— A flexing anus in my face. Nails trying to claw my eyes out. The dogs. They are the only alarm clock I need.
— No matter how many times I look up the word “necessary” I cannot retain its correct spelling. Spellcheck just fixed it, again. My brain is holding some sort of grudge against it. It seems to be my word Bermuda triangle. I always get lost in the middle, scramble around, get disoriented, and never find my way out.
— I don’t like the hour 4pm to 5pm. Yeah, I don’t know. I need therapy to figure that one out.
— You never know when an anonymous threatening letter will need to be put together. Which is apparently why I have one year’s worth of Entertainment Weekly magazines. Or maybe one day my daughter will need to do a book report on the Hunger Games pandemonium.
— In high school some guy called me a “mud duck” and I knew it was an insult, but I had no fucking clue what it meant. Recently, I found the term on Urban Dictionary.
Mud Duck: An ugly girl of any race or background, she is just ugly. Used in a sentence: That fat hoe is a straight mud duck.
Good to know, and I must say that is not very nice. So…
Dear Jerk Fuck, You were no Greek God yourself. And fuck you Urban Dictionary. Just cause.
— I am a 33-year-old, white, married, mother of one, living on the Oregon coast, and all day today April 4, 2012, I’ve had a song stuck in my head. The song: I’m In Love With A Stripper By: T-Pain
— Fucking idiot! My lips enjoy nothing better, than forming those words. I love the way it sounds, I love the way it feels. It warms me like a fresh spring day.
— Someone, anyone, please hear my plea. For the greater good of the world, please stop making Nicholas Sparks books into movies. He can write a million books, but his stories must stop violating the big screen. Putting absurdly good-looking people in those movies doesn’t make them worth your time, or you know, like, good.
P.S. Here is the plot of them all: Love feels good. Love hurts. Love is bittersweet. Love is a bitch, then someone must die. However, if you feel like you might be an emotional cripple, then go ahead, watch these sappy piles of poo, and test your tear-o-meter.
All sarcastic quips aside, individually some of these movies have qualities that may qualify them as, “okay.” But as a collective they’re too much. Just too much of…something.
Titties! (I’ve decided I’m going to sign off that way from now on. No, I’m not. I’ve actually decided to be a filthy liar. Okay, maybe not. Alright, titties is just a fun word, and brings me the same joy as, fucking idiot.)