Aren’t I just the worst? But this was hanging around my desktop and where else to put it. Adult Jesus, not the sweet baby one, so it’s cool and consensual. So yeah, hey y’all, merry hoes and jolly log rolling, seasonal greetings, and whatnot, whatever jizzes on your tits or lights your candlestick! Kisses!
I’m a social awkward at this time of year and even getting back to the blog thing is weird as fuck. I’m a hermit by nature, would love my own planet but with access to Sephora and Foodora and maybe once in a blue moon, Dickora (can someone make that an app?). But! Was very cute and encouraging when I went to my gym Xmas party and was asked where I was and why no write and most importantly HOW GOOD MY HAIR LOOKED. More on that later, or not, depending on the tangent I go on.
So I’ve been super happy job-wise but no time to do stuff really, like get my hair did, or get other stuff taken care of like doctor’s appointments. ugh, it’s such a fucking chore and a half. There’s no way I can fit stuff like that in my day and I’m not hypochondriac enough to give a shit. I have the weirdest lump that I can feel growing out of my sternum (Question mark? not even sure, but that body part when you put your hands down between the tits under the bra line) that could be either a bone configuration gone awry or I’m pregnant with an alien chile which would explain some of my dreams lately. But most probably the thing is. I’m not inclined to get it checked out. It’s a slippery slope to a bunch of other things to get worried about.
I’m not worried about my own death, but am freaked out by others, My dad is in the hospital now and my lovely sister is taking care of him daily and in doing so, she is glowing, she is luminous, a true caregiver with her calling. I am so thankful for her and I am paralyzed by what is going on with my dad. He’s slipping away daily with Alzheimer’s which is a fucked up disease and please, let’s make a cure, because his body is still super fit. For a 94 year old. I’m sure I’ll be dead in my 70s because I’m giving birth to ET and his cousins from Mars. Ugh, but my sweet dad, aka Papa-don’t-preach-I’m-love-with-him, as I used to sing to him in the 80’s when we had to roll up the garage door to drive together for my summer job at his company. The only reason to love Madonna really. We’d laugh. He got me and my humour. But now. I don’t hate to visit him because he is in a nice place but it makes me feel me fear and dread. And I’m pretty much sure I have the gene. I’ll break open the pearl on that necklace with with hidden cyanide if I can remember where I put it. Muddled thoughts. It begins there.
But anyhoo! Lighter notes. I am loving my job. I adore my puppers and each and every day cannot wait to see them. Is it weird that I actually love them as much as my own dogs? I didn’t think that would be possible but it is. There is not a dog that I take care of that I wouldn’t want to hang with for a weekend. Most of them I would have for over for a week or two. And three of them I would keep forever, in case of emergency, and they know who they are. *Ear Kisses*: Shmiles, Costco, Leonardo. Ugh, and you too Derby, Blanka, Hubba, and Mephisto…I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH IT HURTS.
The only shite part of my job is intense driving, which is a bummer with my stupid stick shift situation. HOWEVER! I feel like my first generation ScionXB is in great shape. It works like a hot old school bitch, I feel like it’s the Jane Fonda of cars which is a compliment to Jane Fonda. Who is 80 by the way. And who am I kidding is way better than my car. So forget that comparison. My car is more like a first generation Pokemon. It’s antiquated, like from 2006, but shows no problems. One day things might fuck up but for now, all is good. I’m wary of new cars and all the bells and whistles of “keyless” like what the fuck is that? More potential problems. Everyone I know with new car is always going back to the dealership with issues, like electronic gall stones. My car doesn’t get such things because it’s basically a golf cart. As long as Jane Fonda is breathing, my car is alright and I don’t need a new one. Praise Auto Jesus.
Do you ever hope for more things? I haven’t in awhile. Up until recently. I have been living frugally, not buying anything new for 3-4 years. There’s something to be said about that kind of righteousness but after awhile it feels oppressive, when you can’t afford stuff. And stuff can bring great joy. Like a handheld Dyson vacuum cleaner.
Jesus Motherfucking Christ, what a game changer. I have a vacuum, a Miele snort machine, a small elephant I have to drag out from that gross sun room off the kitchen I hate so much because it contains a filing system with all the horrors of daily living. Also! Inevitably some dog laid a fecal egg there so clean that up, haul the machine out, wrestle with its nozzle, wrangle out the chord from its intestines, find a plug (over the stove, where the toaster is) plug its ass in, vacuum around, move a little bit to far and the slat and pepper shakers will fall off into the dog dishes. Vacuuming is a chore and disaster until NOW.
I’ve been shopping on-line a lot lately. I hate stores, except for Loblaws and Costco. I didn’t used to be like this, but the on-line experience is amazing. Order up some shit, forget about it, then come home to a present, it’s amazing. I have no fucking time anymore to spend in stores as much as I love a tactile experience. Also I have no fucking time to go to the vacuum thing at the gas station to get the doggy hairs out of my car. I NEED MY OWN DEVICE.
Last Sunday I cleaned out my closet. What a shite show AND! dust bunny colony. I’m not entirely sure who I am anymore. I used to wear all the skirts and high heels but now my feet are like oak tree roots (at least I don’t have bunions? Again, thanks the Jesuses, especially the foot fetish one) so I have to wear a size bigger now. Fuck yes. Your feet grow and your heart shrinks as you age. Hardly any of my shoes fit anymore. Toss. Also skirts. The fuck. Who was I? That’s a whole other blog post and maybe even a novel. She’s dead to me now and I’d feel bad but I’ve hardened my heart. I’m a pant wearing lady now. Also dumped anything woolen. Christ on a stick, I’d rather be hung on a cross than itch all day. I threw out out 8 bags of my old identity. Buh-byeeeee.
But what a mess!!! And dust balls! Sneeze-aroo, achoozapoolaz! But also, I couldn’t do it proper because I had a hair appointment on a Sunday, weird I know, but it was a cut-a-thon for mental health downtown. I could have done more, like gone through my drawers and purged a bunch of fucking pyjamas, and workout wear (oy, what’s wrong with me) I’m pretty sure, but got my hair did. Haven’t had a cut in months. I hate getting my hair cut, not because I’m attached to my hair but I hate sitting in a spot for that long. The fanfare makes me crazy. Do. Not. Blow. Dry. I am not a newscaster. However! This place I went was awesome and the dude who cut my hair was my kind of peeps, totally got my vibe and I loooove my hair. Sometimes I wonder why I resist things? Should I go back on Tinder? Instead I went on Amazon.
So I got the hand held Dyson something-6. I’m not here to sell you on something but I’m telling you not to die in a frugal fire. Buy some shit once in awhile that makes you happy. Also I got a pair of my dream Doc Marten Silver Kiltie Leather Loafers and a back scrubber. Let Jesus come on your tits. Merry Christmas, bitches.