Planet Stretch Marks

After this, I will never type a post about being pregnant again.  There are more facinating things in life than procreating and documenting each and every twist and unexpected turn that it takes.  Case in point...
Why am I currently typing this up in just a pair of (stolen) scrubs?  No, I don't resemble a doctor ambitiously finishing up some files after a long days work.  That is unless it is normal for a doctor to be topless and sweating bullets under her saggy ass boobs.  My top was discarded hours ago when I decided that if SSL could air out his balls without being read the miranda rights, then I could treat my tattas the same.  I mean, shit, they hang so low now that they might as well be mistaken for a nutsack.

For the past few years weeks I have been unbearable to be around and I take full responsibility for my crazy obsession with "losing my cool".  I just want this damn baby to emerge from planet stretch marks already.  Funny how that happened this time around...  I have been thinking about ways to explain those hideous lines as well.  Not being one for tattoos, I am thinking that I can just tell people that I was once in a street gang and when I was getting jumped in, they slashed me up with a boxcutter, creating an abstract version of previous motherhood.  After all, the stretch marks are only on one side of my stomach.  How fucking odd is that?  So so far there are stretch marks, saggy neanderthal boobies, 55 extra pounds that my body is allocating in the most unfemenine spots, so much relaxin (a pregnancy hormone) being poduced by my body that my gait now looks like I am a penguin and an unmanicured jungle bush that I haven't seen since March.  Maybe I should get it braided so that when I go into labor, the doctor will know where my hair ends and the baby's begins.  2 more weeks of this madness and I promise that I will NEVER EVER EVER have another child.

Fuuuuck Sports

I am just sooooooo angry right now.  How do I know this?  Because even listening to Luther Vandross is pissing me off.  He usually calms me down, but right now I'd dig up his grave just to punch him square in his skeleton jaw.

If dealing with a communist phone service today wasn't bad enough, the damn music channel is playing Chubby Checker.  I'd like to twist the cap off of that a-hole, too.  Ugh.  So shithead SSL thinks that I'm a hater over the basketball game.  Well guess what.  Aside from boxing (which is the only reason why I met him), I'm not into watching sports on the television.  Bring me to an actual game and I'll watch it, but don't expect me to sit through the first quarter of the basketball game on TV.  Yeah... I know that every guy gets a hard on when he thinks of the perfect chick and she is into sports, but let me be honest about this whole thing.  In my most humble opinion, females who are into sports:

*Are into them because their fathers always wanted a son and treated their daughters as though they were little boys

*Got into them to impress a guy

*Are also into girls

*And the list goes on...

So sorry that I'm honest and couldn't give less of a shit about the football/basketball game.  At least I'm honest and don't act like those annoying beotches who wear jerseys on game day with their husbands/boyfriends, cheering like they used to play football, too.  I don't expect my male partner to be into shit like baking or any other semi girly hobbies that I like doing and I'm GLAD that he wouldn't be.  Maybe I'm just a simpleton who doesn't get it.  As the perfect female I'm supposed to:

*Cook like your mother
*Clean like a migrant worker
*Have sex like a porn star
*Take care of your kids like Mother Theresa
*Maintain a body like some video vixen
AND ON TOP OF THAT
*Like sports?!?!

Sure.  And when I get a rip in one of my dresses, I'll expect you to sew it back together...  You know what I have to say about your precious sports shit, SSL?

SUCK MY DICK!  ...but don't bother me until after I put this cake in the oven.

So Rad...

In light of my disdain for improvements in technology, I have resigned myself to hooking up a landline phone.  I might as well anyhow since I have recently smashed both of my cellys, which I'd like to add that I did NOT lose any sleep over.  So here I am back in 1993.  I love the fact that when I leave my home, I am untracable.  Nobody can complain or even ask why I didn't "pick up the phone" or "return a text".  No more!  I am forcing anyone who wants to be in my life to actually make a half assed effort to treat me like a human being and not a text messaging robot.  Honestly, it has been nice.  Phone conversations are really a thing of the past and I'm going retro.

Death Of A Cell Phone

Why can't technology be as easy to use as a goddamn Buick?  When I was in high school...  (Well, first of all, let me mention that I am one of the least superficial broads around.  The only thing that I purchase and care about when it comes to brand names is ice cream.  That and high heels.  What do you expect?  I do have a vagina, so the estrogen had to make a cameo somehow.)

So when I was in high school, I got a free Buick.  This beastly fortress of a vehicle was named (by me of course) The Titanic.  ...The Titanic...  While the other little lads in my school had parents who loved them, I was gifted with this monstrosity to shlep around town.  Was I embarrassed?  I'll be honest.  Not really.  I'll take freedom on wheels in any form EXCEPT for an El Camino.  Don't even get me started...  Besides it being free, I think that the best thing about The Titanic was that once you got it up to speed, you could take your foot off the accelerator, rig the steering wheel and hop in the back seat for a nap if you wanted to because the sheer weight of this tank kept the bastard rolling for miles.  I would drive down the highway in the summer with one foot out the window, a cig dangling from my mouth and all the windows down while other more fortunate and cuter chicks cruised by in their Beemers that their parents bought them.  Who cared though?  Unlike the name, my car was indestructible.

Its best feature? Its durability and the punishment that my babe could withstand.  My car was like a fat assed beastly whale of a bride and I was her abusive suitor.  When I got angry I could kick the shit out of her side panels and my puppies wouldn't even leave a dent.  I'd sit on her hood at night and smoke as the sun set, just like a formal date, and she wouldn't even cave under my weight.  Cars these days?  you look at them wrong and they crumble under that horseshit fiberglass they are made of.  People have become accustomed to paying more money for shittier products.  And why am I even bringing this up?

Lets see here...  Because in less than a week, I have broken two cell phones.  (Side note:  If you have Sprint, get rid of them as a carrier ASAP.)  My phones have been bearing the brunt of my freakishly erratic hormonal sessions as of late.  Currently, my phone is on the counter in pieces.  After being disconnected over six times this morning, I had a quick softball flashback and practiced my fast pitch.  Sadly, the phone smashed against what I thought was regular sheet rock, but what was really concrete.  Oops.  Had my phone been constructed like my Buick, this bullshit could have been averted to a more understandable ending between my cell phone and I.  Too bad.  So sad.  I've got to go write some letters...

Can I Still Sue Steve Jobs If He's Dead?

                                                                                   
                                                                (For my sister...)

5am and I cant sleep.  I feel like the air in my lungs has been stolen by the Apple company.  If Steve Jobs were still alive, I'd show up at his front door in my pajamas with a Pick axe and a shovel.  That devious beast had it in his mind to really throw people's lives in a ringer when he created ipods.  I am completely and utterly miserable right this instant.  Nothing could make me feel better right now.  Nothing.  In. The. World.  How did my misery begin?  Quite frankly, if I were to trace it back to the culprit, it was when Steve was born.  But, most recently, it was when he created the ipod, leaving human beings with no other choice but to shamefully discard their cassette tapes and CDs.  Records and record players were still novelty items that gave people a slight edge, but cds were mocked and outdated.  I was the last of my people to conform to the new standards of "cool"...

....In the middle of one of my sessions one day, I was berating my favorite slave, George.  He was a blind schmuck that would do anything to keep me happy.  Working as a Dominatrix had it's perks.  I was never physically violent with George, but always verbally and emotionally manipulative.  This session though, I carried a bit of anger from unknowingly running out of my favorite cereal that morning.  The verbal abuse just wasn't enough and so I decided to take it to another level.  So there I was in mid swing.  My backhand was making its way to George's face and he was cowered over like an abused child after years of punishment. 

"Sophie, NO!"  (he insisted on calling me Sophie, although my Mistress name was Sophia.)

I saw the fear in his eyes; he saw the insanity in mine.  When I get that way, my eyes open a little larger and glaze over.  Nothing really gets me out of my trance, but for some reason, I only hit George once instead of the onslaught of pain that I intended.

"Sophie, what did I do?!  What do you want, Sophie?!"

All that I wanted was to re-up my cereal, but for some reason, I said:

"I want an Ipod!"

So to save the sordid memories that might cause me to drift in an ever further depression and to make a long story short, just know that I got the ipod that day.  I called over the house slave that did the laundry at the dungeon and George gave him the money to go to the store and purchase me an ipod.  I left work that day with an ipod that I kept in the package for the next few weeks.  I didn't have itunes and really didn't know how to manage an ipod, so I just threw it to the side and continued with my cds.  When I finally got the gumption to fill my little space-aged boom box, I sent it to various locations (Los Angeles, Virginia, Iraq, New Hampshire).  When I finally got my ipod back in my paws, there were over 25 thousand songs on it and every genre that you could think of.  My ipod became by best friend.  It pumped me up in the morning, rocked me through the day and soothed me to sleep at night.  If I was in any picture in the past two years, my ipod was in it as well.  Last night?

My ipod erased every single song that was in it.  EVERY SINGLE SONG.  The worst part about it?  I don't have a backup for ANY of it.

I know that this sounds kind of arrogant and rude to the Heavens, but I even considered asking my devoutly religious father to rouse everyone affiliated in his church's prayer chain in the wee hours of the morning just to pray to God that I get back all of my music, unscathed.  ...yes, God, even Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden...

I really feel like I just fell down a spiral-staircase littered with shards of my old CDs glued to each step, pointy side facing up.  I'm being mocked by inanimate objects for Christ's sake! 

Gummy Worms

The funniest thing about falling out of love is that no matter how strong you might have thought it was, when it's truly over, there isn't a hope in hell to ever reclaim it.  For instance, when I was in sixth grade I had a strong love affair with gummy worms.  I'd scrape pennies together just to go up to the store and get my paws on a bag of gummy worms.  Yummy.  Out of all of their eye catching color combos, my favorite had to be the red and clear duo.  Delicious.  So for about maybe half of the school year, I was constantly indulging in this affliction which soon induced a sugar coma. 

I ate sooo many gummy worms that one day I came home (from polishing off another bag of them on the way back from the store) and I went straight to the toilet and threw up the most glorious rainbow of worm guts.  The vomit, which was laced with sugar, tasted similar to what is now known as Redbull.  Had I the insight that I do now, I would have scooped that vomit out of the john and sent it right away for a patent, which would later make me millions of dollars and also place me in the center of a plethora of lawsuits.

Thank god for the gummy worms though.  They were my first true experience with falling out of love.  When once before I would have dug through the trash if it had gummy worms in it, now I can't pass them in the candy isle without remembering the damage that they caused my stomach.  I have no desire to ever eat them these days.  They don't bring me the same joy as they used to.  Honestly, I can't even remember when I last had one.  Plain and simple, they don't matter anymore.  Just like that.  All it took was for me to reach my limit and every single ounce of love that I once had for them has vanished into nothing but disdain.  Kind of like some people in my life...