Stuff ‘n Things, Bofas, and Sofas

Okay, I’m on my Dr. Seuss “Wocket in my Pocket” kick. (Thank you, Mr. Mumple.  I am not quite sure what a bofa is,  but apparently, they like to occupy  sofas, like the zug under the rug and the zellar in the cellar. IDK. Have a small child long enough, your brain turns to mush. Throw in psych meds and you’re lucky to HAVE a brain at all.

This just in: I think I may be a pathological liar. In my defense, I wouldn’t tell white lies if the McMuggles could accept the truth about mental health issues. Sadly, the ones around me simply dismiss mental health as an actual issue so…I must fib left and right to accommodate their denial. Sounds like an excuse, right? Well, when you’ve told the truth time and again and they still don’t get it, you gotta take care of yourself first and foremost so McFuck McMuggles. Case in point, this morning. R asked me to come keep him company at the shop and I used my weekly “date” with Bex to watch American Horror Story as a way to buy myself a couple of hours’ ME time. Normally, we do watch it on Friday mornings. This week due to her schedule, we watched it last night. I didn’t mention that. If I were to tell him, “I’ll be in later, I need to do some stuff” he’d just invalidate me with his bullshit and tell me to get over it and come do his bidding. Um…No. ME time is crucial to me not stabbing people in the eye with sporks.

Besides, he came over last night and I even need a wee break from him. Okay, so he brought me Mangoritas, he bought me smokes, we ordered Domino’s parmasan bites and he paid for them…Whatever. I earned it, for all his iphone douchebag calls/text interruptions when I was TRYING to watch Arrow. DON’T FUCKING INTERRUPT ARROW, BITCHES. Fiction soup for the soul is important, demmit. Anyway, I am loathe to lie but when people don’t accept the truth…What are you gonna do? Oh, right, the righteous would probably just submit to the will of McMuggles. Newsflash: I’m not righteous. If anything, I am corrupt and admit it freely. I don’t subscribe to the standard issue morality based on religion. I have my own commandments to follow. One of them being, “Don’t take shit from McMuggles, do what you have to.”

So…I did seven solid hours in the dish of petri yesterday to serve R’s shop wench needs. Which involved hours of watching season one of The Flash, occasionally answering a phone, surfing Fark and Reddit and The Oatmeal, and…being bored. The shocker is…I didn’t start panicking after those seven hours. That is like, epic, for me and my anxiety issues. The week long flubola and med reboot did something to change me. It may not last but for now…I am liking it. And time will tell, but it is making me wonder if I am on so many meds, they are worsening the depression. Maybe the illness was the universe’s way of showing me the meds were making me worse. Don’t get me wrong. I am being compliant and taking all prescribed meds (except the sleeping pills, they do fuck all to keep me asleep and I’d rather not destroy my internal organs with a useless med). This could all also be hypomanic delusion from stopping the meds (more accurately, spewing them) and I am okay with that, too. If it sticks, awesome. If not…same shit, different day. For now, it’s pretty fucking awesome to feel lucid but not insane.

One of the biggest differences in me since flubola and rebooting the med regime is…I’m barely popping Xanax, I am more patient and tolerant with my child. I don’t dread every minute with her because I am too wiped out to be supermom and do the playing and interacting thing with a chatterbox who has epic energy. Of course, I had this sudden overwhelming guilt trip after telling the shrink I was so depressed, “I don’t even want to play with my kid.” It’s the truth of depression but it still made me feel shitty. I wanted a child for ten years and I was told because of ovarian cysts it was unlikely I’d ever conceive. So miracles happen, I get my beloved child and…I am barely functional. Yeah, I felt like shit cos she shouldn’t have to pay for my issues. So even while throwing up and doubled over in agony with flubola, I started interacting with her, teaching her interesting science facts, helping her write sentences, TRYING to be a better mom. And I am maintaining it even now that the sickness and guilt have passed. We watched The Middle together yesterday and played many hands of Uno. Normally it’s grueling for me because she has zero attention span (as do I) but last night…I enjoyed playing a game with her. Maybe tonight we’ll play Operation.

I am not religious, at all, and I am pretty sure the Bible has been edited over the years to the point not a word can be believed. (If you’re a writer, you know “editor” and “playing telephone” are just code for “turns the story into a different story with no truth.) I am truly sorry if this offends those who have faith, I respect that. At the same time, you gotta respect my inability to buy into what doesn’t feel right for me. Agree to disagree. If the world could learn and live that, we’d be much happier people. So no religion for me, but I DO have faith that there’s some sort of higher power. Call it fate or pegacorn pixie dust…I can’t help but believe, with every fiber of my being, that everything, no matter how shitty and seemingly pointless at the time, happens for a reason. Maybe getting sick was my epiphany. Maybe it’s what kicked me out of inertia. It could be a fallacy. Or…It could be a sign. Whatever, it’s got me trying harder and being better and while the illness was misery…I am liking the end result. I think my kid is too. She’s been spewing far less pea soup now that I am engaging more.

Now, I am NOT spewing rainbows  and sunshine here. (In fact, I heard a song with the word sunshine in it and about gagged, noooo, not in my beloved music, ewww.) I have just found a bright light at the end of that cold dark depressive tunnel and am trying to roll with it. Everything is not perfect. I have zero delusions of grandeur. Things went right (aside from flubola 2015) for several days and it was a nice respite.

Alas, reality is back, spewing it’s shitty roadblocks into my path. The faucet R fixed for me a month or so back…I came home yesterday, turned it on, and get treated to a geyser of water shooting up from where some chintzy (fuck you, Walmart) plastic ring busted. The water got into the outlet next to the sink which kept throwing the brakers. Fuck. And I mentioned it to R and he started going on about how Spook and I could break air. Whatever. Shit breaks. Especially Walmart shit. (He, of all people, should know this, considering most of his repairs are on TVs purchased at Walmart that fail a day after the warranty runs out.) Not to say my kid isn’t destructive, she is, she could have been hanging off the faucet and snapped it while I was being neglectful by going pee and taking my eyes off her. IDK. I gotta get maintenance here to fix it, I can’t ask R to do it again. So I probably won’t have a functioning kitchen sink for weeks. (Word to the wise, take your mood stabilizers so you don’t end up bankrupt and with bad references so you have to deal with a slumlord.)

I have awful luck with vacuums, I will admit that. I have like six broken ones right now, the carpet hasn’t been vacuumed in ages. (Anyone wanna donate a vac??) I am growing sabertoothe cat sheddings here. But to my credit, I keep my computers running. I’m just lousy at all things cleaning related. Do I look like Alice from the Brady Bunch? Do I cross you as the Martha Stewart type? Nuff said.

I was feeling saucy at the shop yesterday and Kenny was on his “I can so offend you IF I really try and get nasty kick.” Meh, he’s an idiot so I don’t put much credence in what he says. (“You need to wear actual pants like jeans, leggings are not pants.” Fuck off, I like my leggings and have since I was 11, they are comfy and look good on me. Jeans are just code for “smothers the lady bits with itchy fabric.) So I mentioned the problem with the sticky choke on the car and he made this comment likening me to one of R’s exes putting diesel in her car instead of unleaded and fucking it up. Um..The car has had the sticky choke thing since my dad bought it before selling it to me. Not my doing. And that dented fender was some batty old lady who crashed into me and another car and there were witnesses who backed up that I had no fault…So do tell how likening me to someone so stupid they put diesel in their car makes sense. I can handle honest critism. “You’re moody.” Yep. “You’re high strung.” Uh-huh. “You’re being a bitch.” Absolutely. “You break vacuums, and a monkey could use one without so much trouble.” I agree. But telling me I destroy cars is not based on fact. I drove the same car from age 16 to age 27.So I guess he was right, he succeeded in offending me. But only because the insult wasn’t based on fact. McDouchey.

Wow, this has turned into quite the rant. I guess cos I didn’t get to vent yesterday even though I am really not spewing my usual venom. (Things align properly in your mind, y0u get more stable to deal with things going wrong.)

Now I think I will finish watching Grey’s Anatomy, then work on finding a shirt (and bra, fuck) that I didn’t sleep in and head to the shop. I kinda wanted to be home today but I am working my way toward him handing me his credit card so I can go spend a hundred bucks on my kid’s Christmas. Not that I had plans, just wanted to do a little laundry. Plus, any time not spent in the dish is precious and crucial to sanity. But it’s for my kid so I will suck it up.

On an end note, I want to post the lyrics to a song I am crushing on cos it reminds me of our bipolar blogosphere corner, in a good, funny way. I won’t include the actual song because it’s screamy-gothy metal and most would cringe if it’s not their genre (yeah, I feel that way about the folk-pop-trendy shit everyone else posts but I won’t force feed my cup of tea.) You can look up “Funhouse” by Stitched Up Heart if you’re curious. Okay…so…Hasta la vista. “In need of fucking medication.” And the lyrics aren’t really right, but this was all I could find for it.

Welcome to the fun house, Lets refill that prescription.Tonight we’re gonna let it out! In this mental institution.

Hey crazy people get down! Lets start the party right now!

(?) For the dead! (?) For the dead. (?) For the dead! (?) For the dead.

In this lonely bed, We need medication. In a straight jacket, Trapped in an insane asylum.

Welcome to the freak show, Come on you gotta let it go! Now tell me something I don’t know. I’ve lost my fucking marbles! (?) For the dead! (?) For the dead. (?) For the dead! (?) For the dead.

In this lonely bed, We need medication. In a straight jacket, Trapped in an insane asylum. In this lonely bed, We need medication. In a straight jacket, Trapped in an insane asylum. In this lonely bed, We need medication. In a straight jacket, Trapped in an insane asylum. In this lonely bed, In need of fucking medication. In a straight jacket, Trapped in an insane asylum! (?) For the dead! (?) For the dead. (?) For the dead! (?) For the dead!



5 Responses to “Stuff ‘n Things, Bofas, and Sofas”

  1. I heard a song called “pocket full of sunshine” on the way to pick up my cheating ex-fiance from when his car broke down on the side of the highway on the way to her house, about six years. Anytime I hear that song and its ‘sunshine’, Satan tears from my asshole in immediate bitch mode.

    I’m Christian, but there’s a lot of the Bible I absolutely don’t believe happened the way that it says it did. My husband is Agnostic because he believes in something, he just isn’t sure what. I say, just fucking treat people like you’re supposed to and let the rest take care of itself.

  2. What are you reading?! (Chapter and verse please) I’m just curious b/c I’d love to see it and your commentary on it. The more I read it the more interesting I think it is, the way it was written. I think it’s pretty obvious a lot of prophets were bipolar, and I think their non-technological descriptions of things is fascinating.

  3. This brought me great pleasure. Hope the lucidity and stability remains. Ebolaplagueflues I guess are weirdly curative.

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