Merry Christmas!!!!
So I was reading Dear Abby today, our last day in the office for the next eleven days. It was easy enough to say HO HO HO I laugh at other people's troubles, but this one annoyed the living SHIT out of me. Read it here.
I am expected to include a detailed NOTE in my Christmas cards? Really?? Who would want that? Ever? Because my Truth will burn your eyebrows off. You wanna hear my Truth? Here goes: My world was my Job. I did it. I did it well, even though my stomach tried to undermine me at every turn. I've been sick a lot. Look at it. LOOK AT IT.
I succeeded anyway. Still I wasn't lifting heavy weights or doing a real job from the real world. How proud could I really be for this? In my White Hot private life, I dated zero (0) people. I mentally stalked about five. Only two of them will still look me in the eye.
I continue to WIN at chunking out. I have sexy new chin that accentuates my other FLABULOUS qualities. I continue to threaten anyone and everyone who dares to comment on it. I try not to whine. I expect you to SHUT. UP.
On the brighter side, I met a small peep called Juju this year. He is a baby, soon to be a Harvard scholar or perhaps a mime. He looks at me with both delight (WIDE EYES) and terror (when he realizes I am holding him). I totally believe he will be genuinely happy to know me one day. I have sweet, good friends.
And, for the most part, sweet and good employees. I absolutely refuse to allow toxic people into my life. Therefore, all of my certified friends should be your certified friends. My taste is impeccable.
I almost died twice this year. Once this morning when the wind tried to push me down the subway stairs (IRONY, since this is the first day since Sandy that I could have taken the R all the way to work) and tonight, when I read this bit from Buzzfeed about the best Autocorrects ever. I seriously had to walk away from breathlessness, tears, and mild hysteria.
I am still suffering from some sort of post traumatic stress disorder from that last relationship. YES, I KNOW IT WAS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. And yet I still dream about him. And in my dreams he is just as handsome, and charming, and ultimately cruel as he was before. Why I can't dream of Channing Tatum giving me foot massages every night, I will never know.
SO THERE, people who feel obligated to know my business, get happy. Your wish is my muthafuckin command.
Love,
Fool
I am expected to include a detailed NOTE in my Christmas cards? Really?? Who would want that? Ever? Because my Truth will burn your eyebrows off. You wanna hear my Truth? Here goes: My world was my Job. I did it. I did it well, even though my stomach tried to undermine me at every turn. I've been sick a lot. Look at it. LOOK AT IT.
I succeeded anyway. Still I wasn't lifting heavy weights or doing a real job from the real world. How proud could I really be for this? In my White Hot private life, I dated zero (0) people. I mentally stalked about five. Only two of them will still look me in the eye.
I continue to WIN at chunking out. I have sexy new chin that accentuates my other FLABULOUS qualities. I continue to threaten anyone and everyone who dares to comment on it. I try not to whine. I expect you to SHUT. UP.
On the brighter side, I met a small peep called Juju this year. He is a baby, soon to be a Harvard scholar or perhaps a mime. He looks at me with both delight (WIDE EYES) and terror (when he realizes I am holding him). I totally believe he will be genuinely happy to know me one day. I have sweet, good friends.
And, for the most part, sweet and good employees. I absolutely refuse to allow toxic people into my life. Therefore, all of my certified friends should be your certified friends. My taste is impeccable.
I almost died twice this year. Once this morning when the wind tried to push me down the subway stairs (IRONY, since this is the first day since Sandy that I could have taken the R all the way to work) and tonight, when I read this bit from Buzzfeed about the best Autocorrects ever. I seriously had to walk away from breathlessness, tears, and mild hysteria.
I am still suffering from some sort of post traumatic stress disorder from that last relationship. YES, I KNOW IT WAS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. And yet I still dream about him. And in my dreams he is just as handsome, and charming, and ultimately cruel as he was before. Why I can't dream of Channing Tatum giving me foot massages every night, I will never know.
SO THERE, people who feel obligated to know my business, get happy. Your wish is my muthafuckin command.
Love,
Fool
posted by Shiny at 12:39 AM
1 Comments:
Haha! My Christmas card three years ago: Well, I let a doctor burn my fucking face off. I am officially disfigured and had to pay another doctor to somewhat piece it back together. I have no money for stinkin' Christmas cards and I'm too catatonic with depression to write them anyway. My thyroid doesn't work anymore and my eyes sunk back in my head. There's something weird growing in my pituitary and all I do is cry and wish I was dead. And guess who is dying right now? My Dad. Happy Holidays!
Dear Abby, what the hell is wrong with some non-military guy wearing fatigues? He's young and he thinks he looks cool. Ignore it and it will eventually go away.
Love you, Erino!
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