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.

Here’s the thing.

All you people saying how ’smart’ you are all the time? You’re not. If you have to tell people you are smart? Guess what. You ain’t.

‘Oh I got straight A’s in school, I was an honor student, I was so smart.’ <- every time you say blog that, I imagine that your school is one of the worst in the nation and THAT is how you managed to ‘graduate at the top of your class’. Go on, tell me your SAT scores. LIKE IT MATTERS ANYMORE!

Christ. Do something to SHOW me you’re smart, like not sounding like an idiot all the time, or researching what-the-fuck high octane gas is and how it differs from low octane gas, and then we can talk about all these mysterious A’s you’ve been getting.

How Not to Win Friends and Influence People. And by people, I mean me.

There’s this guy. Isn’t that how all of my stories start? Sometimes I wish I liked women just to give my shitty stories some fucking variety.

Moving on….

There’s this guy…we went out twice. A friend of a friend. Let’s call him, um, Ren. He was the short, ugly sidekick to Stimpy, right? Good. Like I said, we went out twice and he scared himself because apparently he didn’t realize that GIRLS LIKE TO KISS. Especially after a date. Never in my life did I think that counted as “moving too fast.” Thank god I didn’t reach for his zipper. His dick probably would have ended up in his own damn throat.

He im’d me on Friday to congratulate me on graduating and threw in some feeder lines like “you deserve this moment” and “i’m so happy for you.” Blah, blah, blah. So maybe this means we’re friends?

Well, surprise, no it doesn’t. I im’d the bastard today to see if he owns a typewriter. Since the im convo was primarily me, me, me, I figured I’d throw him a bone and asked him to tell me one good thing that happened to him today.

His answer? “I followed a woman with a great ass down the hallway and into the elevator.”

Lovely, Stalker Ren.

He doesn’t seem to understand that being friends with girls does NOT mean talking about girls with that girl. I don’t want to hear about her ass. Or her boobs. Or her hair. All it does is drive home the point that I WASN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU. Or, at least you didn’t think that I was good enough for you. Clearly I’m better than you deserved. I am not your wingman. I am not your buddy.

So, I did the only appropriate thing and pointed out his social gaffe and logged off before he could respond.  Sometimes the only way to deal with assholes is to act like an asshole too.

But the gun isn’t loaded

Dude, my last post was so premature.

He’s still checking my damn blog.

Hi Foot, Here’s the Gun

So, since a chunk of my blog had become passively-aggressive toward Ludge, I figured I could use it as a tool to maybe make stop reading it once and for all.  Of course, this wasn’t exactly easy…because if I made him not read the blog, he wouldn’t read the blog and I couldn’t use my statcounter to keep a half assed eye where he was.   And he wouldn’t know how I was doing..that I was ok and have a job (sort of) and am sleeping with a three-nippled rock star (that’s the passive aggressive part). The horror!

But I did it anyway. I was open and honest and he read it (thanks statcounter!) and he hasn’t checked since.  Foot, gun, shoot.  But I think I’ll feel better about it as soon as I stop feeling like a complete tool.