Unicorn Tears

It’s 2019 and we thought the unicorn food trend was behind us. We were wrong, because unicorn wine is now a thing.
www.purewow.com/news/gik-live-unicorn-tears-rose-wine

Holy Shit!! If you don’t want a glass of this shit, then you have no soul.

I mean, really?!?

I want to go cuddle a puppy right now, just because of the freaking name!! Unicorn Tears. In a bottle?? This is the kind of fuckery that I heart♥️♥️

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Year of The Hot Mess Express

Sooooooo, I started a list of New Years Resolutions, after two and a half pages (front and back) I decided what in the monkey fuck am I thinking?!?! The reason why this list is so long is because I’m carrying shit over from the past twenty five years. If I haven’t kept said resolutions in that amount of time, I’ve decided that being me is fucking awesome/just awful (depending on which of my “personalities” you happen to grab bag at that particular moment) and that I don’t need any improvement, therefore this year the only resolution I have is to keep being fucking awesome/just awful. Keeping just this ONE will be a piece of cake. My List?? In the circular file where it should have been stored twenty five years ago😂😂

New Years Eve at our new house was perfect and the fireworks show from our own backyard was amazing! I love, love, love being back in the country and I especially love a bunch of rednecks hopped up on Budweiser on New Years Eve who happen to have cornered the market on ALL fireworks in Livingston Parish where we now reside.

Here hold my beer and watch this!! ‘Merica!😂😂😂

My Christmas Present Is A Pain In The Ass

My husband decided that at 45 and 46 respectively, that we should get healthy in the new year so he bought us both Fitbit watches. I totally appreciate the sweet gesture and concern for our health as we have small grandbabies that we need to be around for to watch them grow up.

That being said my problem with my gift is twofold. For starters I can’t even get the mother fucker paired with my iPhone or my Internet to save my life. I tried for three hours last night and I’m going on 3 hours this morning. WHAT IN THE FUCK?!?! I bet my twelve year old niece could have it set up in like five seconds flat.

My second problem with my very much appreciated gift is that who wants some artificial intelligence telling them to get up off their fat ass and walk, move, etc?!?! At least if a person tells you that, you can tell them STFU!!

So I’m going to smile gratefully at my husband for his thoughtfulness, wear this little judgmental fuck on my wrist and dare that bitch to tell me I haven’t moved in six hours straight!! As long as the Fitbit and I know who’s boss we’ll get along just fine!!

Merry Christmas Y’all💕💕

Yoga Pants: A Blessing or a Curse

Ahhhhh, the almighty yoga pants. What can I say, I’ve owned and worn hundreds of different pairs in hundreds of different sizes. I like to think of them as my pajama clothes, because most of the time my Fibromyalgia won’t allow any other material to get near my skin. EVERYONE loves a pair of yoga pants, therein lies the problem….as my dear old Gran used to say, “Just because it comes in your size doesn’t mean you should wear it.” Boy was that woman on fleek about that subject.

I’ve been small, I’ve been large and every size in between, and the most difficult decision a woman will ever have to make is deciding that her yoga pants are just NOT flattering anymore and that the time has come to move on to sweatpants.

Now I know you young hot bodied thangs think for the most part that yoga pants are God’s gift to mankind, but let me let you in on a little secret, sisters, camel toes are not flattering on anyone. Ever. Period.

For Pete’s sake will someone feed that thing, it’s so hungry it’s eating her yoga pants!!

Thank you my pretties for listening to my rant for the day😂

TTFN💕💕💕💕

Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones. Words Can Sever Souls.

I like to say I fear no words but that’s a lie.

I have anxiety about my health because my mother would growl when I smiled: Your incisors are BROWN. Pinworms: Placing me, naked, face-down on the couch, parting my seven-year-old buttocks with her fingernails, summoning Dad: Come see these damn things crawling in and out!

She scolded me for inhaling their microscopic eggs off some shit-fingered kid.

The very air was dangerous. Wet grass, which gives girls colds in their panties, could kill.

I also fear words — any words, but telling you this gives you power over me — said loudly. Shouted. Yelled. The word “yell” itself scares me, because in my mind I hear “yell” yelled. My parents yelled at me. A lot. They screamed cusswords into my face, their hot saliva speckling my eyes. Now that sounds like a lie. Why would two highly educated intellectuals roar at a mild-mannered, obedient, anxious child? They said they had no choice, because I was a fucking slob. They said I drove them to it by using language they loathed: ain’t, for instance, and you guys

The main word I fear lately is the A-word. I can barely say or write it, here or anywhere. Which A-word? you demand. Australia? App?

Hint: It rhymes with Larousse. Vamoose. Abstruse.

I can’t type it. I can’t.

That’s why I came here today. To say this.

I had what witnesses would call an absolutely ordinary childhood. Sun-baked suburban home. Food. Clothes. No siblings. Never beaten, never sexually assaulted.

See? I evaded using the A-word there. Instead, I wrote “assaulted,” because horrible as assault is, it remains alien to me, thus oddly anodyne.

I had an absolutely ordinary childhood during which, day after day, I was humiliated, shamed, deprived of privacy and terrified.

My parents said they loved me.  They had anger issues. They had no previous experience with kids. They suffered too, but both were adults when they screamed at me.

A name exists for this. It is not physical maltreatment of the Mommie Dearest kind but emotional, verbal … the A-word. Vamoose.

And don’t I wish I wasn’t writing this? Don’t I wish I was lilting about dragonflies, kabuki or one of my other interests instead of chanting childhood anecdotes like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner who collared helpless passersby to rant, froth-lipped, eternally, about an albatross?

I’m writing this to tell the world of not just me but way too many of us: We who were traumatized with words and looks by toxic parents who believed they were doing their best, when we were too young to know otherwise, too young to believe this was anything but universal, normal, justified. Too young for any form of self-defense.

Society might call our type of touchless trauma tiny. So it seems, compared to war and sex crimes, but new studies show that childhood verbal and emotional … Larousse … can damage its victims as lastingly and harshly as any physical assault can.

This is because, according to developmental psychologists, the human brain acquires self-awareness at age three, then remains in hyper-absorbent learning mode for twenty years. Terrify someone so young that his or her sense of self is larva-soft, someone whose only god is you. Tell him or her that he or she is ugly, stupid, boring, bad, a fag, a pig. Do this early and often. Do it in the comfortable closed-circuit crucible called home. Do it authoritatively. Never apologize. Abracadabra: You, making no mark upon the flesh, have slashed a soul and tossed aside its disconnected, twitching bits.

As a random example, I am living proof. I wish I wasn’t. I want out. I want to stop repeating myself, want to walk out of my childhood free and clear and start thinking of other things — kabuki, ravens — but cannot until I stop using these anecdotes as standup-comic shtik whose practiced, memorized rimshot delivery anesthetizes me.

We the toxically parented, we the emotionally and verbally vamoosed either silence ourselves as we were silenced or tell our tales endlessly as if this telling will itself release us. But it won’t. Silence and logorrhea can both become empty la-la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you rituals.

Which we repeat because we cannot bear to hate those who meant well. We must seek some spell in between: some way to sanctify our stories, in silence or sound, as scathing epic Iliad-esque tragedies which we somehow survived. (At least one friend of mine has not.)

But criticizing incisors and calling someone the F-word are miniscule, you say. Maybe between adults. (Maybe.) But, inflicted on children during those developmental years, such interchanges become retroviruses. Depth charges. Time bombs tick-tick-ticking in our heads.

Did your parents insult you? Did they mock, humiliate, reject and/or neglect you? Steep you in their addictions and other adult pain? Were they too self-absorbed to even see you? Did they demand worship, trample boundaries and damn your dreams? Consistently?

That was … abstruse.

I’m not saying let’s wave our pain around like Pity Me flags. I’m saying almost the opposite: We who were emotionally/verbally toxically parented want to feel normal and live in the adult world. We don’t want to blame ourselves anymore. We don’t want to be numb, dissociated, frozen, sleepless, hypervigilant, incapable of giving or receiving love and trust.

We want to know why we are this way.

Because trauma can do this. Trauma is why.

Because society decrees that only body-involved violence “counts,” that we are lucky by comparison, we call ourselves ungrateful, spoiled, selfish and childish. Staggering like zombies, we refuse to name our suffering.

So I will. We were traumatized.

Sticks and stones break bones. Words can sever souls.

I wish I’d had a somewhat different childhood. I wish I could drop this topic, but I can’t. I wish I had another song. I don’t: not yet, but maybe if I sing this one with meaning now … ? What happened in that hot-roofed house decades ago is why I’m stuck. It’s why I often hate myself. I need not pretend anymore to wonder why. This hurts like murder, but whom have I spent a lifetime trying to protect? And it happened by accident, with perfume and marshmallow Peeps. It happened in sunshine, with love.

Thank You Australia For Making This Word Socially Acceptable AND Endearing

Because of this random, newly acquired reason, I do believe instead of moving into our brand new home, I will instead head “down under” because, well obviously I take sick perverse pleasure in using profanity and for a WHOLE country of people to accept one of the most socially unacceptable words in the English language as a fucking endearment, is my kind of place!! I’d fit right in with those crazy cunts!!

Of all of the swear words, any use of the word fuck or cunt is at the top of my “sassy” hierarchy. Finding this out just made this the best day EVER!

So to all my lovely “cunts”, Happy Tuesday, mates💕💕💕

Army Ranger dog named Maiko died in Afghanistan saving US Soldiers

Army Ranger dog named Maiko died in Afghanistan saving US soldiers | TheHill
— Read on www.google.com/amp/s/thehill.com/blogs/blog-briefing-room/news/419837-army-ranger-dog-named-maiko-died-in-afghanistan-saving-us?amp

This post is for the bitch that blasted Sully from the Slate.

Read this and please educate your ass before you opine and spread your ignorance about humanity’s best friends.

For You Fuckers That Don’t Think America is “That Great”

www.youtube.com/watch

If you feel that way, by all means GET THE FUCK OUT!!

Seriously, you pieces of shit, get out and let some of the legitimate, legal immigrants and asylum seekers take your place, because obviously THEY still think America’s the greatest nation in the world to the degree that they are literally fucking dying to get in!

To America’s soldiers, law enforcement, firefighters and first responders, you are the heart of this country and the glue that holds our society together with no regards to your own comfort and safety, thank each and every one of you from the most humble and grateful place in my heart. YOU ALL ARE HEROES!!

This My Friends Are Why I’m Still Proud To Be An American

Former Senate Majority Leader Bob Dole was helped out of his wheelchair Tuesday afternoon to salute the American flag-draped casket of former President George Herbert Walker Bush.

Dole, 95, arrived at the Capitol Rotunda — where Bush will lie in state until Wednesday — pushed in his wheelchair by an aide. Once at the casket’s side, the aide helped Dole stand. And as he was steadied, Dole raised his left arm and saluted.

No matter what political affiliation one is, no matter what side of the aisle your core beliefs lie, this life being celebrated by family, former colleagues, friends and everyday “Joes” was the life of a GOOD man. A kind man. A patriot.

As I reflect on his character and the way he treated the common person just the same as he treated heads of state is a testament of the kind of man “41” was. Faith, family and America were his priorities. His entire life. His unconditional, amazing love for his beautiful “Bar” is the kind of love story of which many little girls dream.

His was a life well lived and I would be willing to bet that Mr. Bush “went home” with few regrets as he lived his life with laughter, love and a zest for adventure. He was an amazing man to which all men (and women) should measure themselves against….although he would have never seen it that way because he was far to humble. Godspeed, Mr. President, you are gone but history will NEVER forget you.

Leave Sully Alone, You Heartless Bitch

George H.W. Bush’s service dog ‘Sully’ isn’t a Democrat or Republican — It’s doggone crazy to attack him

https://www.foxnews.com/opinion/george-h-w-bushs-service-dog-sully-isnt-a-democrat-or-republican-its-doggone-crazy-to-attack-him

Explore the Fox News apps that are right for you at http://www.foxnews.com/apps-products/index.html.

Fur babies are more loyal, loving, and genuine than most people are. Any dumb bitch that thinks otherwise has no soul and probably doesn’t own a pet because it would sense her evil and bite her a new asshole. What an idiot and heartless snowflake. Nothing is sacred anymore and it pisses me off more than I could EVER verbalize, even with my enormous repertoire of swear words.

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog
— Read on hughsviewsandnews.com/2018/09/20/7-things-to-lookout-for-before-following-a-blog/

Great post! I am following waaaaaaay to many blogs just because they followed me first. I appreciate and am grateful to each and every follower, the thing is, I may not necessarily be interested in certain blog topics. It is nothing personal at all as I’m sure that even if I don’t agree with another bloggers views it does not mean that said blogger is not a lovely person. Following too many people is problematic in regards to the fact that the blogs that I do follow closely because I LOVE their content get lost somewhere in the rest. Thank you again to my precious followers for reading about my crazy, topsy turvy life AND for putting up with my excessive profanity, because well that’s just how I roll.

TTFN my pretties💕💕

Be Respectful To All Bloggers

Be Respectful To All Bloggers

https://renardsworld.wordpress.com/2018/10/29/be-respectful-to-all-bloggers/
— Read on renardsworld.wordpress.com/2018/10/29/be-respectful-to-all-bloggers/

Awesome post!! Very much worth a read although I’ve never encountered any ugliness, trolling or negativity whatsoever on WP!! In my humble opinion WP bloggers are the absolute best. Everyone is considerate of our differences, very kind and give great advice! I’ve met MANY new friends through WP and I am so very grateful for them all♥️. Spread the love y’all♥️

Getting Blasted for Cultural Appropriation Has Gone Mainstream

I’ve recently read numerous articles of racial and/or cultural appropriation. I’m a bit confused why certain people are whipped into a frenzy because Kevin Hart had a cowboys and Indian themed birthday party for his ONE year old son. Same thing goes for the notorious Kar-Jenner’s wearing braids, etc.

If Kevin Hart’s one year old or even the dreaded Kartrashians were doing it to be racially insensitive, I could totally understand the outrage, but at 46 years old I have played cowboys and Indians more times than I can remember, and as a small child it was based on what I saw on cartoons or on TV, not historical accuracy.

Cue the Kar-Jenner’s. Even though there is no love lost between myself and these attention whores, I personally think that it’s a lot less racially insensitive of them as some tend to believe because almost all of them are either married to or dating an African American man. Could they perhaps be copying these styles to appreciate their significant others heritage?!?

Caucasian American women have been getting spray tans, perms and more recently butt implants for years……..to look more like whom????

African American woman have been straightening their hair and using skin lighteners for about the same amount of time……to look like whom?!?

I don’t think the practice of these things in general have gotten offensive, I think that society as a whole has turned into a bunch of cry baby bitches, that use EVERY fucking thing possible to be offended about. It’s absolutely fucking ridiculous to me. If I call all millennials a blizzard of damn snowflakes am I being racist, bigoted, homophobic or culturally insensitive?!?

Guess what? I don’t give a shit what you “snowflakes” think!

One more thing before I go, to all of my African American lady friends, I am so so jelly of you being able to grow and wear an Afro. As far as I’m concerned they are fucking GLORIOUS. From a generation of the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus generation, they really speak to me!! Hallelujah!!

TTFN y’all!! Happy Friday!!💕💕

15 Things People with OCD Want You to Know

The truth about what it’s like to have obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Smith, now 37, says his obsessions began in youth with fears of choking. At his lowest point, he would only eat chicken broth and mashed potatoes. As an adult, he developed a fear of harming himself, so he would toss away food he had just prepared because he feared he may have poisoned it. At one point, he recalls lying on his hands in bed “literally as debilitated as somebody with stage IV cancer.”

The Panic Attack Symptoms Nobody Talks About

I’ve lived with panic attacks for five years now. I’ve had so many panic attacks, I’ve stopped counting. Memories of my worst attacks stick in my mind like bad nightmares. The time I was house-sitting for my friend. The countless attacks in my college dorm room. I will never forget them.

When I have panic attacks, I have the symptoms everyone always mentions. These are the symptoms you can quickly find with a Google search of “What is a panic attack?” The rapid, pounding heartbeat that feels like a giant bird is stuck in my chest, the sweaty palms, the nausea and the trembling. These are terrifying physical symptoms of panic attacks, and chances are most people can say they’ve experienced something close to this at least once in their life.

Panic attacks are more than a sudden feeling ofanxiety. They’re much more than the feeling you get when someone scares you and you say without thinking, “You almost gave me a panic attack!” Panic attacks can be incredibly traumatic experiences that happen over and over.

What people don’t realize is the physical experience of panic attacks isn’t always the worst part. There are some pretty terrifying things that can go on inside your head. Some of my worst panic attacks involve two symptoms no one really talks about when they talk about panic disorder: derealization and depersonalization.

Derealization is a fancy word for feeling like you are detached from your surroundings. When I experience this during panic attacks, everything around me feels unfamiliar. I could be in my bedroom, surrounded by things I’ve seen many times, like my cat, my bed or my clothes. Yet, I feel like I’m in a strange world. I feel like an alien who was beamed down into a random house.

Not only this, but things around me appear foggy and fake. Becoming detached like this is terrifying. My brain is doing something incredibly strange I don’t understand and I’m stuck in my body, trying to make sense of it. During panic attacks, I need something to hold onto that I can rely on. The familiar is what I crave, but my mind makes seeing the familiar difficult.

The people I love feel like strangers to me during panic attacks. It’s because of derealization that I worry about traveling to unfamiliar places. I love traveling, but the fear of unraveling can be enough to hold me back.

Depersonalization is a completely different sensation than derealization. Sometimes, the two happen at the same time. Depersonalization is the “out of body” experience. I feel detached from myself, like I’m looking at myself from afar. It’s tough to remember what’s important to me during this experience. I’m just going through the motions with no purpose.

Panic attacks leave me exhausted and searching for reminders of who I am and what makes me feel comfortable in my skin. A panic attack like this is a journey to find myself again. When I have them frequently, it’s like I’m constantly having to affirm who I am.

For me, depersonalization and derealization are the most terrifying sensations because I know they are coming from my brain instead of my body. They’re the symptoms no one else can see and this makes them even scarier. Both sensations are met with this overwhelming feeling of going “crazy” and losing control over everything.

Sometimes, I have a strange feeling that the entirety of the world’s problems, the news stories I hear daily, are on my shoulders. My panic attacks have themes like this. This feeling and the fear of going “crazy” make the panicking worse. I fall into a terrible cycle of panic that makes it hard to stop.

I wish people understood panic attacks aren’t always just a pounding heart. They aren’t always a prolonging of that startled feeling when someone spooks you. The solution isn’t always to relax and breathe slowly. Sometimes, it is to hold on for dear life to what you know is real and remind yourself the people and things around you are familiar. It means trying not to freak out even more and wait patiently until the sensations pass, even though you want to scream and cry.

During panic attacks, the body is doing what it knows to do when afraid and this can mean disconnecting from the world for a little while. I like to remind myself of this because it makes the panic attacks feel controllable. The body is doing what it needs to do.

Panic attacks are a delicate dance between reality and fantasy. Although depersonalization and derealization are terrifying, I know they will pass. I know I will eventually get back to who I am and the people I love.

My panic attacks can feel like a long and treacherous journey back to normalcy. Although I might feel “crazy” and out of control for a little while, the journey has a finish line. I try to remind myself of this when my heart starts pounding.

Disassociation in Complex PTSD Childhood Abuse Survivors

The effects of childhood sexual and physical abuse last a lifetime. Abused children end up being adults prone to depression, anxiety, substance abuse and psychiatric disorders. They are more prone to suicide. However, in recent years we have learned that abuse does more than wound self-esteem and break the spirit. It can damage the very substance of the brain and how it functions.

A major way by which childhood abuse can disrupt normal brain activity is by diminishing its capacity to handle stress. Stress is more than the worry and distress we experience when the circumstances of life push us beyond our limits. The body’s response to stress is a complex biological mechanism. When the brain senses that the body is being taxed beyond its usual capacity, it initiates the stress response by releasing a substance called corticotrophin releasing hormone, or CRH. CRH stimulates the pituitary gland to release ACTH that, in turn, triggers the release of the stress hormone, cortisol, from the adrenal glands. Cortisol marshals the body’s resources to provide the extra energy and endurance to meet the demands being placed upon it. Once, this might have been escaping an angry mastodon. Today, it would more likely be getting used to a new job, a nasty divorce, or recovering from surgery.

The stress-induced switch into physiological overdrive is designed to be brief. In fact, among the many things that cortisol does in the body, one of the most important is to feed back to the brain and start to shut the stress response down. Cortisol does this by binding to specific receptors in the brain. Cortisol fits the receptor, like a key in a lock, and turns the response off. One of the problems with those that have suffered severe childhood abuse is that the brains turn off switch has been turned off for the stress response to be disabled.

A study published in 2009 in the prestigious journal Nature Neuroscience revealed part of the reason why adults who were abused as children have abnormal stress responses. The grim details of the study included comparisons of the brains of individuals who had committed suicide vs. those who had died natural deaths. Among those who had committed suicide were some who had suffered severe childhood abuse and others who had not. It was found that among those who had suffered abuse, there were fewer of the special cortisol receptors in the brain that allow cortisol to turn off the stress response. It was further found that the section of DNA responsible for maintaining adequate numbers of these receptors had been methylated. They were no longer in full operation.

When the stress response won’t shut off and cortisol levels remain high in the brain, bad things can happen. Whereas bursts of cortisol help bolster the brain’s supply of glucose and chemical messengers, sustained high levels of cortisol can cause damage. Cortisol diminishes the brain’s response to the chemical messenger, serotonin, while it enhances the response to norepinephrine. Persisting high levels of cortisol also decrease levels of Brain-derived Neurotrophic factor, a substance that is necessary to maintain and replenish neurons in the brain. These and other changes alter mood, disturb sleep, heighten anxiety, and cause irritability. Consequently, the individual becomes more prone to Major Depression, PTSD, Generalized Anxiety, and other psychiatric disorders.

The More The Merrier??

We are moving into our new home on January 1st. Currently we are living in an 800 square foot condominium, it’s a one bedroom loft. My stepson and his fiancé are in between apartments, their new one won’t be available until the first, so they moved in with us……Don’t get me wrong, I love these kids like my very own. They are great “kids” but Lord have mercy, try squeezing four adults into 800 square feet. My stepson is 6’4 and has size thirteen shoes lying around. I’m clumsy AF, our home is like an obstacle course, there is constant laundry or dishes being done or food being cooked. With my OCD and anxiety, I’m about to have a fucking heart attack. If I do pass away I may as well look on the bright side knowing that at least I’ll be surrounded by loved ones in our tiny condo because we are practically on frigging top of each other!! I suppose I’ll look upon this as another grand adventure with my precious husband. We feel like teenagers again rather often. I love this new side of him…he’s so much FUN! We laugh with each other, at other people behind their backs and at each other. It’s blissful♥️

We always heard from other empty nesters not to be sad for long because kiddos always come back and they always bring more. If that isn’t spot on advice/sage warning🥰, I don’t know what is. It’s close enough to five o’ clock in my book to start drinking!!

🥃Cheers y’all!!

The Liquor Train Is Pulling Into The Station: Booze, Booze

I’m not sure where I want to go with this post. I didn’t get out of bed until 2:00pm as I was THAT emotionally exhausted from the emotional “festivities” from yesterday, I feel like shit from the weight I’ve gained due to my koo koo meds recently and the gluttonous carbfest I went on yesterday. FUCKING BLAH!!

I suppose I’ve disassociated a bit for my own sanity. I don’t feel bad, I don’t feel good. Neither happy nor sad. Just blah.

I’m dreading the rest of the holidays and our upcoming move. My OCD ignites my anxiety into a fiery frenzy when I think of all of my meticulously placed “stuff” being boxed up and in disarray until I can meticulously put it back somewhere else.

I had an MRI on my back and neck last Tuesday. I got the results back today. Degenerative Disc Disease. Just fucking Jim Dandy. As if I don’t have enough mental and physical disorders and ailments. Just something else to deal with. I would just like to be emotionally normal and totally pain (physically, emotionally and psychologically) free for one week. JUST ONE WEEK! It would be utter bliss.

Well I suppose I’ll get started early this afternoon with a little holiday cheer (Evan Williams Eggnog) and try to drown my shitty mood in booze. As my darling fellow blogger @helentastic always so eloquently puts it, xxCHEERSxx!

My Family Puts The Dysfunction In Dysfunctional Family

I made it through a nerve racking holiday with my dysfunctional family with a minimum of hiding in my old closet in the fetal position, having a panic attack. Jesus Christ, all of those fuckers get worse every year. I wanted to claw my own eyes out of my face……but my son came in from Houston, my daughter, son-in-law and my brand spanking new grandbaby gathered there so it wasn’t all bad. I love all of their faces so much♥️My Husband has been being totes awesome because he knows holidays are a trigger for me. I’m also DEFCON-5 with anxiety about the move. Delighted about the house but the mere notion of packing up and do the act of moving. It makes me shudder.

I saw my mother-in-law, my stepbabies and my other three grandsons, so at the end of the day, I do have many blessings and plenty to be thankful for.

I’m thankful for this picture of my “baby” holding his baby nephew💕💕My heart is just bursting with love!!

I’ll Cut A Bitch

I went to the doctors office this morning at an ungodly hour, 7am is about the time I’ve only been asleep for approximately 2.5 hours most nights because of the tossing, turning and writhing in pain from Fibromyalgia. After an entire pot of coffee AND a shower with one leg stuck out of the shower door (due to my knee surgery four weeks ago), I was only half awake and pissed off because of how I had to shower led to me having an inch of water on my entire bathroom floor, which I immediately slipped on and busted me new voluptuous ass (I’ve gained 20 pounds in two months due to my koo koo meds). I’ve never been so happy to have the increased volume of junk in my trunk. I finally made it to the doctor ten minutes late for my appointment because I took the elevator and missed my floor. Twice. By this time I was fucking fuming and sweating like a hooker at a tent revival because of my fury and an inopportune time for a hot flash. The receptionist was about to tell me I’d need to reschedule because I was by then more than ten minutes late to my appointment. She took one look at my disheveled hair, fire engine red, sweaty face and the wild look in my eyes and decided against it (she has no idea how close she came to bearing the full brunt of my rage).

I finally settled in an uncomfortable waiting room chair to wait forty five minutes for my surgeon NOT to see me….he had his PA take out my stitches and tell me to go one floor up for physical therapy. Now in addition to my physical ailments, I’m a raving nut job….you just don’t spring this kind of shit on me at the last minute, but since I was already there, I agreed. It wasn’t until after I was laying on the physical therapy table that I had my WTF was I thinking moment….I’m lying on a table waiting for someone to come torture me sans pain meds, because due to the opioid epidemic my surgeon only sends his patients home with fifteen Lortab 5’s after MAJOR knee surgery. What kind of fuckery is this?!? I have fibro, fool, and 5 days after surgery you are telling me to take a fucking Tylenol?!? How about if I sever your penis and shove it straight up your ass and YOU take a god damn Tylenol?!?

By the time the PT made it too my room another 25 minutes later, I had enough. She opened her mouth to question me or chastise me or what the fuck ever, to which my response was,”Not today, Satan. Not today,” as I stalked (as well as someone with a bum knee can stalk) out. My BP was 146/95 when I first arrived an hour and a half prior, no telling what it was when I left, I had to have been a prime candidate for a fucking stroke.

I have now been home for three hours and my mood was finally simmering down until I opened the medicine cabinet to glare at the Tylenol. If I took enough Tylenol to even put a dent in my chronic pain, I’d die from liver failure in short order. So not giving a second thought to my bleeding stomach ulcer, I took 4 Maximum Strength Goody’s headache powders and prayed to the powers that be that 1) that many Goody’s at least takes the edge off of my pain and 2) I don’t die from internal bleeding because I’m taking such desperate measures.

It’s a good thing I have no idea where the state DEA’s office is because today….