I’d like to thank the Internet for helping me narrow my self-diagnosis to either: a harmless cyst that will go away on its own; a staph infection; or a tumor.
Very helpful, Google, thank you.
It’s a cyst. Probably.
But if I die of staph-infected tumor, it’s been fun, guys. Remember, “Baby Got Back” at the funeral, and make sure the obituary spells it “staphylocockus.” #ClassyAsFuck
It’s adorable how I thought I could exist in my family and get away with saving some cash by getting LESS therapy. But at least they gave me some money for Christmas, so they’re inadvertently footing the bill.
Are you serious? We’re adults. Someone in the family just DIED — they are now an EX-parrot. Maybe get some perspective? When YOU die, are you gonna be like, “Heh… Yeah, I was a complete DICK to my niece in 2016, remember? Deleted her from Facebook for some BULLshit — I showed HER. LIFE? HA! NAILED IT. Go ‘head, Jesus, take the wheel!”
I’m pretty close to telling everyone to go fuck themselves. I’ve already said, “I want nothing to do with this.” Do you know how much you have to fuck up before *I* won’t talk to you? You have to, like… kill a Muppet.
Time to invoke The Asshole Inference: “I don’t know. I don’t wanna know. I’m out.” *hand gesture*
(Actually, I think writing this and seeing Token was probably all the therapy I needed. And also bearing in mind that running away to CA and never coming back is always an option.)
“You left me behind. And I was so angry at you that you had to not exist. I needed to erase you. And then Jerry died, and I erased me, too. Having someone die on you before you have said everything and forgiven everything and been there and loved them as hard as you should… It’s not something I’d wish on anyone.”
— Mellie Grant, Scandal
If I’d known about Robin Williams earlier, I definitely would’ve stopped for ice cream on the way home from my stressful workday. I haven’t enjoyed a Robin Williams movie since Goodwill Hunting, which was 1997, so I have no real explanation for why my Twitter feed had me in tears tonight. But these feelings could definitely stand to be eaten.
But for those of you who remember the pistachio story, rest assured, I’m still not sad enough to eat that shit. (Yes, it’s still in the freezer. Yes, I KNOW.)
I love you guys, though. And rest in peace, my Captain.
Friend: “I think your family feels like Facebook is the way to say ‘I love you.'”
Me: “They really do. They sent me details of my aunt’s funeral via Facebook message. To their credit, they at least called to tell me she’d died.”
Did everyone see the “South Park” movie where Mr. Garrison tells Wendy Testaburger that menstruating women freak him out because he just doesn’t “trust anything that bleeds for 5 days and doesn’t die?”
That is a vile and disgusting thing to say about a woman’s natural bodily processes.
It is also COMPLETELY FUCKING TRUE. Seriously, this is wrong and unacceptable and how am I not dead right now?
P.S. Before anyone accuses me of being overdramatic, this is day 12, because apparently antibiotics for a sinus infection made my ladybits angry. Grr. Pass the Cheesy Poofs.
Smug Singleton 