Cramps are the devil’a work.

What Christmas Means to Me:

Burnt cookies.
Stupid carols.
Ugly, itchy, sweaters.
Forced time with estranged family.

More heinous holiday socks.

Of course the barista at the coffee shop is a sex god and I walk in with a baggy tee shirt and no make up.  Hair’s up, because fuck showering, and fml.  Fuck my motherfucking life. Fuck it. And to add insult to my injured ego, the coffee tastes like Heaven. Fuck you gorgeous tattooed sex barista dude. Fuck.You. 


Even if you listen, I never have much to say.  I’m struggling these days with finding peace and happiness.  I hate my waitressing job.  And every time I apply somewhere else, the waiting for answers or those answers being No, break me a little more.  He doesn’t understand, so we don’t talk about it.  He says At least you have a job.  He shakes his head and we don’t talk about it.
I don’t even know what I’d like to do.  Just not waitressing or sales.  Because I suck at sales.  And I hate serving ungrateful people.  But that’s life.  We constantly serve others who are undeserving of our help.  I’m dreading work right now.  To the point I get so upset I get sick.  But in an hour I’ll go.  I feel crumpled.  Stuck.  I can’t move forward because I’m too scared it will just be more of the same bullshit.  And again it comes up, sick all over the toilet.  Tentacles reaching our to suck me under.  Rambling.  Off.  

Rick Santorum, Defined:



Error 68:

Red ring of death.  XBox down.

Spent 45 minutes at the post office.

Anxiety attack in the Guitar Center parking lot.

Got laughed out of Linens’N’Things for asking if they were hiring.

Redid entire fucking resume.

Don’t understand Adsense, or how to code it into my blog.