Doxx you, February.

When I buy clothing online and it’s available in fifty-three different colors, I always end up choosing this weird pinkish-cocoa color. I have so many things in this color, and I cannot for the life of me trace back my reasoning. I look fabulous in blue and green. Black is great. I can even pull off red and orange. But I keep ordering things in this shade that calls to mind weathered putty with a faint bloom of shower mold. Possibly I imagine I will dress it up with spanking white accessories, except I wouldn’t and won’t. Maybe I’d dribble some spanking white sour cream on myself and then Anna Wintour would spontaneously materialize out of the woodwork and use her veiny talons to applaud my fashion sense. But not so far.

Cavemanification of language. “I’m a boy mom!” Wow, so having sons is destroying your speech center?  That’s rough. Or maybe you meant to express that you are the mother of boys. If only there were some linguistically comprehensible way of encompassing that idea, such as saying “I am the mother of boys” or “I have boys” or “No thank you, Bronxleee, putting our genitals on the cart is not Harris-Teeter appropriate, no thank you.” No, we must all stump around deliberately talking like we’re just coming out of anesthesia, because the world just isn’t stupid enough yet.

I have an excellent, relevant, interesting, well-researched and copiously illustrated story that would bring me tremendous traffic, and I decided not to run it because I can’t figure out how to do it without enlightened shitheads doxxing and probably sending death threats to some of the people involved in the story. Because everyone is now so woke, we start with death threats and then escalate from there.

Spiderman movie. Okay, I didn’t actually have any problem with it. It was very good and I liked it. We’re now on a really reliable schedule where Hollywood will allow the production of one enjoyable move every fourteen years, just like clockwork.

I’m watching my diet and started exercising again and it wasn’t good enough, and now I have to go on meds to control my blood pressure like a loser. This is stinkin’ thinkin’ and I know it, but the stink endures. The nurse helpfully told me that, when she was having some BP issues, she gritted her teeth and said no to the extra large, damp cardboard box of gas station nachos the other day. Not really my issue, friend-o, and don’t think I didn’t notice you turning sideways to get through the door. But thanks for the health tip. You really get me.

I have lost so many nice earrings. It’s just sad.

When I was at the clinic, there was a backless bench next to the registration line, with a small sign saying “please do not lean back.” If you want to know why healthcare is so expensive, that’s why: Because everyone’s sitting on backless benches and leaning back. They ought to just put in a trap door and a chute and thin the herd, SHE SAID PRO-LIFELY.

Where the hell is my garlic? I absolutely bought garlic, and now it’s nowhere. But sure, I guess I’ll go ahead and make salsa verde without garlic. Can’t wait to slather my carnitas with what will basically be hot grass clippings. Not that I can even find the blade for my food processor. It would be a terrible thing if I were allowed to have all the pieces at the same time.

This freaking cat is not going to be happy until he’s knocked every last thing I own off the table. But really, why would I want a cup of coffee to remain in an upright position? Where’s the excitement there? What’s really important here is that he follow his vocation as an asshole. I’m gonna make a backless bench out of him.

The local public radio announcer did a little blurb for a sponsor and then said the name of their website, which was “www.[something]”. The “dr” was obviously for “doctor.” But he pronounced it “durr.” Couldn’t agree more, you THUMB.

I bought some boots online and they’re great, except I can’t zip the right one up all the way. Yep, that’s correct, my right calf is significantly, measurably, boot-obsolescingly fatter than my left calf, because I not only have to be fat, I have to be halfway even fatter. If you think about how many years it took me to realize that it’s okay to buy myself boots, and then add on another three months while I waited for them to go on sale, this seems so thoroughly unfair, I could just cry.

You know what has sodium in it? Tonic water. A girl can’t even keep up with the fight against malaria without running afoul of her DASH diet. And I do *sob* not appreciate it.

Maybe I’ll run that story after all. Doxx you, February. Doxx you.

Things I don’t appreciate, Part II

A partial list.

Oh, oh, you have a backlit picture of wheat on your blog? PISS OFF. I’m not gonna wait around to find out if there’s an autoplay of devotional piano music that speeds up and slows down emotionally to illustrate the movements of the soul, which is apparently set to “achingly quivering” 24/7, because of course there is.

Say, you brought your dog to the beach even though it says no dogs allowed, because your dog is different from other dogs, and only needs a little practice around kids? HEY THAT’S SWELL. You are doing life right, Ace! Yeah, take that sucker off his leash! I had an extra ten minutes in my life that weren’t already filled with anxiety and rage, so thanks for taking care of that for me.

Could you respond to my essay by quoting the exact same paragraph I quoted in the essay, but somehow telling yourself that you’re making a devastating point that eluded me because I’m a moron? Couldja do that? YOU CAN? Oh, my luck is just through the roof today.

Hey, maybe my husband can work late to find out what the Native Americans have to say about a proposal to run power lines through 180 miles of wilderness! I certainly wonder what their take on it will be, I certainly do. Reading about it will be much better than actually finding out what my husband’s face looks like in daylight.

I want to go to my grave without knowing who Antonio Sparado is, and you assholes won’t let me.

Who’s the fucking moron who accidentally installed some kind of useless, bogus encrypted search engine on my computer, so every time I search for something, big brother won’t be able to track it, but on the other hand it only turns up super useful results like “70% off Ann Voskamp – Best Price Ann Voskamp – Buy Now?” Oh, it was me? And I get to be in charge of keeping ten human beings alive, too? THAT MAKES SENSE.

Good, good, I’ll start worrying about the parakeet’s mental state, now.


You know, Joan Jett did a cover of “You Don’t Own Me,” and it should have been awesome, but it wasn’t. It was terrible.

Good, yes, I would like the air I breathe to be more fruit fly than oxygen. I am ever so grateful, especially when I get to sponge rotten potato juice off the wire shelving I thought it wise to keep my potatoes on in the heat.

People who run several times a week should eventually get better at running, but it turns out sometimes they don’t. They just get stains on their stupid bright orange shirts, and who would buy another shirt for someone who’s so crappy at running? NOT ME.

Benedict Cumberbatch isn’t remotely attractive, and you know it. Hoo-ray, so he’s tall. Lots of people are tall. The produce guy is extremely tall, and you don’t catch me all, “ooh, ooh, he should be in a TV show, ooh, he should be in a movie.” George the Animal Steele was six foot one, all right? I guess it’s nice you feel sorry for people who weren’t born with enough skin to cover their whole entire faces, but there’s no need to pretend this is an attractive man.

And there it is.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash