Buy My Book Now, Or Else My Next One Will Be About You

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Kidding. (Not kidding.)

Okay you guys, my book was set to come out on Tuesday, June 4th. Tomorrow for me. Today at this point for some of you. Then I got an email today saying it would be delayed because of some bullshit on Amazon. I was so devastated. I threw myself around for about an hour. I asked tons of people for advice (because the Kindle and independent publisher DID have it available, so it would only be the Amazon thing holding up the BIG ANNOUNCEMENT). I emotionally ate probably ten times more calories than I should have.

Then I got home from running a bunch of stupid errands (because of course, on a “me” day when the MIL has the Pookies, the only natural thing to do is run errands rather than doing something actually for … me …); I got home from running those errands and I was like you know I’m going to look up the Kindle version of the book to make sure that is indexed properly too. If there was a screw up with one, there might be a screw up with the other right?

And then it happened. I saw that the snafu had been resolved. My book is available in Paperback on Amazon, as well as for a Kindle device or Kindle App.

OH MY GOD. MY BOOK IS AVAILABLE ON PAPERBACK ON AMAZON, AS WELL AS FOR A KINDLE DEVICE OR KINDLE APP.

… have you all regained consciousness?

MWABBUTTONSFor those of you relatively new around the block, I wrote a compilation book of never-before-seen tirades about being an adult, being a mom, and how I think men and husbands are absolutely horrifying. It isn’t just for moms or wives or women. Quite frankly, I think men could consider it a manual of what not to do (in spite of the fact that it is probably going to be considered by many as the most emasculating, man-hating book on the planet….).

To be clear: I am not a man-hater. I am just honest.

But because of this honesty, I thought it best to dub this one an investigation of sorts. Is it OK to be a bitch? Is there something true about anything I say – in my books, as well as on my blog? Am I insane, or do I really actually say things a lot of people think?

All questions answered in the book.

So here’s the deal. You are all going to watch the trailer for My Wife’s a Bitch. Right here! On this very blog post!

Then you are going to click on the picture below that best describes how you prefer to read your books. And you are going to buy the book.

Or else my next one will be about you.

You think I’m kidding? I mean I am (not really). But once you read the book, maybe you will take me more seriously. (Or not.) Only time will tell.

The last thing you are going to do (or suffer my wrath) is post a review on Amazon, like the book on Amazon, post your comments about it on Goodreads, and MORE THAN ANYTHING – share this motherfucker into the ground. SHARE SHARE SHARE!

You remember in health class in high school when they did that glitter thing to prove how fast STDs spread? One person got some glitter on her hand and had to move around the classroom, suddenly there was glitter everywhere and we were all cowering in fear that this might have meant we somehow caught some weird form of chlamydia. I want you to share this bitch right now like you shared that glitter chlamydia in high school health class.

So without further ado, My Wife’s A Bitch. Because I am.

To buy for download on your Kindle, Kindle Fire, or Kindle APP ($4.99)

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To buy an unsigned paperback from Amazon.com ($9.99 – marked down to $9.24)

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To buy a signed paperback directly from the author ($24.99 – free shipping in the United States)

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The Main Reason You Should Never Use My Bathrooms

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I have two bathrooms. One is the kid bathroom, which is decorated with this cute kid-ish nature wall art. The other is our bathroom, which has nature stuff all around it too, only it’s more “mature.”

You never want to use my bathrooms.

Let’s say you’re a friend who has come over to babysit. You are there for a long period of time, have a lot of the drinks I said you could help yourself to. Ate one too many chips with my low fat ranch dip. You’ve got to go.

Hold it. You do not want to use my bathrooms.

Or you are a family member. You’re at Christmas dinner. Yams don’t usually agree with you, but you went for them anyway. In fact, you didn’t just go for them; you porked down three helpings. Suddenly you’re reminded that yams usually cause problems by the gurgling in your lower bowels.

Hold it. You do not want to use my bathrooms.

You are a neighbor! As such, you are likely a big, pot smoking, vandalizing burn out. While out on some kind of get-wasted binge, you and your other drug-using friends went to the Mexican stand down the street from the apartment. Then on your way in, you bought some of the tamales from that lady that comes to our doorsteps once a week. You get to your door only to find that in your intoxicated state you locked yourself out of your apartment. It’ll take about an hour for the locksmith to show up. Suddenly you realize that maybe following up the extra-spicy enchiladas with Guadalupe’s tamales may not have been such a good idea. You see my apartment, and that we are home.

Hold it. You do not want to use my bathrooms.

There is one reason why none of you – whether you are family, friends, strangers, or otherwise – want to use my bathrooms. Because I’ll make a motherfucking video blog about it when you do.

Enjoy!

Screw Yourself Sideways, Spring Cleaning

I’ve been spring cleaning for about a week.

At first it was as it always is – like a new boyfriend. I was excited. My heart a’fluttered at the thought of trashing some of the crap we have and never use. The first night I couldn’t even get to sleep – the wheels in my brain were just turning and turning and turning over all the things I wanted to do.

Now spring cleaning and I have reached a parting of ways. It’s been a week (so, also much like a new boyfriend). I’m tired of having headaches from all the dust allergens flying around. There’s stuff. Everywhere. And for some reason I can’t get rid of this nagging feeling that I got rid of something I shouldn’t have.

Or is it that I didn’t get rid of enough?

Day 1

My Husband will rue the day he married this de-cluttering queen.

6496_522876140413_4968011_nWhen my husband and I first moved in with each other, I learned how much of a hoarder he really was. Is. Will have to get over.

We were unpacking stuff and he opened this big crate and dumped out a bunch of wires. The first thing I should have picked up on was that we didn’t really need any wires for anything we were doing, he just wanted to sort through his wire collection.

Pause a moment. Wire collection.

I asked what they were for and he said “in case I ever need them.” He thought it was funny. By contrast, I thought it was horrifying so I popped Xanax after Xanax because I was beginning to realize what I had gotten myself into.

We have gotten rid of a total of three of my husband’s things in the entire time I have known him. A bedside fountain that didn’t work. An African-looking knick knack that had rusted and cut me more than twice. And a ripped pair of sheets. A few years ago, my husband was given hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of clothing by his parents for Christmas. He got rid of two t-shirts to “make room.”

When I started spring cleaning last week, I realized that I just could not take all of his clutter anymore. If he wasn’t going to get rid of it, in fairness he had to find a better place to store it than on the floor next to our bed, or in areas of the closet that should be for me. I am the woman in the house, aren’t I?

Our conversation went like this:

Me: “We have got to start de-cluttering this place, Nick. I have to be here all the time, unlike you – it is making me feel sick and unsettled to have so much crap around all the time. Plus, it’s like some of this stuff is just here for me to clean. I have never actually seen you play those two guitars sitting propped against the wall over there. And the amp and pedal board that sits next to our bed – not a once. Ever.”

Nick: [Look of panic] “I don’t know what you are talking about. I also don’t even know why you care that there is clutter all over the place. I let you put away the Lord of the Rings cup that I used to like having displayed. How much more do I have to give up?”

Me: [Ignoring the look of panic, as well as the blatant stupidity] “OK, well if that is how you are going to be, I’m just going to do it myself and you can deal with it…”

Nick: Fine.

Nick is right. He let me put away the Lord of the Rings cup. By “let” of course we are all of the understanding that he had no choice. I love the Lord of the Rings movies; The Hobbit was my favorite book growing up. But there is no room for Frodo Baggins in my home decor.

Day 2

The bedroom and the kitchen. I figured I would start at one end of the apartment and move my way out.

To start, I wanted to pack as much of my husband’s guitar equipment into his side of the closet. Of course to do this, I had to start going through his side of the closet and getting rid of crap. Papers. Wire collection. Pussy Master 3000.

Wait, what?

You heard me right, faithful blog followers. I found the drawer full of gag gifts. Some of them I do remember as gifts – possibly gag, possibly serious (I never know with some of my friends). Lubricants. Handcuffs. Things never used, of course. Then there was something my husband consistently insists was a gag gift, although the details of said gift have never been disclosed.

Pussy Master 3000. Lubricant included. As the packaging goes, it’s for the guy who is sick of just using lotion, but needs an artificial vagina for those lonely nights while the wife is away. Fortunately it was still in the bag.

I moved into the kitchen after the Pussy Master and did a little purging and organizing. Then it was time to call it a day.

Day 3

Can’t deal with this spring cleaning shit. Let’s go to the mall.

Day 4

Can’t deal with this spring cleaning shit. Let’s go to my dad’s and mooch food.

Day 5

Oh shit, how am I going to finish spring cleaning in time for the Super Bowl party?! Super Bowl party … Super Bowl party … Let’s shop all day to get stuff for the Super Bowl party.

Day 6

Got my period. There is shit everywhere in my house now. I haven’t dusted in over a week. There is some gelatenous goo forming on the kitchen floor. I need tampons. Better to go get those and hang out at my dad’s house. It’s nice and tidy there.

Day 7 – Today

Screw yourself sideways, spring cleaning. It’s now just a few days away from the Super Bowl and we’re packing about 16 people into our tiny apartment. There’s a bowl, books, stickers, an open package of graham crackers, and a broken Dora the Explorer talking backpack occasionally splurting out “back pack back pack” on the living room coffee table. On the kitchen table is a pile of cleaning supplies, another book, a party bag full of Super Bowl-themed party stuff, and a package of Puffs tissues. I didn’t even bother to put the boxes of kleenex around the house and the extras away. Better to just pull the kleenex directly out of the package, left half-opened on the table.

9401It’s time to get away from this spring cleaning nonsense. I need to just put away all this crap and move on with my life. I discovered a bruise on my leg this morning while getting ready. It probably got there from the hundreds of times I’ve run into all the shit lying around here over the past week of “spring cleaning;” nonetheless, it reminded me that I’m a princess and don’t like scrapes and bruises showing up on my delicate skin. Pussy Master 3000 and Frodo Baggins will have to be it for now. Until next spring…

A Merry Cantankerous Christmas To You

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Have I mentioned to all of you faithful blog followers before that I hate the holidays? The spending and the family and the lines and the gimme-gimme-gimme-what’d-you-get-mes… it is all just a little much for me.

So as we now close into the final stretch, I’ve pretty much been drinking heavily, swearing profusely, and emotionally eating my way to the end. But those aren’t the only ways I’m ensuring a cantankerous Christmas for me and the people that have the great misfortune of being around me.

A Crotchety Christmas Eve

I’ve decided that Christmas Eve is going to come with a side of crotchety bitch.

For two weeks or so, I’ve had a really bad chest cold; this of course did not excuse me from having to cook a multitude of meals, clean the house, get the gifts wrapped, run the errands, and do every other random bullshit preparatory thing that needed to be done. Because while everyone else gets sick and gets to sit around on their asses whining and being waited on and shit, mom gets sick and everyone just demands more.

So on Christmas Eve, my mother and father are coming over and Santa will have come in the afternoon somehow (stealthily, I might add … I have yet to figure that one out). Then we’ll open presents while I get shitfaced, eat dinner, have dessert, and I’ll shuttle the two of them out the door before they either (a) get into an argument, or (b) get back together after 22 years apart.

But remember that I’m cranky because I’ve been sick and no one really seems to have given a damn, so I plan on inserting some crotchety behavior into Christmas Eve. Just in case they thought they were all off the hook for being a bunch of ignorant jerks while I hacked and spewed everywhere. Somewhere, somehow (another thing I have yet to determine) I plan on throwing some freakish bout of hostility into the mix. I’m thinking that since I still have a cough, I might throw myself onto the floor and start banging my fists into the ground while I hack. Nothing says “crotchety old bitch” like proving your point.

A Cuntly Christmas Brunch

When I was in middle school (fuck this “middle school” west coast bullshit, by the way … where I grew up it was called junior high … but I digress), I learned what the term “cunt” meant. It makes me cringe to even say/hear/read/type it, so I’ll keep it to a minimum, but nonetheless that one day in junior high (motherfuckers … it’s motherfucking junior high), I learned that this is a crass way to refer to a woman’s vagina. And if you are trying to insult someone, of course it would be only natural to use a woman’s body part as the deepest of offenses.

I myself even call my husband a vulva and/or hairy labia in a derogatory fashion when we argue. I also call him a vulva and/or hairy labia when we’re in bed, but that’s another story altogether.

Besides being sick, I have gotten more details on people’s medical problems, health issues, bowel movements, and other assorted bodily things than I have wanted to as of late. I think it has to do with the fact that I mostly hang out with old people. My dad needs hip surgery. My mother in law has a cold in her eye and it makes her look like a rabid raccoon. My grandfather had a very productive bowel movement the other day after seven doses of Dulcolax and a bowl of prunes.

TMI, right? Well to get even with all of these people for conjuring up images that I never in a million years would have wanted to think about, my revenge will obviously be my own TMI.

I think I’ll start by talking about a strange vaginal itch (disclaimer: I do not have a strange vaginal itch). Then I’ll move on to discussing the fact that my labia smells like butterscotch (disclaimer: my labia does not smell like butterscotch). Then I thought I would tap off the whole Cuntly Christmas Brunch by standing in the middle of the kitchen, my hand down my pants and scratching vehemently, then turn around just at the right moment and ask if anyone wants butterscotch liquor in their egg nog. It’ll be super crass, super horrifying, and fucking awesome.

A Callous Christmas Dinner

OK, Christmas Eve (tonight) I’m cooking dinner for my parents and we’re opening gifts. Christmas morning (tomorrow in the am) I’m making a huge brunch for all segments of our families and friends that are local (albeit, very few are coming). Christmas Dinner we are going to my in-law’s house to open gifts with them, have dinner, and pretend like we all enjoy each other’s company.

My Cantankerous Christmas wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t do something to reinforce my title as “Queen of Bitches,” so I think I’ve decided on being as rough, callous, and uninterested as possible. Fortunately, we’ll be at my in-law’s, and this is what they are used to. They hate me. I respond by pretty much sitting and not saying much. My husband is similar, which I noticed very early on. I remember one time we were at his parent’s house and I noticed he was very callous when he was around his parents. He would stand there silently, with his arms crossed. He never really talked about anything unless he was asked a question.

When I asked him about it, he said that he knew he acted that way, and that he was callous like that on purpose. He said if he wasn’t, then his mother would spew her emotion everywhere and manipulate him to get things from him (in the way of commitments, time, and career and otherwise sacrifices). Whether this is the case or not, I still don’t know. What I do know is that I typically follow his lead and keep my mouth relatively shut (well, shut for me) because it is his family. And most of them hate me too.

So what are you doing for Christmas, faithful blog followers? Being chipper and loving it? Hating it in a bout of vehement misanthropy like me? Deleting yourself from my blog now that you realize how much of a truly crass and angry woman I can be?

I know that I can be a tough pill to swallow, but this whole Cantankerous Christmas really couldn’t be any better of a situation for me. I get to be a misanthrope. I get an excuse to drink copious amounts of alcoholic grape juice. And I get to open myself to a world of stories to tell. People always say to me: “Christmas is what you make of it.” They are of course referring to the fact that I’m far away from my family and in an unhappy place in life right now. But I think it goes beyond Christmas being what you make of it; it’s about Christmas being about who you are. Many of you don’t know me in person, so it isn’t really fair when you send me your hatemail and tell me I’m a “fucking asshole,” an “ugly whore,” and a “miserable cunt.” Because you don’t know me in person and you don’t know that I really am one of the nicest and most caring people you will ever meet.

But that doesn’t come without a price: I am called a bitch for a reason, and I am referred to as “blunt” because I say it exactly how it is. You might say I’m a little … cantankerous. I think Christmas this year is what I make of it, sure; and my Christmas is about who I am. A Merry Cantankerous Christmas to you, faithful blog followers, or whatever respective holiday you celebrate around this time of year. I hope it is what you make of it, and you are you in the process.

STFU Fridays: Seasons Greetings, Faithful Blog Followers!

Seasons Greetings, and kiss my fucking ass that is!

There has been a lot of talk about Christmas letters lately. Blogs are talking about them. People are talking about them. My grandpa fell the other day and is in the hospital recuperating, and keeps whining that he won’t get his Christmas letter done in time now. Apparently the letter is the thing to do.

So I’m leaving my own letter on your doorstep, faithful blog followers. Only instead of being printed on flowery paper with all sorts of bullshit no one wants to hear about on it, my ol’ yule log of greetings is in a paper bag and lit on fire. Instead of talking about me, for this Shut the Fuck Up Friday I’m talking about you…

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Your Christmas Letter Informed Me About All Of Your Perfect Childrens’ Achievements

I don’t give a fuck if your kid placed first in soccer for the eighth time. I don’t give a shit if your kid is an honor roll student. As far as I’m concerned, he/she is on the honor roll of my asshole. You know why I don’t care? Because everyone’s kid is awesome – whether they are on the honor roll or the fucking dean’s list of losers that will never make it past 8th grade. Stop comparing yourself through your kids to other people. It’s cool that you want to encourage them; I, myself, have been known to brag on occasion. But a lot of times you’re just making them feel like they have to live up to certain Christmas letter standards, or they are a total failure to you.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Christmas Card Included Oh-So-Unique Portraits of Your Beautiful Family

NOT!

The choice to not remove the huge wart/pimple/hair from your face prior to the photo shoot was probably the wrong one. And while your portraits were clearly of you guys, you do know that your photos look just like everyone else’s, right? The kids walking in between the parents, looking back at the camera. In sepia. The family playing in the field in jeans and matching denim shirts. The beach images of the you guys writing your holier-than-thou family crest in the sand. Seriously, people – get over yourselves. I appreciate seeing your kids, since chances are I’m too much of a dick to just get in the car and drive out to see them, but let’s not put on any heirs here either: that picture is going in the trash come December 26th, right along with everyone else’s. Save your money and just send a polaroid.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Verbal Diarrhea Informed Me Of All Your Hardships

Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, do you people not understand that a Christmas letter is supposed to spread cheer? Like happy news? We received a letter in the mail last week that was six pages long; line after motherfucking line of sadness and hardship and “this person got laid off” and “these people’s house got foreclosed on.” Shit, by the end of the sixth page, I had taken two Valium and a shot of Canadian Club and considered driving myself off the pier in empathy.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Blatant Lying Made Me Realize You Are Delusional

Although by contrast, we received another letter that was all unicorns shitting rainbows, and babies puking glitter – it was just that perfect. Life is great! Life is wonderful! I took a dump last week and it came out in bricks of gold! It concluded with “nothing ever seems to go wrong for us these days,” which is sweet but for God’s sakes: (1) grow up, and (2) stop lying. Life sucks balls. You don’t have to drag us down with all your problems, but the least you could do is be a little more realistic and humble about any good things you do have.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Medical Problems Were Your Christmas Letter’s Centerpiece

What is it with people and sharing all their medical dramas over their Christmas letters? Call me crazy, but I always thought I’d save the stories about my bleeding asshole and weird smelling tits for either my doctor, my husband, or my shaman (disclosure: I do not have a bleeding asshole or weird smelling tits … or a shaman … at least not yet).

My grandpa is the worst with these – his letters always detail his medical dramas and the problems he has making his bowels move if the Nebraska Cornhuskers aren’t doing well. And there was that one time my Trailer Trash Mom wrote a couple paragraphs in grandpa’s letter about her unpleasant discharge – that was a real crowd-pleaser.

Shut the Fuck Up

So seasons greetings, motherfuckers. Please keep your vaginal discharge and your honor roll students to yourself. As you write your Christmas letters this next week, just keep in mind that when in doubt: shut the fuck up!

I Think I Have An Obsession With Balls

Balls on a stick, covered in frosting and sprinkles. Balls mixed with egg and simmered in cranberry sauce for a few hours. Balls made out of cheese and chutney, rolled in a variety of nuts and miscellaneous hanging fruit. Balls drizzled in caramel and covered in – big surprise – nuts.

These will be the centerpieces of the party that we’re throwing this weekend in honor of Thanksgiving. The last minute cancelations on the old RSVPs have really started to roll in, which I don’t know if I’m upset about or happy for.

If I’m upset, it’s because I’m a little offended that we can always go to other people’s parties, but they never seem to be able to come to ours. What’s worse about it is that some of my Trailer Trash Mom’s hillbilly family actually had the balls (no pun intended) to say “something better came up.” Something better came up motherfucker? How about my fist up your rude asshole next time you give me shit because I can’t make it to your kid’s birthday party? But I digress…

If I’m happy, though, it’s because I’ll have all of those balls to myself.

This isn’t the first time something I’ve done has been ball-focused, though. And in fact, I’m starting to wonder if I have a little obsession with them.

Exhibit A

Food In Ball Form

This party will be the third one in which a lot of the food I’ve made for it is in ball-form. I do it all the time; in fact, I just made some balls for dinner the other night.

Is it the calm I get when rolling them out that entices me to do it so often? Is it the ease with which they cook evenly? Whatever the case may be, I roll so much of our food into balls these days, it’d probably be easier to make a list of the food I haven’t made squishy and sphere-like.

Exhibit B

“Suck on my hairy balls”

So I don’t actually have testicles. I know many of you have been wondering for a very, very long time. But I don’t.

And yet the words “suck on my hairy balls,” and it’s equally as effective variant “lick my sticky nuts,” come out of my mouth on average ten times a day. I say it under my breath when someone cuts me off. I say it to my uber-religious father when he annoys me. I yell it at my husband when I clean up his nut hair clippings off the floor.

OK, I totally just took that one too far, and to be clear my husband doesn’t actually clip his pubic hair. I don’t think.

But that brings me to the next point.

Exhibit C

Jokes Involving Testicles

I make a lot of jokes involving testicles. I’m pretty sure it’s because I hear them a lot, but then there are other times when it fits with just about anything.

This Friday I’ll be roasting a few of my favorite bloggers on my STFU Fridays post; all of which started out of an awful joke I made into something of a comic/picture, which (of course) involves a crack about balls. And not a night goes by that I don’t make fun of my husband for that one time he laid in bed scratching himself. Not a single night.

So what’s the verdict? Do I have an obsession with balls?

 

This evening I made some pumpkin bread and had a lot of leftover batter. So the only natural thing for me to do was to break out the cake pop pan and make some balls. Pumpkin balls, covered in nuts. Covered in nuts and drizzled in ball molasses.

Now my mouth is watering to squeeze as many of those squishy sacks into my mouth. See? I can’t even stop myself, even when I’ve taken it to a point even I am grossed out by. I’m totally obsessed. Are you?

We Interrupt Our Regular STFU Programming For a Burp

Holy Mother of all that is good, this was by far the crappiest, most horrible and heinous week I’ve had in a long time.

Don’t get me wrong, my life usually blows a big one. And I mean bigger than an elephant’s schlong, or that World’s Biggest Thermometer out in the Mohave Desert. This one really takes the cake.

We’ve all had colds. Our increased rent is breathing down our necks, forcing us into making decisions. I’m still really homesick and want to move back to Chicago and my family so badly I can barely breathe anymore. My husband is still a misogynist. It’s been all tantrums and difficulty on the homeschooling front all week. And then this morning my husband got into a car accident, then proceeded to yell at me as if it was my fault.

Shitty week. So shitty that it’s all I can do to just sit on the couch and eat my Funmallows as I wallow in my own self-pity on the evening of this Shut the Fuck Up Friday.

Despite all this chaos, I had an STFU Fridays in the hopper, all ready to go. It went a little something like this:

My week has been so horrible I cannot even begin to describe how I am feeling right now. I know, I know … you are all thinking that I always have an awful week. Every day is full of bullshit. Well, that’s a little true and a little not true. I do pay a lot of attention to my surroundings, and so I notice more that others don’t always catch. And life is just really hard right now because I’m very unhappy. I’m also married to someone with whom drama swirls around, which causes a little bit of drama on a daily basis for me as well.

In any event, this week has sucked a big one. And what frustrates me the most about it is when I try to say that it’s been a hard week and some dillhole says in response to my complaining “well, just remember, someone has it much harder than you out there.”

Yeah, sure. Someone has it harder. Someone is living on the streets. Someone is starving to death. Someone is suffering from alcohol addiction or a drug problem. Someone has cancer or emphezyma. Someone out there is having their house foreclosed on. 

There are a million possibilities.

But I can’t help but say to the people that say that, the people that always say “just remember, someone has it much harder than you;” the shamers that want you to feel bad for letting out your feelings about whatever you are going through, no matter how trivial it may seem to them – I want to say to them that it’s about time they shut the fuck up. Seriously. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Everyone deals with everything differently. Everyone experiences everything from a different perspective. I’m not saying my piddly shit problems and unhappiness in California compares to someone that just lost a loved one or had any of the other horse shit things happen to them that have not happened to me, and are insurmountably worse than what I am going through. I’m just saying that people need to shut the fuck up and stop shaming me for feeling like shit about a shitty situation.

It’s okay to feel like shit.

It’s okay to be upset.

It is okay to have negative feelings sometimes.

It’s okay to let it out and feel like garbage because something is going wrong for you.

All people that say that bullshit about “just remember someone has it worse off than you” are doing is trying to shame you into feeling guilty for feeling like your life is shitty or you got a bum rap. 

Seriously… shut the fuck – – – – – – – –

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

We interrupt our regular STFU Programming for a Burp.

So at this point, we were out to dinner with my dad tonight and I was starting to bitch and complain about the car accident that my husband got into today, and the fact that he yelled at me as if it was my fault and problem to deal with. Then my dad was starting to do his usual “someone else out there has it worse than you” rap he usually goes into, and I about to tell him to shut the fuck up, when the waitress walked up and my dad opened his mouth to order his Diet Coke and tacos and instead of words, an uproarious belch came shrieking out of his skull cave.

The waitress started to laugh.

We all started to laugh.

I was laughing so hard I started crying.

My dad apologized about eight times.

We aren’t just talking about a little squeaker of a burp. We are talking the foulest and most gutteral sound any human being could utter.

Out of my father’s mouth. With the waitress and all of us right there.

I didn’t really get a chance to complain about the week and my horrible times, and my dad didn’t get an opportunity to tell me that someone in the world has it worse off than me.

And that was my Shut the Fuck Up Friday. Began with bullshit. Ended with a belch.

I think we’ve all learned a number of lessons, here. Now shut the fuck up!