Dear Shouty Family Down The Street,
Hi! I’m your neighbor! You know — the one who lives across the road and several hundred feet to the west, but who nonetheless hears every word you say because you are BELLOWING IT AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS.
I know precisely, precisely when your kids get on the school bus every morning because they stop howling like banshees. I assume the bus driver, like bus drivers everywhere, is a frustrated prison guard who doesn’t put up with that shit.
To paraphrase This Is Spinal Tap, your children go to 11.
I’m about thissssssss close to completely falling apart. And amazingly enough, it has nothing to do with COVID. I actually find that COVID has a lot of benefits as far as I’m concerned.
Dearest Mother —
I write to you from doggy jail, a Hellish place from which all hope has fled. The conditions here are unspeakable. My bedding is but a scrap of fabric thrown carelessly to the floor by the Warden (that would be you).
My cell contains no couch. No recliner. No second couch. No comfy pillows upon which to drool and fart. No Queen-size Sealy Posturepedic to lie across diagonally so that no one else has room to sleep except for one inch of mattress right at the edge.
And worst of all (I beg that you steel yourself…
You’re probably wondering why I haven’t put any pumpkins out on my lawn as decoration this year.
God knows I love decorative gourd season above all other harvest-based holidays! It’s the least I can do to honor this nation’s agrarian roots which were nourished by the suffering and oppression of millions by entitled, disease-ridden white guys!
If you will recall, last year there was a series of unfortunate events precipitated by the tendency of pumpkin stems to snap off in your hand when you least expect it. …
If you're like me (and who isn’t??), you’re obsessing over who’s going to win the $50,000 Grand Prize in the Medium Writers Challenge. That’s a hunk o’ cash, a lot of moolah, a whole buncha Benjis, a lotta lettuce, a —
You get the idea.
And no, I don’t think the Grand Prize Winner will also necessarily receive the $10,000 top prize in a category. I’m not going to waste my time reading the Publishers Clearinghouse-like rules again, but I don’t see why they couldn’t pick four $10,000 winners and then somebody else who they think is better than all…
This includes parasailing, paragliding, paratrooping, and pretty much anything else that starts with para-. It’s all bad. My mom’s neighbor jumped out of a plane for the first time on her 70th birthday. I’m convinced it was just so she could get attention on Facebook. Some people will go to any lengths.
Not as bad as parachuting unless things go horribly wrong and you end up in essentially a parachuting situation, sans parachute. Wicker basket, gigantic open flames, fragile cloth balloon, no way to steer — what could possibly go wrong? …
The first all-civilian crew of astronauts is about to go to space….Who are the astronauts? A high school dropout. A cancer survivor who has a prosthetic in her leg. A professor. A last-minute volunteer after someone backed out.
— The Washington Post
Hey, fam! Exciting news! I’m going into space!😎🚀
Apparently I entered some kind of lottery online when I was *cough, cough* conducting a wine tasting alone in my living room one evening while binge-watching RHONY.
I never win anything, so I thought, “Volunteer civilian astronaut who’s available at a moment’s notice when somebody else chickens out,” why not?
Everybody’s always trying to inspire me. The word gets tossed around so frequently, it’s lost all meaning. It’s like a ball of Play-Doh that’s been handled too much.
I’m just sitting over here trying to respire without passing out. There’s plenty of advice about that, too. Who knew you could breathe wrong?
Articles and exhortations about inspiration just make me feel bad about myself. They might as well be titled, “Here are all the ways you already fail, and here are some different ways to also fail.”
Most of these “inspirational pieces” are just barely disguised late-night TV ads. “This…
Oh, sure. That’s what you need — more Cheddar Bay biscuits. Look at the gut on that thing. You should swim across a bay maybe. I was just saying to Fred the other day, wasn’t I, Fred?
Well, anyway, I was just saying the other day, I used to swim across the Atlantic Ocean in the time it takes you people to decide which 5000 calorie Feast Of The Day you’re going to have. A family of four could survive off that for a week in the Sudan. But to you, it’s just another Saturday.
See that? I’m…
Being a woman sucks. It just does. My entire life has been controlled by my quest for a living wage and health insurance. Two things that men don’t think twice about and just assume comes with every job.
Being a single woman working in the pink ghetto is a one-way trip to destitution and poverty. We make everything possible for the people we work for, and often have more experience in our field and know as much (or more) than they do, but get nothing in return in the way of benefits such as retirement, PTO, or health insurance.