Post-Holiday Musings

Well, Christmas has come and gone. As far as gifts go, it was a sad attempt at a holiday, but that's alright. I just wish I could have seen my family back home. Oh well, nothing can be done about it now.

I gave the Redhead a shiny hookah for Christmas. That was the only gift I bought for anyone. That was really the only thing I could afford. And boy, does he love that thing. He's big on Indian and Asian culture, and that was right up his alley. He adores it. I'm happy about that.

His mom was nice and bought me some shoes for Christmas. God knows I needed them. Roomie got me a gift early, still in November, he upgraded my phone. Probably the best gift I got, but I don't care. It set him back a bit on finances.

Then from the family came various gift cards, all packed neatly with things for baby. My Granny sent me a pack of receiving blankets, my mom sent me a baby t-shirt that the child will be wearing when we leave the hospital. How could I ask for anything other than my child be sporting the words, "All Daddy Wanted Was A Blowjob"?

Couldn't ask for more than that.

Christmas was an interesting day. I spent all that day and Christmas Eve both cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. Redhead was freaking out about the apartment being clean because otherwise his mother would throw an ever-loving fit. So I cleaned. And I cleaned. And I cleaned. Which was no surprise, considering I had been cooped up the in apartment for three days while Roomie and Princess were out of town visiting their family members. God, I hate being cooped up.

Also, nobody in the apartment cleans but me. So nothing had been done in about a week. I went on strike. Didn't work. Oh well. So I cleaned. The dishes in the kitchen alone took me four and a half hours. FOUR AND A HALF HOURS!!! Then there was scrubbing down countertops and the stove and the microwave and the tables and dusting and vacuuming and cleaning the bathroom and oh my GOD will it never END?!

Keep in mind, before I started cleaning, the Redhead had told me several times, "We need to clean the apartment." And because he sleeps until no earlier than noon when he doesn't have to work, whereas I wake up around 8 AM every day, I got a healthy head start on him. The first day of cleaning went okay, and I got most of the apartment done. He didn't wake up until four o'clock in the afternoon, and we immediately left. Roomie had to work on Christmas eve, so I had driving privileges. Yay. Off we went. No more cleaning for the day.

Wake up on Christmas and get back to cleaning. Also, discover the turkey is not thawed out. Oh dear. So I start doing everything I can to thaw that bitch out, while continuing my cleaning regimen.

Scary.

Redhead wakes up at noon and discovers the same thing I did. Turkey is not thawed. He starts throwing one of his trademark bitch fits. ON FUCKING CHRISTMAS. Take a deep breath, Snarky, and go take a shower. If he hasn't snapped out of it by the time you get out, you can knock his teeth out. Thankfully, he was calm.

I commented as such to him after I got out of the shower. I told him, in no uncertain terms was he to make my Christmas even worse. I was 800 miles away from home, unable to see my family while everybody else around me gets to visit with theirs. I was NOT. HAPPY.

The turkey eventually got thawed. And it even turned out okay when we cooked it, no less. Amazing. We also made some stuffing and mashed potatoes, and Redhead's mom brought brownies and some rolls. And then Big Sister took forever to get to our apartment and pissed everybody off. She got there twenty minutes before Redhead's mom and other sister had to leave. They, sadly, had to work.

But.... overall it was okay. The turkey disaster got righted and Redhead got to spend some time with his family, with me bouncing around the apartment looking all pregnant and fat. Scary scary.



In other news, the Princess had a job interview today at WalMart. Hooray for her. She came home and looked like her head was about to split in half, she was so happy. She has a job.

That leaves me as the only person in this apartment that is NOT employed.

What I can't figure out is.... I went out every day for two months, filling out applications and checking back to all the places where I had turned them in. I was doing it non-stop. For TWO MONTHS.

She's gone out job hunting TWICE in the past month and a half. Twice. And now she has a job.

WHAT THE FUCK, OVER?!

The world hates me. That's the only logical answer I can come up with.

I just don't get it.

Holy Crap

So. Woke up this morning at the ass crack of dawn to the most beautiful, glorious realization.

I couldn't fucking BREATHE. OMG.

Winter has struck me. I have a cold. I'm achey all over, and just generally unhappy. Add that to the general unpleasant pregnancy bit, and I'm just a rolling ray of sunshine.

Kill me. Please.

A Letter To Santa Claus

Dear Santa,

I know I’m not in the usual age group you go for. Matter of fact, I’ve well outgrown you. I’m 20 years old. But sometimes, I think, you need to have something to believe in. And what better to have blind faith in than a jolly man who gifts children worldwide once a year? The one man that, no matter what you threatened a misbehaving child with, would have an effect. These days there isn’t a child around that fears the wrath of God or his Mama. But tell them that being bad will force Santa to give them only coal and they’ll shape up real quick.

That being said, why I am writing to you? Because I desperately, desperately want something to believe in. Anything, really. And the things I want for Christmas this year, I know I won’t be receiving. The things I want for Christmas… well… the only way I’d get them is if a magical man from way up north bestowed them upon me.

I don’t want a pony for Christmas. I don’t want the big screen TV, I don’t want the shiny, new game system that costs more than I made in a month. I don’t want a sports car that would instantly land me in jail. Hell, at this stage of the game, I don’t even want a car (though I do admit it would come in handy, but I can’t afford it).

I want… I want to give a damn about the things going on around me. I want more than just an apathetic existence. I want to care about the life that is growing in me. I want to care about the child that I know I will give birth to in a few months. I don’t want to be indifferent to the child until it arrives. I want to be a good mother.

I want to be able to find a job somewhere in this wretched town, so that I might at least support myself. Right now, I have nothing. No job, no car, no money. No prospects. I have a boyfriend who seems like he can’t decide from day to day whether he loves me or hates me, the way his mood changes. He’s just… angry. At everything. At the fact that he’s not a rock star. At the fact that he’s stuck in this same wretched town. That he can’t seem to get anywhere. But at least he’s got a job. It might not be much, but it’s better than the great deal of nothing I’ve got. I want, need, a job. I need to get on my feet, or there will be no way I can support this baby.

But most of all… I just want to see my family. They’re 800 miles away, and the last time I saw them was when my father was laid to rest in Texas. I want to see my mother, my grandmothers, my brothers. Hell, I’d even be happy to see the aunt and uncle I loathe. But… I want to visit my father’s grave and talk to him. I want to see the place I grew up, where all my memories are. I want to be able to go home, even if it’s just for a week.

But I can’t. Because I’m jobless and broke, pregnant with a child that in all honesty, I don’t really care to have… I’m on a one-way street to being a welfare mother for the rest of eternity. Becoming what I hate.

That’s what I want most for Christmas.

No wonder I hate the holidays, huh?


Sincerely,
Snarky

Cop Humor

Some of you, those who talk to me away from ze blogosphere and know of my history from more than what I've posted here, know that I was born into the Brotherhood of Public Service. My father was a paramedic, with his best friends being firemen and police.

So, it should go without saying that any little jokes about paramedics, firemen, or cops... really crack me up.

I hijacked this little gem from LawDog. Thanks dude!

Read on...





Man walks into a pet store in Austin and is looking around when he spots a chimpanzee in a cage marked, "$1000". Man looks a little closer and discovers that the chimpanzee is wearing a tie and a hat and is twirling a set of handcuffs around his finger.

Curious, the man summons the shopkeeper and asks him what the deal is with this thousand-dollar monkey.

Shopkeeper says, "Sir! You have discovered our Police Monkeys! This one is our basic Patrol version. It's got a TCLEOSE Basic certification; can fire 'Expert' with a Glock, Remington 870, or an AR15; knows the Penal Code and Traffic Code by heart and is up-to-date on Cultural Diversity and Active Shooter Response. Very good value for a thousand dollars!"

The man is suitable impressed and moves to the next cage, which is occupied by a gorilla -- also wearing a hat and tie, but is gnawing on a pen instead of the handcuffs. The price on this one is $5000. Shopkeeper exclaims, "Ah, sir! You have discovered the Sergeant model! This one has a TCLEOSE Advanced certification, is capable of training any other monkeys in basic firearms skills, mechanics of arrest, physical training, investigation and small unit tactics! It can even type! Very good value for five thousand, sir!"

Impressed, the man moves to the next cage.

Inside, he finds an orangutan, dressed in the same hat and tie as the others, but holding a coffee cup.

"What does this one do that he's worth $12,000?" asks the man.

The shopkeeper clears his throat, "Ah, sir, well .... we've never actually seen him do anything, but he says that he's a lieutenant."


*gigglesnort*

A Tale of Assholes and Princesses

So. Like most 20-year-olds living in a college town, I have a room mate. This is not unheard of. Also in the living arrangement is my boyfriend. Also not unheard of.

So, in this two bedroom apartment we call home, there is Me, Redhead Boyfriend, Roommate, and his girlfriend, the Princess. The Princess is also pregnant, and due just two days before I am.

Come the end of May, no one will be sleeping. Ever.

Here in the past week or so, the Roommate seems to have a problem with my attitude. Says it needs to change. I told him there is no changing it, it’s part of who I am, and he should have realized that. Then I realized where said problem with my attitude comes from.

He owes me five bucks and refuses to pay on it. And I got the feeling he had no intention of paying me back. So I called him out on it.

Now, I know it seems petty, just being five bucks. We were out at the local hangout drinking coffee, only a friend had already bought mine. And he looks at me and says, “If you pay for mine and the Princess’ coffee, I’ll give you five bucks tomorrow because I get paid.”

Technically, the money hits his bank account at midnight. And it was 11:30 PM. And he knew how much he was getting paid. I say okay, whatever, pay for his and Princess’ coffee.

Next morning, I go to take him to work and take the Princess job hunting with me (for the first time since she’s been back in three weeks). I ask when I’m gonna get my money, so I can buy some ramen noodles to eat at home. Roommate says when he has it, and runs into a gas station to buy smokes. Princess then starts carrying on about how tight money is and all that, and the whole time she’s talking, I’m envisioning blowing the back of her skull off with a 12-guage shotgun. Point blank. Then Roommate reappears and we go on our way.

As we pull into the parking lot, he swings around to McDonald’s for a bite to eat. Looks at me and says, “If you want that five back, this is how you’re getting it.” Excuse me? A couple of dollar cheeseburgers and you expect us to be even? No. I need that money for other things, like buying a little bit of food for at home, to keep me from spending money I don’t have on fast food junk.

And I tell him as much in a text message later.

He doesn’t like it when people challenge his authoritah, apparently. He doesn’t like when people refuse to kiss his ass. So, after I point out to him several facts and he refuses to respond, he ignores me for the rest of the day.

After I go to sleep, he sticks his head in my bedroom to tell Redhead, “C’mere, we need to talk.” When asked, what about, all he can offer is, “Stuff.”

Redhead follows him to the kitchen, at which Roommate (henceforth referred to as Asshole) begins to tear into HIM about how I have an attitude problem. Redhead looks at him, holds up a hand, and says “Don’t even start.” Turns around, walks back to the bedroom, locks the door, and curls up with me.

See, I had shown Redhead the text messages back and forth between Asshole and I. Showed him the text saying if he owes me money, he owes me money and not cheeseburgers. Showed him where Asshole responded with a clear and disrespectful “Bite Me.” Showed him where he continued to disrespect me and outright lie, until which point I nailed him on his never having any intention of paying me back, and his silence for the rest of the afternoon.

Redhead was going to have none of Asshole’s lies. Or should I say ‘fairy tales’? Asshole would never lie! Just like he would never, ever brag about how many women he sleeps with, or what kind of job he has, or who he knows. Not him.

One thing that really chapped mine and Redhead’s asses both was the fact that Asshole wanted to bitch about me not contributing around the apartment. Whoa whoa whoa. Rewind. Did he just say what I think he said? This coming from the boy who told me he wasn’t going to do dishes because he hated them, and if I wanted the apartment clean, I should clean it myself? And a week later, bitching me out because there’s no clean glasses?

See, I’m the only person in the apartment who cleans. And I’ve tried telling the rest of them: as far as dishes are concerned, as soon as you’re one with them, put them in the dishwasher. That way we don’t have a mountain of dishes that are going to require a day’s soaking in hot water before I can manage to get the gunk that’s caked on there off. So, yeah. I do dishes. I take out trash. I scrub counters. I cook most of the time, too.

And he wants to say I don’t contribute? This all goes without saying I’m out on a daily basis, busting balls to find a new job. I need a job. Money is too tight for me to not work. I know this. So I look. Constantly. Every day, I’m out there. And when I come home, I clean.

Most people would consider me cooking and cleaning… contributing. Especially considering the job-hunting by day bit.

But what makes Redhead and I the angriest is the fact that Asshole wants to chew me out about not contributing, when his darling little Princess never even comes out of her bedroom. Cleaning? Yeah right. Look for a job? Ha! Her rent is paid on a nightly basis. All she’s got to do is lie on her back with her legs in the air.

She doesn’t know any better. She was a virgin when Asshole met her. She’s never been with anybody else. Romantically, either, from what she’s said. She doesn’t know about how big of an asshole is. He’s charming to her, and he takes care of her, so she doesn’t care.

But yes. She sits in their bedroom, playing the Sims and Solitaire on his computer. Only time she comes out is when she wants something to drink. Or is hungry, in which case she sends Asshole for Chinese food, like she did Saturday night.

I thought money was tight, kids? What happened to not being able to afford to pay me five lousy dollars? Can’t do that, but you can go spend twenty bucks on crappy Chinese take-out?

The worst part was Friday night. Redhead’s friend came into town for the night, met us at Country Kitchen where we were drinking coffee and hanging out. They went downtown to the bars to celebrate. Asshole texts me, wondering if the car will be home by the time he has to get up early and go to work at Arrowhead Stadium. I tell him yes. I point out the fact that the bars close at 1:30, those two have no place else to go, and I never stay out later than 1 AM anyway. He persists with hypothetical what-ifs that he knows are never going to happen.

I do not stay out late. And Redhead does not stay out late either.

I sent a text to Redhead saying, “Asshole is making a big deal about whether or not the car will be home by in the morning.”

I thought I sent that to Redhead. Somehow, I sent that to Asshole. Asshole wasn’t too happy and immediately called to tell me I had an attitude and he didn’t want none of it. This is where it gets amusing.

See, I have this character flaw. I can’t deal with bullshit and arrogant pricks who think they’re better than everybody around them. This is probably why me and Asshole get into a fight at least once a week. I told Asshole without even thinking that he was really one to talk, considering the line of bullshit he had tried to feed me the night before.

Oops. I think I crossed the line. He told me to come home, and do it now.

Ordinarily, I would tell him to take a flying leap. And I was begging to, trust me. Except for the part where I didn’t want to get arrested for Grand Theft Auto.

When Asshole first approached Redhead and I about moving in with him, he had to beg us. We didn’t want to live out on the edge of town, especially with no way to get back into town. It’s several miles that I severely do not want to walk on a daily basis. But he needed someone to room with him, because he couldn’t afford the place on his own. I asked him, why don’t you find a place that’s cheaper? There’s plenty of them in this town.

He wanted this place. This place was more his style. He has standards, you know.

I ignored that slap in the face and we negotiated. We needed transportation, and Asshole agreed to leave his truck with me during the day. I’d drop him off at class, then pick him up and take him to work. That way I would be able to go job hunting, pick up and drop off Redhead at work as needed, and be able to make it to all my doctor’s appointments. And it worked fine.

Until I bucked against him and refused to submit to his will. Then he tells me to bring his car home, and right now.

So I do. But not after driving clear to the other side of town to buy cigarettes (and waste gas), and letting some air out of each of his tires. Not all of it, just enough to be a nuisance.

I know. Petty and juvenile. But he pissed me off, and I’ve been taking a lot of shit from him since we moved in. My pride is severely wounded.

I text Redhead and let him know what’s going on. About an hour later, him and his friend come home, bellowing at the top of their lungs.

My heroes.

Asshole got up and went to Arrowhead Stadium. He came back real late that night, and for two days in a row, has gotten up, and instead of the usual having either myself or the Princess drop him off at class or work, he has taken himself, and kept the truck with him.

I mentioned this to Redhead. I think my driving privileges have been revoked because I refuse to kiss his ass. Redhead calls him. “Have her driving privileges been revoked?” No, of course not. “Because it sure as hell seems like it. Every time she needs the truck to get somewhere, you have it, and you aren’t due home for hours. Convenient.”

I still have driving privileges, apparently. It’s just getting my hands on the fucking keys to the truck that’s the hard part.

Redhead and I are moving out as soon as I find a new job. And we’ll laugh and watch Asshole and Princess flounder and drown under the weight of their own egos.

*Gigglesnort*

Know some more!

Okay so I'm back. Miss me much? Oh yeah. You know you did. Don't lie to me.

Hmmm. Less about the past and more about the present, shall we?

As I said, I am 20 years old, living in Bumfuck, MO, a little college town with a base population of about 17k people. I got the very typical interests of a 20-year-old female, of course. Reading, movies, music, writing, video games, and the always fun.... sex.

Yeah, I bet you saw that one coming, huh? Thought so.

I am happy, with a cute little red-haired boyfriend who stands about two inches shorter than me and about a hundred pounds lighter. And, like I said, with red hair and a lot of freckles. Damn ginger kid! But he's precious.

He's got the same sense of humor I have, with a touch of twisted satanic evil-ness. No wonder I lurve him to no end. He's intelligent, with strong interests in religion and politics. How the hell that's possible, I have no idea. He's Wiccan, and like a lot of people I've met, he has problems with some aspects of Christianity. But hey, everybody bitches about something. As far as politics go, he believes in the spirit of our founding fathers, and he is hoping that Prez-Elect Obama can finally get this country back on track.

I just don't like how he brings up the two most taboo conversation topics... in every single conversation. Tch... But what can you do?

On October 1, I discovered I was pregnant. I'm due May 24, and my days alternate between being excited and being scared shitless. Bet you saw that one coming too, huh? Oh yeah.

My favorite thing to do is drive. I love cars, I love driving. I want to learn how to work on them some day, but it's a way off in the distance. I couldn't make a living doing it, because I'd have to deal with customers who, for the most part, don't take care of their cars. And then would blame me when their car breaks down and costs a small fortune to fix. Hmm yeah, I don't think I could deal with that for too long. So I'll settle for learning, and being content to work on my own car.

I have recently made the decision that, after the baby is born, I want to get into class to get my EMT-Basic and EMT-Intermediate certification. I want to become an EMT, and follow in his footsteps. I honestly feel that I could really handle the pressure, the pain, the glory, and make something of myself in that career. But... baby steps first.

Literally.

You know, suddenly, I don't feel the urge to get long-winded, like my last post. Dunno what's up with that. But it's okay. I'll survive it.

And sooner or later, my small handful of readers will get another post of me either celebrating or bitching about something.

Because I never half-ass anything.

Okay, So You Wanted To Know?

As promised, and not too long ago, to boot, a post entirely about myself.

... That's the wrong statement to make. It's a blog that's going to be to a certain degree about myself, isn't it? My thoughts, my experiences, information on things that pertain to my life (somehow or another)... Anyway, not gonna argue semantics.

I am a 20 year old female from the suburbs of Houston, Texas. And when I say Houston comma Texas, most people think, "Well, duh, there is no other Houston out there!"

Wrong.

I'm currently living in the middle of Bumfuck, Missouri. I know there's a lot of Bumfuck towns out there, so I had to clarify. But there is also a small town in this God-forsaken state called Houston. In Texas county, no less.

Irony much?

I'm the daughter of a highschool-dropout-turned-career-bartender and a paramedic who slaved for Rural/Metro for 22 years. Number three of my mother's total four children, but the first-born angel for my dad. And I do mean angel. He adored me and hoped some day I would follow in his (figurative) footsteps to become at least an EMT, if not a paramedic.

I say figurative footsteps because my dad really left none. He left tiretracks a-plenty, being confined to a wheelchair by cerebral palsy. Paralyzed from the waist down. But he hauled himself, a wheelchair, and all the supplies he needed out of the back of his rig on a daily basis, and the only reason he retired is because his boss forced him to when my mother and him split. Shortly thereafter, he did a month-long stint in Houston's very own psych ward at Ben Taub Hospital. Not pretty.

But after a week of daily visits, his three-year-old daughter knew which elevator to get on, which button to press, what hallways to go down, and which door was his room so she could see her Daddy every day.

Now... I was your typical teenager indeed. I rebelled. Like a motherfucker. At the age of 16, I "dated" a 27-year-old that resulted in me moving out as soon as I hit the legal age to (17 in Texas). I hated how Dad confined me to the house, wouldn't let me hang out with my friends at the mall, or anywhere else for that matter. Hell, from the time I was 10 years old and on, I only slept over at a friends' once.

So... I chafed at my restrictions. That goes without saying. Most kids do when they reach the teenage years, or so I'm told. I don't know, I became anti-social for the most part. My dad did well in the whole "instilling his child with common sense" department. I read a lot, I studied anything and everything I could lay eyes on, and it was obvious to any teacher (or adult, for that matter) that I was intelligent. I loathed the lazy, dramatic, angst-ridden children that surrounded me on a day-to-day basis, with nothing more to worry about than what kind of car Mommy and Daddy would be getting them for their Sweet 16th.

And yes, I was an angry personality. I still am. Only now, throw violent mood swings into the mix.

I'm such a ray of fucking sunshine, aren't I?

The relationship with the... considerably older man did not last. Of course not. After moving almost a dozen times in a year and a half, several beatings and a broken nose, I finally bit off my pride and moved home. That was six months after I turned 18. I was working when the boyfriend-type-thing allowed me to leave, which cost me more than one job. He would stand in front of the door to whatever slum apartment he had rented for the month and threaten to kill himself because he was so damned sure I was leaving to go to another man.

On several occasions, he did slice himself up. And instead of the swooning female he expected to get, he got greeted with scorn and open distaste.

And guess who treated his cuts? Yup. The daughter of the crippled paramedic. My Daddy taught me well. Before I was 12, I could clean and bandage damn near anything you put in front of me. And when really pressed, I could even do a rough stitch-up job. Did that on a couple of his deeper cuts.

And when he swallowed a bottle of pills? I dropped him off as his momma's house and told her to deal with the idiot, because I had better things to do than to cater to his over-inflated ego and self-esteem issues. And the sad part?

She agreed with me.

This man broke into his own mother's house to steal anything valuable he could lay his hands on, and pawn it. For beer and coke. Wow, do I pick winners, or what? Not bad for a very first serious boyfriend!

Did I mention he was a recovered heroine junkie with a background involved in attempted murder, drug trafficking, (the obvious) breaking and entering, and armed robbery?

Oh yeah. I'm an intelligent little heifer, alrighty.

Of course, I wouldn't listen to my father when he said the man was bad news. Daddy didn't know anything, and I was desperate to be loved. And get sex. Horny teenager symptom, that one. Not too bright.

He Who Shall Remain Nameless got me into the lovelier side of life: kinkier sex, alcohol, pills, and pot. I wouldn't touch powder or anything you smoked in a lightbulb. Oh fuck no. But pills? Me as a bored 17 year old who's boyfriend wouldn't let her leave the apartment, I loved pills that would knock me flat on my bored ass. Passed the hours.

And when he discovered just how much they knocked me out, and had come to the point where I detested the thought of him touching me, he got the bright idea to sex his girlfriend in the night.

Resulted in pregnancy. And I left.

Not like that stopped him. For six months, he stalked me. Calls all the night long, following me around town, tried to break into my house one night when he was drunk. Knocked out a tooth of his when he pulled that.

Then came the call when he discovered I had a boyfriend, and at my stout refusal to leave him, the death threats. And from a man with his reputation, my family took it seriously. I wasn't allowed to leave the house without at least my father and brother in tow. And if my dad couldn't come with, he at least made sure one of his several police officer friends followed me. There was always a cruiser following my van.

But anyway... enough about the negative. More about the positive, shall we?

My father, having been a paramedic for 22 years, had witnessed some ghastly things. He had been one of the men to scrape brains off the pavement after a motorcycle wreck, just one of many instances. I can understand wanting to shelter me from the world. But... maybe it wasn't necessarily the smartest thing to do? But whatever.

My dad had a shit ton of friends who were cops, paramedics, EMTS, and firemen. All of 'em, and long after he had retired. After I moved home, I became adopted by the Texas Town Volunteer Fire Department. I went through a Citizen's Fire Academy that my father organized for the department, I got my CERT certification immediately thereafter. I went to breakfast at least three mornings during the week with some of the guys, chewing the fat in a hole-in-the-wall taqueria and occasionally pausing to listen to the pagers tone out for which districts to respond. Good times.

Fire department cook off? Hell yeah I was there. And the Chief himself gave me a beer. Oh yeah. I was definitely part of the family. I loved it.

When my father passed away this past March, on Good Friday no less (what could be called irony by some), two-thirds of the fire department and all of the fire marshalls attended the funeral. They were his pall bearers, and after the funeral they flocked to my grandmother, and to me. They were the first ones to the house when the call went out that he had passed, and for the rest of the night, we had at least two firemen keeping my grandmother and I company.

I love my firemen. They are my adopted fathers, the dozens that keep in touch with me especially.

I now live, like I said, in Bumfuck, MO, with my boyfriend of a year. No, he's not a druggie, drunk, or abusive. Matter of fact, he's smaller in stature than I am, matching in mood and temperament, and no matter how big of a fight we have, he never lays a hand on me.

I love this man. Probably why I have no issues with bearing his child.

I'm due in May.

That's all for tonight, folks. I've been typing for over an hour, and my hands are starting to hurt. But that gives you a pretty good insight as to the type of person I am. More to come soon...

Awwww, Shit!

Not another one! Anything but that! I don't want to deal with another idiot with Intarwebz access!

Tough shit. You get to. Know why?

Because for some sick, demented reason, when I hit the StumbleUpon button in my web browser, on more than one occasion has it turned up a blog belonging to some 14-year-old attempt at being female whoe tipz liek dis n zomg!

But then again, that very same StumbleUpon button has brought me great joy in the ramblings of people like Ambulance Driver, LawDog, and Too Old To Work, Too Young To Retire. These guys are amazering!

Yeah. I know. Shameless plug. They get enough hits on a daily basis as it is. I'm just starting out, so I have no real reason to complain about lack of hits.

Yet. *cue dramatic music*

So anyway. Very first post on what I do hope is at least a halfway-snarky blog. Everybody loves snarky, right? Well, I do. Who cares about you people? Pfft.

Short though this virgin post was, I must call it quits here. The significant other is (trying to) nap, and apparently I have heavy fingers. Who knew a laptop keyboard could make so much noise?

In the next installment from Snarktastic, you'll actually discover a little about me. How exciting!