’t have her heart broken by a man who couldn’t keep his dick to himself for more than five seconds because she was smart enough to say no to the pretty face that was hiding the vile creature behind it. And she had all the time in the world to then pursue her own interests and be the person she was meant to be, reveling in her identity and fulfilling her aspirations fully. She spent as much time as she wanted with the best girlfriends who always built her up and cared about what she was saying rather than pretending to listen and hoping she was soon done. And she hand selected the finest young men to keep her company (and then sent them on their way when she was bored with them) and she read books and made beautiful art and sun bathed and nobody ever left the fucking toilet seat up or made her have to drag their feelings out of them like driving nails into brick because they were such poor communicators that she just wanted to scream into infinity in those miserable moments of complete relationship hell when she would rather be twirling through the living room, singing her favorite song at top volume. She didn’t have to share the remote or watch any sports she didn’t want to, and she only got foot rubs with her pedicures and nobody expected her to have sex with them just for doing it. She smiled every day because she wanted to, not because she was pretending she was happy, and nobody needed her to fetch them a beer or make their food first so that by the time she ate hers it was cold. She played with lady bugs and stopped to smell the flowers every day. Her friends and family thought she was fucking awesome because she was able to live her life to her full potential instead of for some loser who resented her for not wanting him to drink jack daniels every fucking night. And she never had to sleep in the goddamned wet spot. THE END.

Yeah, maybe a little too far.

Maybe.

(Who am I kidding?! That shit had it coming.)

When someone says it’s cold where they are, that means >>news flash<< IT’S COLD WHERE THEY ARE. As in, the temperature is such that they have made the judgment that it’s frickin’ freezing, Mr. Bigglesworth. Or at least very cold. To them.  Which is all that matters about their comment.  This is obvious to people who don’t have their heads up their asses, I’m guessing, but what do I know?

If someone says it’s cold (or hot), I’m thinking, just accept it and move on.  Whatever the temperature is where you are / depth of cold (or intensity of heat) you can withstand / number of brain cells you wish you had horrific weather conditions you are experiencing/have ever experienced – COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT.   Feel the need to make a snide remark that insults the person and/or comment that makes everything all about you again?  Please, please resist the stupidity you feel nagging you at that moment.

No, really. The next time you have the urge to say something like “that’s not cold – you don’t know what cold is” or “pfft, that’s nothing, you know how cold it is where I AM?“ to someone, punch yourself in the face one time (both because you deserve it and because you can do so without feeling any pain). Really! Rest assured that it won’t hurt, because somewhere, someone is getting punched in the face HARDER and even MORE THAN ONCE.

You think it would hurt to punch yourself in the face that once?  Pffft.  You don’t know what pain is.

What the hell, Raw Honey…

YOU’RE EMPTY?

Why would you toy with me so, Raw Honey? Why would you sit there, practically beckoning to me with your sweet, delicious Raw Honeyness… and then… and then… be… EMTPY?

How cruel you are, Raw Honey!

How. Very. Cruel.  You have hurt me deeply, Raw Honey.

*deep, heavy sobs*

What is that you say, Raw Honey?  You mean, you didn’t do this to me on purpose?  You say it was beyond your control, Raw Honey?  You were just sitting there, being Raw Honey and someone came along and emptied all the delicious Raw and sweet Honey inside of you out?

You are telling me that someone scraped you clean, selfishly enjoying every last drop of you, Raw Honey?  Someone didn’t share you, but just ate you all in private?  Someone ELSE did this to you and then PUT. YOU. BACK?

Just to fool me?

What is that you say, Raw Honey? Yes, Raw Honey, you are right, I *am* feeling rather stabby.

Don’t worry, Raw Honey.  I’ll get even.  I make all the meals around here after all, right, Raw Honey? People eat what I prepare, without question.

Hahahaha.

What is that, Raw Honey? You say there’s a funny tone to my laugh?  Oh, Raw Honey, just ignore that.  Everything is just fine.  I am in a peaceful state, don’t you worry.  Just overlook the strange new element in my laughter, Raw Honey.  I promise, I’m okay.  You just rest.  Shhh, shhhh, now, Raw Honey.

Someone else better watch his Raw Honey Thieving, Trickin’ a Bitch Ass, though, Raw Honey.

But you?  You just sleep now, Raw Honey. Shhhh.

Shhhhhhh.

Let’s say HYPOTHETICALLY that I was sitting on the couch watching TV. I’m watching, ohhhh, let’s say Big Bang Theory.

Then, what if John, my husband, came downstairs, grabbed the remote, and started flipping channels. WHILE THE SHOW WAS ON, NOT DURING A COMMERCIAL.

Would you think that it would be overreacting for me to FREAK THE HELL OUT and start snatching at the remote? How about if he gave me a shitty look and then both refused to let me have it back and did NOT return to the channel and show I was enjoying before he entered the room like some kind of Assholian Dictator?

If this kind of a scenario, or you know, something like it, happened, then would it be kind of over the top if I lost my shit and yelled, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!??” while visualizing myself strangling him until his lips turned blue and fell off? Would that just be too much?

I mean, it is only television after all. What do you think?

You know, I’m just wondering, in case something like that ever actually happens and I had the strong urge to beat my husband about the face relentlessly with the remote once I finally did snatch it back.

This way, I’ll know if it’s justified or not.

Thank you for your time.

Or even that hot guy I saw standing in line at the grocery store the other day. Rawr.

I’m referring more to hairy ballsacks, possibly even diseased ones.

I have a good running list of reasons (39756385 items long, clearly) for this particular brand of Makes You Want To Vomit All Of Your Meals From Ever suckage, but today let’s talk about:

“When Shit Breaks And Doesn’t Get Fixed In A Timely Manner”

When shit breaks and you own your own house, the reason why it sucks is because you have to FIX THAT SHIT YOSELF.  So that means, get off your lazy ass and determine the cause of the problemage and then do something about it.

When shit breaks and you rent, you’re often NOT ALLOWED to fix that shit yoself, nor are you allowed to hire someone else to fix that shit for yoself.  Because, of course, when you signed the lease you did no less than admit that your judegment is not to be trusted, m’kay? And you signed an agreement that says “I am a dummee and cannot fiss thingies goodlike and also I can not has enough smart parts in my head to find any other good peoples to help me fiss thingies eether. ever.”

I swear that’s what the thing said, and normally I wouldn’t sign a document rife with such horrible spelling mistakes, for chrissakes, but if I remember correctly I had diarrhea that day so I was kind of in a hurry to get things wrapped up, because there is really nothing worse than sitting in a realtor’s office with a hot wet ass that ISN’T just a euphemism for how damn sexy you are.

But I digress.

So, basically, we’re not allowed to fix broken things.  Instead we have to call and report them to property management, and they will send someone to the house to fix what’s broken.

Wait, no.  I wrote that incorrectly.

They will THINK ABOUT HOW THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO send someone to the house to fix what’s broken FOR ABOUT A WEEK, but they will not do anything about it.

Then when your husband calls them and says, “Uh, did you get my two messages about how the kitchen light is broken and my wife has already set 4 fires in there trying to cook in the dark because she’s an idiot, and could you please just go fix it before she accidently builds an atom bomb trying to make Mac & Cheese in the dark? I know it sounds improbable, but really, you don’t know her. And it is not at all improbable.  That kitchen light is SO MUCH MORE important than you realize” they will be like, “Huh?”

And then they’ll be like, “Oh, we need approval from the owner since it’s just lightbulbs.”

This is the part of the story where I tell you how I almost threw the phone across the room when John was relaying things to me.  Because I was in the room the day that John called them and left a message, and I heard him saying, “Hi, our kitchen light is broken and we thought it might just be the bulbs, so I went out and bought new ones, but it still won’t turn on, so it’s not the bulbs.  We need someone to come out and have a look at it and fix it.”

And:

1) See that part where he said IT’S NOT THE BULBS? Yeah. I HEARD THAT.
2) John hasn’t been home since October 16th.  I just want to go ahead and point that out.
3) As I type this, the light is STILL BROKEN.

After he set them straight in a much more polite way than I’d ever be capable of, they promised him someone would “be out tomorrow” to have a look at it.

BAHAHAHAHAHA!

“Be out tomorrow” in Property Managementese CLEARLY means “sit around with a thumb up one’s ass.”  Either that or “laugh at your dark kitchening ass while we pretend like we care about you and your broken thingies, when if fact, we so very much do not. Buy a lamp, asshole.”  I’m not sure, but it’s definitely ONE of those.

A WEEK LATER he called again to find out if they would prefer that we:

A) Burn down their building.
B) Set bull weavels loose in their office.
C) Poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
D) Get H1N1 first and then poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.

They asked if there was an option E, and while I told John to say, “Yes, All of the above, you sons of bitches,” instead he just asked if they could please come fix the light in the kitchen.

He is such a pussy.

So finally, someone came the next day and looked at the light.

(Technically, they said someone would “be out tomorrow” again and so I got all pissed off because I AM LEARNING THEIR LANGUAGE. But they decided to mix things up to keep me on my toes.  I am on to you, anyway, Property Management.)

On Friday, a nice man came to the house, stood on one of my chairs and looked at the kitchen light fixture.

He told me it was broken.

I almost had a hysterical breakdown at the delivery of this news because I had no idea the kitchen light was broken and I thought frantically, “Holy crap, how am I going to make dinner now, in the dark???”

But really, he said the ballast is fried and that he’d have to remove it and replace it.  Then he took it off the fixture and he left, saying, “If I don’t see you again later today, I’ll see you Monday!”

It’s Wednesday.  I have not seen the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy yet.

I’mma gonna go into the kitchen later and whip up that atom bomb.

Hope you fuckers liked your lives. Some shit’s ‘splodin’ tonight.

****

UPDATE: So after I wrote this, but before I could publish it, the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy actually showed up, except it was the same guy who came before and told me the ballast was broken, so I was a little bit disappointed.  I was hoping for something with wings and a tutu or at least a glittery wand or a Pegasus waiting for him in backyard while he was inside working.  Regardless, he had a new ballast with him and the knowledge necessary to install it.

Fortunately, while he was working, Braden made sure to point out loudly to me that “that’s not Daddy!” saving me from making the horrible mistake of pestering the poor guy to rub my feet.  Of course, this is nothing new from Braden; he’s always screaming that information at random times, like when I’m on the couch making out with boyfriends, and also sometimes when my pimp comes to collect.

Duh, Braden, DUH.

Oh, but apparently the Ballast Replacing Fairy IS a fireman.  Braden said so.  Which clearly means he needs to be reported to the fire chief for his Fairy Side Gig.  I’m 97% sure that there’s a “No Fairies” rule in the Fireman Job Requirements.  It’s right next to the part that says you have to have really big muscles and the ability to grow masculine patterns of facial hair on command.  I’m not sure whether it’s more or less important than looking sexy while you slide down a big metal pole in a hurry.  Anyway, he’s breaking the rules.

I’m telling.

PS: You’re a bunch of lucky bastards. There’s light in the kitchen now, so I probably won’t be blowing up the earth tonight.

Probably.