Psychological Warfare

Me: Adrian, can you go get me a coke?

Adrian: Yeah, no problem.

(brings me a coke)

Adrian (as he's leaving the room): Love me, love me, say that you love me...

Me: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Adrian (husband) is being a huge fuckwad lately. He's perpetrating psychological warfare.

Me: Hey Adrian, while you're at the bank, can you get some 10's?

Adrian: Yeah, no problem. I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free.

Me: I HATE YOUR FACE.

He speaks only certain lines of certain songs that get stuck in my head all day.

Me: Do you want to watch America's Got Talent?

Adrian: In a minute. *hums John Phillips Sousa*

Me: You sleep on the couch.

He does it simply because he knows they piss me the hell off, and I'll spend all day brewing about how much that one song makes me want to light children aflame, until I finally start singing it in my head and kind of enjoying it, in which he'll promptly switch to a new one.

Me: *humming* One, like a dream come true, two, just want to be with you...

Adrian: And I said, HEYY AYYY AYYY AY AY, HEYYYY AY AY, I SAID HEY, WHAT'S GOING ON.

FUCK YOU, ADRIAN.

Mom's Messages: Actual Texts From My Ma "The Snowboard"

Ma: "hw ws Snowboarding/"

Me: "Fine until I caught an edge on a root, flipped in the air a couple times, then landed on my elbow and punched myself in the ribs during the dismount. I couldn't breathe well for a little while."

Ma: "hAve pictures of ths?"

RV To Hell

The summer of my 7th grade year, my Ma and Stepdad decided to fuck up a vacation by going round trip from South Dakota to New Mexico with all four of us and my Ma's terrier.

To make it even better, we went in a 4 bedroom, one bath, 400 square foot hellhole dubbed The Widowmaker. 

South Dakota is like God's little joke on America, with it's vast plains of WHERE THE HELL ARE WE. The Big SD does feature Rushmore, which, if you've never been, is a rock--that's all. You go, you snap a picture of you and your dog as presidents on the mountain. However, since it was Monday, and we were leaving for New Mexico only on FRIDAY, we had some time to kill.

Other Events in South Dakota:

1) Crazy Horse--another rock, but unfinished. Well thank God I saw that before I died. 

2) The Rootin' Tootin' Cowboy Salootin' Dinner Show--Oh, how I wish I were just dicking around about this one. We chose the RTCSDS based on their claims of being the set of the movie Dances with Wolves, Grace's favorite movie. Upon arrival found a sticky note taped to the floor with the words "Kevn Costnar stood here," on the way to the food line, where they handed you a metal plate and metal cup and filled your plate first with SEARING HOT BEANS, invited you to sing on stage and crush your soul.

That was all we did. 5 days, folks, 5 days.

So then, to really round out the fuckery, we moseyed on down to The Land of Enchantment--New Mexico (henceforth The Land of Broken Dreams). 

Northern New Mexico=Mountains and Ski Areas=pretty.

Southern New Mexico=Desolation=Our chosen destination!

I got chased through a thornbush thicket by a band of rogue deer while wearing a wetsuit carrying flippers and a Sonic Size Dr. Pepper in Roswell.

Mark of a terrible vacation? When the IHOP Brain Teasers are your highlight. 

Mom's Messages: Actual Texts From My Ma "The Scholarship"

Grace: "So far today I have been notified about $2000 in scholarship money I have been awarded! Excellent!"

Ma: "How   . gave u ths"

Grace: "What? Go back and read that and try again, Ma."

Ma: "who scholarship ; frm"

Grace: "Money grace gud. Me like learn."

Ma: "btch&"

Text Fetish

My phone has an autocorrect function that is not that awesome. Smell, small, smile, smooth, smite, smoothie, etc.=S&M

Yeah, that's right, anything that begins with sm- automatically gets corrected to a fetish in GIANT CAPITAL LETTERS LIKE THESE. 

The best part about it is that my phone is a sneaky bastard, and wouldn't correct it until I hit send.

"Those tacos really S&M good."
Sure, what the hell. Bring on the sadist vagina.

"I'm going to S&M King, want anything?"
Fuck yeah I do!

"I want a S&M coke."
Whoa. I draw the line at coke. Safe, Sane, Consensual.

"Brandon likes S&M"
Funny now that he's broken up with the girlfriend I sent it to.

"I want a cherry S&M"
Don't we all?

"S&M favor?"
Sounds like a hell of a favor.

"Get that S&M off your face."
Or I'll whip it off. I'll beat it off. BEAT IT OFF. Heh.


All real-life examples.

Other fun corrections:

1. Fucking=ducking (making angry texts sound adorable)
2. Hell=He'll (making less angry texts sound speech impediment-y)
3. Hte=warrants no correction to my phone (the)
4. fucktard=diciest (what the he'll? "He's a diciest," is not impactful, nor grammatically correct.)

Psychological profile as decided by my phone: Adorable Dominatrix with serious head trauma. 

Nachos of Unimaginable Laziness

I've eaten nothing but sharp cheddar cheese, taco sauce, and tortilla chips for 3-4 days now. I put shredded cheese into a bowl, dump on a shitload of taco sauce, lay on my bed, and shove the masterpiece into my face with chips.

I eat the world's laziest nachos.

Husband: "Didn't you eat that for breakfast?"

Me: "What of it?"

Husband: "Wait. You ate that for dinner last night, too."

Me: "..."

Husband: "Give me the taco sauce."

Me: "Step off." And then I run my dairy-fied ass up the stairs and out of sight.

I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I am a real person with a real job and everything. I'm not a homeless person or 4 years old--I just have no idea what real people eat for food. All I have in my pantry is frosting and pasta hidden behind my altar of toasted corn triangles.

I feel like an asshole at the grocery store when I look at other people's carts, and they're all, "FRUITS, VEGETABLES, GRAINS, NUTS, PROTEIN, WATER, ALL NATURAL PRODUCTS AND HAPPINESS."

My cart is filled with, "SODA, CHIPS, 4 JARS OF TACO SAUCE, 6 BAGS OF SHREDDED CHEESE, AEROSOL CHEMICALS, NECESSITY OF A SOCIAL SERVICES VISIT."

They judge me, as they stand in line sadly, "Oh, look at that sad, oily, 12 year old buying her shitty food for her shitty sleepover." Yeah, no, I'm 23 years old and married with nice shit and about as much nutritional value as sugar-coated acid-filled baby tears.

British Petroleum Shops at Acme

Every time I turn on the news and hear anything about how much BP is raping the ocean, I feel as though Wile E. Coyote should be walking out of frame, smashed like an accordion, holding a white flag.

Do they buy cleanup plans at Acme?

I mean, jeez, I'm no engineer, but are we really throwing tires and mud at a gigantic pipeline? It almost sounds like they put someone's redneck uncle in charge of pluggin' up the cluster.

The Associated Press reported the other day that BP, "didn't plan for major oil spill." Is it really a thought in anyone's brains at this point that they have any idea what they're doing?

I'll be honest with you, when I heard that they were wanting to place a giant shipping container over the end of that pipeline, I was waiting with bated breath for several months down the road when (if it had worked) that bitch rocketed off into the atmosphere, buzzing a cruise ship as it entered orbit. "Grab your Hefty, Hank, BP effed everything up again."

I suppose what I love more is that it never seemed to enter anyone's mind at BP that hey, something really bad could happen with oil in the ocean one day, and they should, mayyyyybeeee, have a contingency for it. I had a job once that had contingency plans for losing sticky notes (ironically, at an oil company), but BP has no idea what they'll do now, short of sending FEMA down to potato cannon squirrels with wetsuits and ShamWows into the pipeline in a constant stream.

"See, squirrels are pretty small, and can hold five or six ShamWows. If we shoot 6,000 of 'em at the leak at the force of 500 Nascar engines, then they should be able to soak of most of the world's fuel in a couple hours. Them ShamWows can really soak a bitch up. I mean, they're German, and you know the Germans always make good stuff."

Indeed, Backwoods BP Emergency Management, indeed.