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But I Still Taste Coffee
Lady Glitter Sparkles ordered coffee, added enough milk and sweetness to reduce it to a beige rumor, and then filed a formal complaint because she could still taste coffee. Exhibit A has since been abandoned in our refrigerator.
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Emergency Contact Consulting™
Drop Dead Fred asks me what to say. I write the perfect script. She approves it—and then completely fucking disregards it. Welcome to Emergency Contact Consulting™, where continued support is guaranteed and re-consultations cost $49.99.
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Milton’s Fucking Office
We named the bathroom ghost Milton, assigned him an office, and accidentally gave him a horny feline co-conspirator. Apparently, he’s been handling paranormal operations from behind the toilet since we moved in.
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The Shitshow Took the Day Off
Nothing was fixed. Life was still beating my ass. But somewhere between a potato the size of my problems, a food-covered baby, and a claw-machine heist, I remembered I could still be happy anyway.
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The Cinnamon Roll Testicles Had Character.
One cinnamon roll had testicles. One adult became Jacuzzi Soup. One adult got laughed into an unexpected shit. Unfortunately for the children, this is the highest level of leadership available.
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I Have a System. Please Stop Touching It.
I have systems. My stuff has assigned seats. My coffee has an order of operations. Even my titties have a procedure. Are all of these systems necessary? Absolutely the fuck not. Please stop touching them anyway.
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Sleep Is for People Whose Babies Respect Them
Meatball refused to sleep. Dumb & Fuckin Stupider committed multiple offenses. Barky Bitch needed to shit at fuck-o’clock. My boobs leaked. My bubble bath lasted approximately twenty minutes. There is no lesson here. The baby remains disrespectful.
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I Can Explain Exactly Why I’m Spiraling. Unfortunately, I’m Still Spiraling.
Therapy has made me incredibly good at identifying exactly why I’m losing my fucking mind. Unfortunately, knowing why and knowing how to stop are two very different stages of healing.
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Exhibit A: The Meatball Toupee
My five-month-old has one geographically specific parcel of hair between her shoulder blades. Purpose: unknown. Rent: unpaid. Zoning: apparently approved. Naturally, I have questions.
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The Village
I spent a lot of my life thinking a village was the people you show up for. Turns out, that’s only half the fucking story. Sometimes the people you love pull up a chair for you, too.
