oh chester, you son of a bitch

August 23, 2011

Have you heard about this very mild sickness I'm rolling around with? No? Then you are obviously not on twitter telling me I'm pregnant. Call me sensitive (or just living with a bag of hot marbles in my gullet) but every time a woman mentions that she might have a headache, or heartburn, or GOD FORBID both, it's really not that funny to yell OOO, U R PREGGNANT!!!! HAAs!

Really. The joke's old. It reminds me of the numerous terrible jokes people like to tell waitresses thinking that every other I-think-I'm-funny joe schmo doesn't say the exact. same. thing.

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

"A vacation in Aruba, HAHAHAHA."

"...."

or, this lovely gem:

"Are you ready for the check?"

"No. I thought it would be free, AHAHAHAHA."

"...."

Listen man, I'm trying to help you out, give you a nice meal in an orderly fashion. Can you just shut the fuck up and work with the process? Also you're the 20th person to tell me that this hour, you're not even being original. I will fake smile until you leave and then go cry in the bathroom at the depths of the depraved soulless horror humanity has become.

In conclusion, I do not like "jokes." Also, I am not pregnant and if you want to fight with me about the statistical effectiveness of my IUD I might just get the hot rage and throw you out a window. Hot Rage: it's coming. This will be my new film about irrationally angry queasy people starring Rachel McAdams. Twist ending: she's having triplets! She names them all Mirena!

If you're thinking this would be a great time to point out that I'm overreacting blame the fact that I haven't eaten more than a few bites since Sunday and the things I have choked down have included the following: two hard boiled eggs, a banana, and not the amazing pesto Jon made from our garden last night. Next up I will waterboard myself in the bathroom because evidently have a thing for self-torture. For the love, where are the crackers? The juice? The bland soups?! Even more perplexedly, why did I bring eggs for lunch again today, knowing in advance of my textural problems?

{Why isn't truly an applicable question here, as I eat a banana and hardboiled eggs every day. Because I hate myself. If you ask me why the answer is, but they're heeeeeaalthy. I know, I know. I live in America where I can choose not to eat foods that I despise, however: A) they are cheap! and B) healthy-ish and C) I'm stupid. #MERCA!}

Unrelatedly, our adorable child is in a "dad" phase, and parents you know what I mean. Dad is the end-all-be-all and who the hell is that mom person?! Yet I can't have the heart to be offended because A) it will change, it's always flipping back and forth and B) it's been team-mama for as long as I can remember. So if he wants to spend some time yelling, "I wuv you dada! Wuv you! Come back!" well by all means I suppose that's fair. Your dad is pretty great, kid, go for it. However in the mean time stop kicking that other person you live with in the gut, she's getting the Hot Rage.

today's height: 7'2" storm tragedy! soldier down! back up now, but I lost some greens.
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