Manufactured situational disrespect, a smattering of fashion tourettes, & sprinklings of “are you fucking serious?”
I never wake up thinking, I’m totally winning at life! Quite the contrary, in fact. Most days, I pray I stumble through without doing irreparable damage to myself, my son (too late), or my car. The Lobster is already hip deep in his own shit, not my job to fix him. Adding a few more gray hairs to his head only distinguishes him; it’s unlikely anyone would construe it as “irreparable damage.” My car though, it’d be a shame if I fucked that thing up. My record is problematic, having totaled two cars within 2 years stone cold sober.
I arrived at the office this morning to find that my toilet had been violated again. Poor Betsy. She can never catch a break. The same inconsiderate monster slithers in there during the early morning hours before the rest of us have arrived. He destroys her, then closes the door behind him, trapping the hot stink. There are 2 bathrooms. Slowly bring death upon your own and leave my Betsy alone, you godless imp!
There has to be more to life than just “getting by” or “getting even.” I realize that gluing thumbtacks to the floor under his chair isn’t the answer, and maybe I should even remove the plastic grocery bag from his tailpipe. Technically, he doesn’t fall into the “self, son, or car” category. I maintain I should still be allowed to play bones with the big man when I kick the bucket. But what if I could be handling other situations differently also?
I’m competitive. Too competitive. Competitive when I have absolutely no business being so. Have you ever seen a 39 yr-old woman attempt to kill herself by treadmill? It’s gruesome. I regularly attempt to keep pace with spry young women who are clocking 8-minute miles on the reg. It takes me 8 minutes to get out of bed, these hoes are running miles (full miles) in that time. Naturally, I increase the speed on my treadmill to chase the gazelle, looking like Frankenstein’s monster, and in great pain. It’s truly superb. I’m crying inside.
Maybe I should be offering advice gained from experience? I’ve been doing this shit for a while (because I’m old and I eat a lot, working out is a maintenance program), I’ve learned a few things. Instead of trying to catch this little sweetheart, perhaps I should reach over and simply slow her machine down. When she asks what the fuck I’m doing (and she will), I’ll say: “You should be more careful. That kind of speed can lead to knee or hip injury. Over time, sustained injuries you may not immediately be aware of lead to compensating, putting pressure on other joints, eventually weakening the pelvic floor. What’s your phone number? There’s a great video on the subject I’ll text you. I found it extremely helpful.”
At this point, she’s figured I’m fucknuts crazy and has either done what I’ve asked her because she’s terrified of me, or has politely excused herself. Either way, I’ll probably never have to run next to her again. She’ll take her perfectly matched jogger pants, scooped back top, and Thermoflask to the furthest treadmill from the one that I occupy. I’ll make awkward eye contact and wave enthusiastically like we’re good pals. She’s certain she’s going to end up beneath 4 feet of concrete in my garage. Life is good.
Hockey season is over. The Blues took the cup. I’m not a Blues fan. I’m even less of a Bruins fan. The Bruins are the fucking Patriots of the ice. It’s nothing personal (unless we’re talking about the Pats), I just dislike most teams on the Eastern seaboard. I watched, like a good sport, all the way until the end. My Sharks, that’s right mine, didn’t make the cut again this year. Sharks fan are used to this. Seems like every year we shit the fucking bed. There’s talk of beards finally being shaved. OK, it was only my husband that brought that up. So help me God, if Joe Thornton loses the beard, we are never getting married! All that really matters, the real takeaway, is that Marchand (Bruins) cried. I fucking hate that guy!