Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Another New Year's Eve Compilation List: Shit to be Happy About or Loathe. It's Up To You.

So it’s New Year’s Eve. Not only is it the time of year when people promise lie to themselves about all the changes they will make in the upcoming year, this is also the time of year when people compile lists. You know, lists of the best things the year had to offer. I’m sure MTV will have us believe they were the first to do it in 1984 when Jon Waite got #1 on MTV's Top 100 Countdown for “Missing You”, but I sincerely believe there were lists before that and there will be plenty more for years to come.  Our culture just loves lists, not just on New Years. Blogs all over the world want you to read: “Top 15 Celebrity Breakups,” “7 Reasons Your Man Might Be Cheating,” “24 Reasons She's a Slut.” We all click on them. Even virgins click on the “You Might be a Slut” link. It's entertaining and a way of validating ourselves and/or our behavior. Why not?

To get in the spirit, I thought I would compile a list of things you may have had or experienced in the past year to be grateful for and loathe simultaneously, or one at a time. Your choice. 

        1. Kids. Be happy you have them because you never have to find your own remote. You have progeny to trickle down your DNA through the ages and have a tiny version of yourself to take pride in and watch grow into an adult…or serial killer, whatever.  Maybe your kid will be a good serial killer like Dexter who only kills other serial killers. Sure, it's right on the borderline, but I think that’s still a thing to be proud of. But I digress. If you don’t have kids, you could be happy because you don’t know what a post-pregnancy body is (whether you'd have to endure your own or look at one while you do dirty things to it.) Either way even without post-pregnancy body your body may not be what it was in high school, but I bet your tits (or the tits you have to play with) don’t look like bean bag chairs that were bought 30 years ago that your grandma refuses to throw out. Plus, you get to shower daily…in warm water.  Be grateful. People with kids even though they beam with pride of the little people they made, still have the propensity to be miserable because kids are the reason the remote is probably missing in the first place, they never shut up...ever, have no clue what privacy is unless they want some, and would rather watch you exsanguinate than do the dishes or make their own sandwich.  
"If you don't cut my shit diagonal, I'm gonna get stabby."
       2. Job. Sure it's not what you thought you would be doing when you were a kid.  I am sure you had dreams of being a superhero or a traveling doctor in Third World countries or something noble. Still, you can be happy that you have one and that you aren’t considered the poorest of your friends. Maybe you take pride in your work and can afford a bottle of water after you pay your bills if you're one of the lucky ones. You can also be happy if you don’t have one because you don’t have to get up before Jesus on a Monday just to deal with other people’s problems.  You could also work and still be the poorest of your friends. Just imagine how that feels. Unemployment means you can do what you want.  You can stay home and watch entire seasons on Netflix in just one day...Naked. Those of us who are currently employed, no matter where we work, our  job is to deal with other peoples' shit.  McDonalds. Shit Sandwiches.  Medical field. Actual shit.  Legal field. Shitty marriages and shitty business decisions.  Server. Shitty tips. Teacher. Shitty know it all attitudes. Retail. Lazy shits who can’t figure out where the toothpaste is.   When employed you might be able to pay your bills, and get that bottle of water, but you still feel dirty and your nails are never clean from all the shit you deal with daily. 


See?  Jesus is still knocked and you are fighting traffic to get to the office by 8:30.
3. Relationship. Be grateful that you have someone to share all the good stuff with.   You essentially share all the time. Sharing is caring….Right? There’s fucking. That’s great. You share skin and copious amounts of bodily fluids. There are also hugs when you are sad, kisses for no reason (or to initiate fucking), and someone to share a meal with on Valentine’s Day. There is a person to pick you up from the airport and when you fall on hard luck and also share in your success. We all could use someone to love us for who we are and all our crap.  Let’s also be realistic and say that sharing is also gross and rude sometimes. Relationships also means your bath towel is always wet for some mysterious reason.  They mean conversations about what to eat for dinner while one of you is pooping with the bathroom door open. They include someone asking for you to share bites of your favorite food, even though you asked them if they wanted some before you made it and they said they weren't hungry.  Sharing is also getting sick every single fucking time your partner gets sick. Love is getting 17 colds, dysentery, and the stomach flu 3 times in 2014.

"If you cough on me one more time, I am going to smother you in your sleep and blame it on a NyQuil induced hysteria." 

I realize this list isn't all inclusive. But hell, this blog is not a Sandals Resort. I wrote this to remind some of you that when taking a look back tonight in a vodka induced haze, to appreciate what you see and maybe even laugh at it.  Even the things that seemed substandard could be acceptable if you just look at them differently. Hell, the things that seemed great, could appear lackluster to someone else. Stop looking at other peoples' grass.  Just worry about your own fucking grass in 2015.  Not the kind they grow in Colorado either. Your fucking life-grass. No seriously, not ganja. The metaphorical grass that grows if you just nurture it a bit and learn to appreciate it.  Just be happy. 


Friday, October 3, 2014

Kids. They Pretty Much Ruin Shit.


Some of you may know, while I pretend to not like children, I have several of my own.  I have SIX. You can say several when you have six. That’s not close to a few. That’s like me telling you that I have several dollars for you and showing up with three. It would be an unpleasant surprise. You have to warn folks when you roll around with several kids. I can’t just pop up for dinner at your house. Several or a few, it’s just me and them most days. Kids are fucking nuts.  Kids are weird. My youngest son eats hair.  Yes.  Hair.  I have one with a stick collection (the kind that fall off of trees) that he takes everywhere he goes. Kids talk incessantly.  Kids ask questions like, "Exactly how big is DNA?" When I ask my 10 year old daughter how was school, she pulls out notes she took of her day so she doesn't miss anything. I mean I truly care, but damn, I just got off work. Can't she just say "good" sometimes and put her ear buds in?   Kids eat a lot. I cook for them. Kids have places to go...All the time. I take them.  Kids need stuff, I buy it. This is what parents do. I am not complaining about it. After I spend all my money on them, I feel a sense of accomplishment and pride until a single tear trickles down my cheek the moment I realize that I have no money for vodka. Okay, maybe I am complaining. But fuck, it’s hard and I'm tired.  And before one of you tell me I shouldn't have had six kids, let me be the one to tell you, I fucking didn't. I had three.  Life sometimes throws you a curve ball and you wake up with six kids one day. No big deal. Hell, I don't even know how the other ones got here.

SEVERAL.
 All that being said, I love all those little fuckers.  I have every age range: Selfish soul sucking duo of 2 year old twins, who are simply trying to understand the world around them;
I hope the twins understand this isn't The Shining.
 a couple of preteens who have a slight understanding of what is going on, but can't tie their shoes properly;  a teenage girl who instead of looking at one of her myriad of electronic devices and ascertaining the weather for herself, asks me if it's warm enough to wear shorts in August; and a 20 year old man-boy-child hybrid who wants so badly to be grown, but just comes off as a helpless boy who smokes, cusses, and has a tattoo.  Having every age range keeps me on my toes.  There is very little in this world I can’t handle. I could vomit and shit myself with Ebola while driving a kid to practice with one hand and feed a toddler in the backseat with the other; all without spreading the virus. Not to mention, other than strippers, afternoon sex, and daytime drinking, they are my greatest source of entertainment. I wouldn't trade this shit for anything on a good day. On a bad day, I may trade them for a rusty paperclip.


Kids are just little adults with no job and very little reasoning skills who walk around thinking they know everything, regurgitating the world around them. Sometimes, it's quite hilarious. Once, I overheard my 10 year old daughter pretending to be "the mom" while playing house and I and could hear her telling "the kids" shit like, "Boy...If you don't do this homework,  I'm gonna punch you in the stomach!" I wonder where they get this shit from?  I also like watching my kids not learn from my mistakes. It sounds fucked up, but we all know kids don't listen to us. We might as well enjoy the hilarity when the world gives them the middle finger. 
Go on world, give them the finger...Johnny Cash style.
Especially, since most folks frown on flipping-off small children.  I don’t want my kids to learn the hard lessons like, let’s not give a fuck about our credit and have a baby at 18 kind of way. More like the, I've told you 1,000 times to not ride your bike with your shoe untied/if you keep spinning around in circles, you're going to puke kind of way.  They've got to learn somehow. I've shown them where the mop and the band-aids 
are. As fun as it is,  watching them fuck up play, is exhausting. There's the crying, lack of sharing, loud singing, farting, begging, whining, laughing, singing, running...Well, you get it. The shit's tiring. 

I'm constantly surrounded by small people and they always want something. As you can guess, I truly enjoy my alone time. The problem is, I usually don't get it until after 10:00 p.m. on weeknights.  Unless I leave my house or orchestrate Operation Come Get This Kid, there is no such thing as alone time.  Weekends can be worse, if it wasn't for the fact that I wasn't at work, the ability to sleep until 8:30 a.m. (yes a.m.), and vodka, I would loathe weekends. Hell, it’s just me against them all day with no school or daycare to save me.  I am here to tell you that solitude and silence are underrated. I once had a psychology professor tell me that if you can’t stand to sit alone and enjoy the silence and solitude, you must not be able to stand yourself. Well, I fucking love myself.  So with the kids up until 10:00, I tend to stay up late enjoying my solitude and silence, writing, having cocktails, sexting, masturbating, watching Game of Thrones, and any other show with gratuitous fucking and/or entrails. You know, adult shit. Even if what I was watching was as tame as the Today Show, my kids would be like Mom, "Who is that?" Why is he doing that?" What are they talking about?" To put it mildly, they pretty much ruin shit.

So in an attempt to avoid a murderous rampage and enjoy a few hours after bedtime, I stay up late until after homework, dinner, laundry, tournaments, school events, soccer games, etc. are over. I suffer for this of course. I get anywhere from 4-6 hours of sleep a night and I’m awakened by an alarm/child while simultaneously being ripped from my Dreamland wherein I travel all over Europe with my hot boyfriend and huge bank account.  While I am still rubbing my eyes and in a sleep deprived haze, I have a flurry of questions. I usually ask myself things like:

1. Why the fuck am I up?
2. Why did I teach those damn kids to call me Mom?
3. Where in the hell is my coffee?
4. Why have I not taught these kids to make me coffee?
5. What did I do to deserve this?
Oh, yeah. That. Just with fatter legs.
6. Why have I not created an invention that makes a bowl of cereal and milk?
7. Why isn't professional sleeper a job?
8.  Is it too early for vodka?
                                                                     
It's NEVER too early for vodka. 


 Before Vodka.


                                                    


                                                                                                              After Vodka.
                                                       
"Mommy smells happy."





Saturday, November 23, 2013

Zero Fucks Were Given on This Day

I like to shake things up a bit.  When I was a kid, my parents would take me to Red Lobster. I used to irritate them and order chicken.  They were all, "But we're at Red Lobster, order seafood."  I was all, "But I like chicken....and Cheddar Bay Biscuits."  I like to break traditions; walk the unbeaten path. Not because I am insensitive to cultural norms. I do it because I've learned if you always do the same thing, you will never do anything different. Simple as that.  Who says you have to be a slutty nurse on Halloween?  Why not be Joan of Arc or something? Who says you have to eat turkey on Thanksgiving?  "Jesus man, it's the Day of Thanks! Try some of this leg of lamb," said no one ever. But the point is, you may love a lamb's juicy slow roasted legs and not even know it. 

I'm writing today because I find people are so surprised or irritated, that me, a relatively normal black woman, is in a relationship with a white man.  I'm not a traitor, I don't hate myself, and I haven't given up on black men. I just found a really good white one. 

 I love white guys. I love black ones too. Why limit yourself? Maybe on my Thanksgiving, there will be turkey and leg of lamb. Shit, call me greedy. One thing I am, is unmoved by your expectations of what you think I should be doing. 

 I know some of you are wondering, "White dudes?  Well don't they have small penises?  But, they can't dance...or jump!"  I have to ask my readers more general questions: Don't some men just have small ass penises regardless of race? Aren't some men just too cool to dance? I know it's rare, but don't some men just dislike sports? I have to admit I have seen many different penises of many different nationalities and ethnicities and I have been pleasantly surprised and mortified prior to and throughout several encounters.  You ever been with a man with a size 14 shoe and the smallest cock you've ever seen? Maybe some of you have dated a guy who wore size 5 in boys, was only 5'6", and his shit hung all the way down to his kneecap?  The thing is, you never know. But, the worse thing you could do is exclude yourself from a dwindling pool of available single men for fear that they won't fit your gaping hole of a vagina.  The best sex I have ever had was with someone outside of my race. I don't think the first criteria when considering a partner is the color of their skin. The most important question we should be asking ourselves is, "Can he fuck?" Okay, maybe there are a few other important questions, but that one is near the top of my list.

There are so many things wrong with people in general: douchebaggery, whoredom, laziness, selfishness, small penises.... schizoaffective disorder...I think people should just be happy I found a man who makes me happy and doesn't foil his windows to keep out probes sent by government funded aliens that read his mind. If you aren't happy for me just know, I honestly don't give a fuck.

Swirl on.







Thursday, November 21, 2013

Seriously, Stop that Shit.

Everyone who knows me, knows I adore my children.  I gave birth to three and have three others that I have loved and raised up from practically the beginning.  Their ages range between one year old fraternal twins to a 19 year old boy-man-child hybrid. Their cunning and ability to drive me insane is like living in a 24 hour a day cartoon. They are The Road Runner and I'm Foghorn Leghorn.

"I say...I say boy!!"

Did you know that over 25% of homicides are committed by people the victim knew?  Yeah, they take me there. I haven't broken any laws just yet, but those little assholes tempt me. They make me want to dig holes in my backyard, take a picture, and then tape it to their bathroom mirror as a daily reminder that parents have been known to snap. That being said, they are making me start to think orange might just be the new black.

Conversations I have had that make me think a confined space, shitty food,  communal showers, semi-public defecation, and unwanted lesbian sexual encounters would be highly tolerable.

 Shit my kids do that make me want to lose my muther fucking mind:


1. Eat
Seriously, do you have to dump the entire damn taco out because you didn’t want tomatoes? Tomatoes are fucking delicious. Do you not have a clue how annoying it is when I'm ordering food at a drive thru and you shout "no pickles" over and over from the backseat? How about you shut the hell up until you have $1 for your own fucking burger? Do you have any idea how hard it is to remember important shit like oil changes and where the fuck I put my cellphone when I have 6 kids, let alone your specific diet choices for the week? I wonder how hard it must be to eat rice with a spoon and not get that shit everywhere. Small Asian children eat with two sticks better than you can with that thing. Why can't you just sit there and eat and not have the dire need to go to the bathroom 6 times? I know you’re just filling your mouth up with food and spitting it in the toilet! You suck at being sneaky, not to mention, you always forget to flush.


2.  Walk in the bathroom
FYI, that little lever on the side of the thing you shit in, sends all the shit to a place where Mommy never has to see it again. Must you flat iron your hair everyday and let the remnants of your lifeless hair clog up my sink? Did you know if you put the lid on toothpaste it doesn't get crunchy at the opening and you don't feel obliged to throw it away because it's, "gross"? Why do you always have to shit before I have to go in there and take a shower? Heat,  humidity, and shit don’t mix. Also please, please explain to me why can't you remember your own damn towel BEFORE you get in the shower?


3. Ask for shit
No, your friend who you argue with every-single-fucking-time they come over can not stay the night. No, I will not get you a flat screen TV, cell phone, and a laptop for Christmas. I don't care, tell your Grandma. No, I will not buy you another pair of shoes because you lost one of them. I have no fucking idea why the sky is blue. Yes, George Washington was real.  No, I will not tell you the answer to 10 x10. It's your fucking homework. Google that shit. Be resourceful. Do you seriously expect me to pick up all your friends, take you to the mall so they can help you pick out one shirt, leave, come back, then take them all home, and then take you back to the mall to exchange it because you and your friends have shitty taste? Do you even know me?

4. Breathe
Hold your breath. I don't care. You will just pass out and wake up in a more calm and relaxed state of mind. Why can't you chew gum and breathe through your nose simultaneously so I don't have to hear you tear that shit up like it's the last piece of fried chicken? How about you blow your fucking nose so I don't hear the snot shoot into the back of your throat every time you inhale. It’s just fucking gross.  Just so you know, the next time you snore until the point I can't sleep, I'm putting you in foster care.


5. Jump up and down on my last fucking nerve
I've known you since the moment you were born, don't act brand new. If you see me shed one sad solitary tear down my cheek over a pile of bills, don't ask me to take you skating. You see I am already on the edge. If you just heard half of a very colorful dialogue at the top of my lungs while on the phone, don't interrupt me to ask if you can use my phone to Oovoo your friends. If you are not an infant and I am sleeping and nothing is on fire or if it can be fixed with a Band-Aid, I swear fo' God, leave me alone.
"This ain't the mutha fucking time..."
6. Do dumb shit
You thought cutting your bangs was a good idea? Really? You wanted to look like some bitch on TV who pays people to cut her hair? You thought you were saving me money? Brilliant. I guess that means you don’t expect me to take you to the hairdresser to fix it. You left your $200 iPod in a vacation home in North Carolina and didn't remember until we hit the Virginia state line? Yeah, no problem...I'm suuuure the housekeepers will mail it to us. You think I'm going to drive to your school on my lunch hour to bring you the homework I asked you about this morning in the driveway?  Fuuuuck!!


Do you realize that your Mom is regularly operating on limited sleep, money, and scruples to make rational decisions when you are being really fucking annoying? You should. That knowledge could save me from grabbing you up and shaking you like you are addicted to twerking…



Tuesday, June 25, 2013

The Things You Do on Facebook Make Me Want to Go Incredible Hulk on Your Face

1.  If I have to hear about your shitty relationship(s) one more time, I'm gonna lose it. Maybe the first couple of times the shit is entertainment.  But, after two years of you being in a relationship, out of one, on team single, it just makes me want to throw my hot popcorn at your face and ask for a refund.

2. There is nothing wrong with you making a few extra bucks. That being said, stop trying to shove your Advocare, Thirty-One, Scentcy, and Pre-Paid Legal shit to me every time I scroll through my news feed. I'm all for getting healthy and entrepreneurship, but posting 15 times a day about your 3 lb. weight loss after 3 weeks and why this correlates to me buying Advocare, makes me think you have borderline intelligence. 
Only 3 more days of my 24-day challenge!
3. While we've all been guilty of being negative ninnies on occasion, all you negative sons of bitches can suck a huge cock. It'll keep your mouth full, which won't likely stop you from typing bullshit.  However, you might choke on it, fall, hit your head, and damage a part of the brain that controls your fingers so you can never type again. If you are smart enough to download some voice-to-text deal, you will at least have a reason to be bitter.

4. If Facebook had a caste system, all you attention whores would be untouchables. "I just want to die, don't call or text." Really?? Then why did you post that shit? Were you not begging for a link to the suicide prevention "chat now" feature? Did you really post a fucking picture of you crying in the mirror? Do you not have real life friends? A Momma? Somebody?
Real life friends, heard of 'em?
5.  I almost put these folks with attention whores, but hell, I call 'em like I see 'em. Plain old whores.  You look desperate. The only person you are attracting is your future stalker. I personally do not need a daily picture of your titties. I would like to point out, there is nothing wrong with occasional titties. Everyone likes titties, right??

6. Enunciate, use your vowels.  (dis shyt mks no cent$). You sound like you, yo Momma, and your 14 illegitimate brothers and sisters didn't graduate 8th grade."If ya look up on aisle 6..."

7.   We all want you to be inspired, but damn, can you fuckin' cool it on the inspirational memes?  We know you're in a dark place, but you're making me feel too much.

8. This isn't your damn diary. The only people who really care about your inner turmoil and strife are your real life fiends. Text them.

If you do these things on a regular basis, I want to grow huge muscles until my enormous body rips my clothes and just leaves these dangly fringy looking shorts.  I then want to squeeze my ripped abs in a vehicle, find you, and bash your preferred electronic device with a rock.
I'm on my way fuckers. Hide yo shit.


Thursday, May 30, 2013

I'd Rather Write About My Asshole Than My Feelings

So, I'm seeing someone new. The first date I wrote about last month actually went really well. So well that I have grown quite fond of the man and can't seem to stop thinking about him.  For lack of better words, this bitch is all up in her feelings.  I take care of my kids, go to work, and either think about or talk to this muther fucker all day long. 

That being said, while I am a blogger, I don't write about relationships, blossoming feelings, and love. I write about shit that either makes you laugh at yourself or others. It's what I like to do. Because of this mind- pillaging fucker,  I have had writers block.  The last few weeks, everything I went to write about was about vomit inducing bullshit that no one wants to hear. I figure after a few more months, he will irritate me and I will have fodder for the masses. Until then,  I thought I would write about something humiliating and hilarious all at the same time. My asshole. This story is true, even though I wish it wasn't.  This time, you can laugh at me.

So the new boo asks me to attend a birthday party for one of his friends.  Of course, I oblige.  I make sure I look good enough to eat when he arrives.  He looks at me like a pork-chop sandwich, we jump in the truck, and head out. The whole way there, he is looking at me with bedroom eyes, stroking my leg, and telling me I am pretty.  I. Am. Eating. This. Shit. Up. We arrive to our destination and I am a tad nervous meeting his friends for the first time. I needed a drink. There is a God and a bar with a heavy handed bartender behind it.  Many social lubricants down the hatch later, we've danced, chatted with his friends, eye-fucked each other most of the night, and I've wooed him with my wit and charm.  We had a great time. We leave after way too many drinks, get to my house, and with all the compliments, eye-banging, and the kids gone, things start happening very quickly. Clothes fly off , sweat happens, volcanoes explode, and with the amount of alcohol we had, let's just say, various holes were violated. A good time was had by all. 

The next day, my ass was a little sore, but I thought nothing of it. I had on a thong and thought to myself, "Bad choice after the night you just had Mustang Sally." I go about my day, pulling the thong out of my ass every 3.2 minutes, wishing I would have made a more sensible choice that morning.

The next morning rolls around and I am like, "What in the fuck happened to my asshole?"  Mr. Boothang calls while I am still in bed, I made a joke and told him I felt like I was anally raped in the night. He laughed and made some joke about the size of his penis and lasting effects of sinjuries when he is involved.  I thought nothing of it.  He came over later that evening, and being sex fiends and a relatively new couple, we're back at it...He stops mid stroke and says,"Well, I know why your asshole hurts."  I'm all, "What???" He then stretches my ass cheeks as far as they will go and gets all eyeball to brown eye with my rectum. We have been dating about a month at this juncture, so while I'm down with getting "probed" down there on occasion, I'm not too excited about being "observed" in such a fashion.  I fuss at him saying I'm sure it's nothing and basically tell him to get back to work...Afterward, I go check myself out and observe what looks like my asshole falling out of my asshole. While fearing that I may actually have to pick up my asshole off of the bathroom floor, I am still more mortified at the fact that my new boyfriend just saw my asshole hanging out.  I immediately attribute this to his trip to Pound Town a few nights previously and proceed to freak the fuck out. 

I call my doctor the next morning to get in for an emergency appointment, and explain to the nurse what is going on. "Yes, I said something large is protruding from my rectum". How much more of an emergency can this be? It doesn't help that after looking at WebMD,  I had practically diagnosed myself with ass cancer or a rectal prolapse only to find out I have  giant fucking internal prolapsing hemorrhoid dangling on the precipice of my asshole.  Did  I say GIANT? So giant that my doctor was prescribing my Tucks until he saw it. Then was all, "We need to have that thing removed", GIANT?  

Needless to say, Boothang is still around. He's likely a keeper after entering me only moments after seeing that thing on my asshole. But then again, he's a man afterall and is also the likely the cause of the prolapse. When I told him, he seemed more proud than concerned. That's normal right? 

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Don't Be That Bitch

Have you ever said,  " I want a baby, they are just sooo cute!" Have you ever thought to yourself, "If I have a baby with him, he will never leave me." Ever whispered to a friend, " I just want someone who will love me unconditionally."  If so, raise your hand. Yes, I know I can't see you. Just go on... Raise it.  Hold it there.  Now hit yourself with it about the face and neck until you are unconscious. Then pick yourself up off the floor and if it's not too late, look in the mirror and say, "Don't be that bitch."

Now, I know some of us have children that we didn't exactly plan for.  That happens. It has happened to me.  However, if you have a child via a conscious decision for any of the above reasons, you get what you deserve. These could be including but not limited to,  a life of fecal matter, exhaustion, poverty, saggy titties, and the anxiety level of Howard Hughes, talkin' about, " Show me the blueprints." 

Most babies are cute.  Some babies are not.  Just having one because it could be cute, could result in the  epic failure of your lifetime.  You could end up with a baby that is a cross between a Proboscis Monkey and Lyle Lovett. 

How you know if you have an ugly child:

1. If when someone looks at your baby and their eyebrows recede up into their hairline.

2. If no one you have ever met has told you that your child is cute, but rather, "Aww, look they are so small." (Insert any other adjective other than something synonymous with cute here)

3. If when you have professional photos taken the photographer says, "Let see what we can work out here."


Now, if you are stupid enough to ever think a baby would keep a man, then you are the saddest bitch I've ever met.  While there are some noble men who would stay with you, they are doing it under duress.

Definition for the sad, stupid bitches:

du·ress 
n.
1. Constraint by threat; coercion: confessed under duress.
2. Law
a. Coercion illegally applied.
b. Forcible confinement.

If you need to get it like that, you have way more problems than I can help you with today.  Call a psychoanalyst, NOW.  Also the fact remains that nobility and feeling required to handle paternal responsibilities, are notions long gone in today's society. When is the last time you went to a shotgun wedding?

Let's see how long he stays when he wasn't that into you anyway. The moment you can no longer go out with him and are the size of Rosie O'Donnel, a percentage of men will flee. They will run faster than Kim Kardashian to a liposuction clinic the day after she has her baby.  Odds are, you will end up alone and in some welfare line. But go on 'head, poke a hole in the condom or forget to take your pill. Just don't ask me to babysit or for a loan until the 1st. 

As I am sure some of you already know, the one that bothers me the most is when people have children for unconditional love.  Yeah my kids love me. But they are the most selfish assholes I have ever met.  They only love me when I give them what they want. They never love me when it is bedtime or I have to take away an iPod. If they knew I wouldn't rip off their limbs and proceed to beat them with their own bleeding flesh for calling me one, I am sure they would call me a bitch and spit on me for taking it.  Kids are dicks.  I could be crying my eyes out and one of them would point out a giant pimple on my chin. They don't give a shit.

Even at the infant stage of development, babies don't love you unconditionally. If they did, they would sleep all night and feed themselves.  Kids take. Period.  They rarely give unless it is a hug or a virus from some fucking snotty kid at school.  I love my children, because I carried them for 40 weeks and then pushed them out of a small hole between my legs that has never been so small since.  And if you ever want to be reminded, just check out all this unconditional love from child to mom in my earlier blog post, I'll Be Damned, I Ain't Going Out Like That.