Happy Gay Marriage Day, Ludge.

I miss you more than ever.

You’ll never see this.

So, listen.

I know you don’t ‘do’ blogs. You work in IT and don’t read blogs, but whatever, your choice.

But you know I have a blog. You know I write in it frequently, with updates about my life.

You hear other people commenting on things I wrote, and get all curious about what it said.

Then you ask me, “What’s new in your life?“

Guess what?

READ MY FUCKING BLOG AND YOU’LL KNOW!!

I spend a lot of time writing in the damn thing, and I don’t have the energy to regurgitate it all for you just because you don’t ‘do’ blogs.

Guess what? I don’t ‘do’ redundant.

Yes, I’m fucking mad that I can’t bring a date to your wedding and yes, I’m fucking mad that you STILL haven’t given me my damn dress. Way to make me feel alone and fat in under 20 minutes.

I’m spending at least a grand on your wedding. I should be “allowed” to bring someone to amuse me even if we’re not “seriously dating” or engaged.

Power Trip, Much?

Here’s another thing that pisses me off, and makes me not miss you.

Are you really that insecure that you need to make yourself feel powerful by withholding information?

Example.

You: Oh my God, I read the most horrendous article yesterday. It was just awful. I can’t even believe it.

Me: Oh yeah? Send me the link, I’ll check it out.

You: Oh, no. It’s too bad. I can’t share. It’s just ridiculous.

Me: Huh? You built it up, and now I want to see what the fuck you’re talking about.  You won’t send me the link?!?

You: No, really. Trust me. It’s too bad. I’m not sharing it.

Seriously, wtf?? Why even bother telling me in the first place? Oh, right, you need to feel big and strong and powerful so you purposely whet my tastebuds and then take pleasure in denying me the taste.

You have serious issues, and? And, you are a douchebag.

Home Births: I don’t care

I KNOW you think you’re “alternative” because you don’t vote (because of “the man!”) and your friends all have purple hair.

Personally, I think you’re ridiculous

I think you’re even more ridiculous by sending around a link for a Live!  Webcast! of your baby’s birth.  It’s icky, it’s attention grabbing and I wouldn’t even click on the link.  And then sending around the stills from the camera after the birth?  Christ.  I was actually forced to click the “spam” button on my gmail account.

Not a massive ship-in-the-bottle project

I have a lot of titles: Esquire, daughter, dry martini drinker, friend.

Today I finally accepted and entirely new one: Daughter of an Alcoholic. After denying it for a long, long time, I couldn’t keep ignoring all of the empty bottles hidden around the house. And sweet Jesus, there are a lot of bottles. For the past six months, I kept wishing that I was exaggerating the problem….that my mother couldn’t remember anything because she’s stressed at work, or she falls asleep in the middle of a Saturday afternoon because a cool breeze is blowing and it’s glorious to be that lazy or that the hidden bottles were merely the first part in a massive ship-in-a-bottle project.

But no, she’s an alcoholic. And at this very moment I completely hate her for it.

I hate finding an al-anon meeting near my house. I hate figuring out the difference between a “closed” and an “open” al-anon meeting. I hate being the one to tell my father about the bottles. I hate that he doesn’t know what to do. I hate that he expects me to take the lead. I hate that I totally need a counselor of my own. I hate that I don’t have the insurance for it. I hate that she’s drinking super-cheap liquor. I hate that this means I’ll never have a glass of wine in my house again. I hate that I poured a bottle of my own scotch down the drain. I’m furious that it didn’t make me feel better.