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Sunday, January 03, 2016

I Don't Want to Live On This Planet Any More

Fun Fact:  When my posts are in the draft stages, they have totally different titles.  These titles are more accurate descriptions of the posts themselves, so that I can more easily identify them if/when I need to go back to edit them.  Some of them, due to my propensity to rant about everything without much of a filter and my desire to remain an active, productive member of society, never get published for public viewing.  

This post, as of right now, is titled, "I don't want to live on this planet any more."

If that gives you any idea what state of mind I'm in right now, then you have sufficient time to decide whether you want to stick it out and read this post or run screaming for your sanity.


I'll take "Nope" for $1,000, Alex.

I rant a lot about the stupidity of people.  Oh my Flying Spaghetti Monster.  SO MUCH.  (See there? PC religious reference.  I'm not totally tactless.)

And it's not that I can't overlook or forgive an occasional slip, hell, I do stupid shit all the time.  I don't expect anyone to be perfect, but for the love of gluten, I do expect people to tap into their God-given common sense just once in a while


Side Chick/Dick is Pissed Because She/He Found Out She's/He's Not the Only Side Chick/Dick.


Wut.

First of all, isn't it cute how people have decided to give this some cute name, like it's not totally the same as having an affair and being a complete cheater, cheater, someone else's pumpkin eater?  And they're not even the "mistress" or the "lover" anymore, they're the "side" person.  So... the spouse is the main dish and you're f*cking mashed potatoes or corn.  Or, like, the cole slaw, because some people might hide to eat it in secret as a guilty pleasure but no one will admit to actually liking the stuff.

Lovely.

So let's break this down:  you're sleeping with someone who's clearly in a relationship with someone else.  K.  

In the process of sleeping with said someone, you discover that you're not the only extracurricular they've decided to secretly share their naughty bits with.  That cheating bastard!


Pictured:  The human brain being bombarded with stupid.  Where's the damn rum already?


So... how does that work, exactly?

Is there, like, an occupancy limit?  I was totally going somewhere with like a "you must be this tall to ride" joke, but it derailed somewhere in there.  It was much funnier in my head.

Do I really have to explain this?  Really?

Just... Just grow some damn self esteem and exit the F Train already, clearly you're not the only one with an all-access pass, and a sticky second-hand one, at that.  

....Ew.


Porn is Gross... Have You Read the New 50 Shades Novel?


Um.

Full disclosure, I haven't read any of these books.  Namely because I had to accept about a billion of them in a buyback program, from ladies in their *ahem* later years, all with broken bindings and a few pages suspiciously stuck together.  

I lost 30 pounds that month.

...So... and I'm just going by what other people have told me here...  a sex-torture basement, complete with a "contract" that allows all kinds of squishy, spanky, whippy sociopathic sex games, is totally romantic so long as it involves a handsome rich guy.

Call me crazy, but remove the trust fund and a few tooth veneers, throw in a trailer and maybe a couple broken-down cars on blocks or something, and it sounds like a pretty epic episode of 60 Minutes to me.

Can you ... Can you imagine?  Some random dude walks up to you and insinuates that he wants you to sign a contract that allows him to cart you off to his isolated place of residence somewhere in Deliverance and do everything to you short of Buffalo Bill-ing your skin off your bones and you... swoon?

NO.  LADIES.  I'M SERIOUS.  PAY ATTENTION.  THIS IS NOT ROMANCE.  ABORT! ABORT!   KICK THIS MAN IN THE BALLS AND RUN AS FAR, AS FAST, AS SWIFTLY AS YOUR ACHING, VOLUPTUOUS LEGS CAN CARRY YOU, WHILST DIALING EVERY LAW ENFORCEMENT NUMBER YOU CAN THINK OF.  TWICE.

THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

YES, I'M YELLING.  IT'S IMPORTANT.

WHIPS?  CHAINS?  COLLARS AND CUFFS?  YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID PLEASE, JACKA**!


Even Charlie Hunnam wouldn't have sold me on that sh*t.  Are you f*cking insane?

Oh, and ladies - it's totally porn.  Can we just stop pretending that women don't do that already?



The views and opinions expressed in this blog post are totally the views and opinions of the author. To argue, complain, virtually high-five, or verbally throat-punch the author, stalk her on Facebook.  You know you want to.   

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