Blargh

Here, have a blog post! Typed up on a real computer, no less!

I'm at a friend's house right now, doing laundry and watching Idjit run around insanely. The bottom of his feet are pitch black, but then again, cleaning usually takes back seat at this house. Clean it enough to make it safe, and make sure there's room for children to play, but sweeping and mopping are small concerns. I'm not much of a housekeeper either, so hey, whatever works.

This is another one of those random, off the wall, rambling blog posts with no real point. I'm currently sitting in Bulldog's very dim living room, playing on her computer because she left the door unlocked for me to come do laundry, and she's not home. It feels nice to have a real keyboard under my fingers. Don't get me wrong - I love my iTouch, and with the lack of a real computer, it does a marvelous job to keep up - but I like to feel the reaction of keys. That and I can spread my hands out and exercise the joints in my fingers, instead of having my not-so-tiny hands wrapped around a small shiny, typing with my thumbs.

Hoooooo boy. I am in a state of shock, recovering from a night of excess. Our friends just moved in down the street this past week, so there was, of course, a house warming party thrown. And the drink of choice (aside from beer, because there is ALWAYS room for beer) was a lovely concoction that my friend Luc perfected before his death. We call it apple pie, because it literally tastes like liquid apple pie. It goes down ridiculously smooth, but you REALLY have to watch how much of it you drink, or Bad Things may happen. Ingredients include four gallons of apple cider, a gallon of apple juice, three instant-mix packs of cider, cinnamon sticks, apple pie spice, and three fifths of Everclear.

Yeah. It packs a punch. And they make it in such gigantic quantities because when they throw a party, a flock of psychos appear with the sole purpose of getting legless before the sun comes up. Apple pie is the best way to go if you're aiming in that direction.

Since we couldn't find a babysitter, and they live so close to us now, Redhead and I decided that we'd go over and get our drunk on in shifts. I took first shift, because I don't drink beer, and they'd been sipping on apple pie all week, so I was wondering just how much would be left. I didn't want to miss the good stuff.

So I go over there, and they give me a double shot of the stuff as soon as I walk in the door. I'm game for this. Then they give me another one, and an XBox controller, to play DC vs. Mortal Kombat. Or something like that. I played Scorpion and my buddy Ninja played the Flash and I got my ass kicked, that's all I remember.

Then I somehow ended up with an 18 ounce glass with Smurfs on it (don't ask me, nothing makes sense with this bunch), full of apple pie. It was all downhill from there.

Two hours after I got there, I had to be escorted home. Yes, it was that bad. I knew I was breaking the night up into shifts with Redhead, like I said, so I did what I could as fast as I could.

Needless to say, I'm not feeling too hot.

Ugh. I think I'm done for now.

Dream big. Or not.

It is a person's perogative to dream as big or as little as they like, I've always felt. And yes, parents always want their children to be happy and achieve their goals. That is a parent's job. You wanna be a doctor or a firemen or an astronaut? Go for it. Work hard and you can.

I do not dream big. I do not have any major goals for my life.

You know what my goal is? To fucking make ends meet and survive to see next Tuesday.

You know why I don't dream big? Because I can't even dream small. Hell, less than dream - I can't set a small goal of something I would LIKE to do for the day, week, month.

I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I don't know where I want to live. I don't know what kind o house or lifestyle I want to have. And in all honesty, I don't care to worry about it. It does me no good to get all butthurt because I can't become an astronaut or whatever.

Another fallacy they tell you growing up: you are in charge of your own life. Yeah, I call bullshit on that one. You are in control of certain aspects of your own life.

To a certain degree, you can choose where you want to work... But after a while, if the bills start to pile up and the eviction notice gets nailed to your front door, you will take a job shoveling shit if it includes a steady paycheck.

If you're in a relationship, especially a long-term monogamous relationship, you are no longer in complete control. If you want to stay in that relationship, you have to make compromises. And sometimes, you don't get to do what you want to do.

I don't dream big, because I can't even dream small. I live my life day to day, paycheck to paycheck.

Now take your preaching and go say it to someone who cares.

Excuse the absence...

Life has been crazy hectic as of late. As soon as we got back from Texas, school started and I had to leap into that feet first. Daniel picked up a stomach bug somewhere along the way, and did I mention I bought a car? Oh yeah.

Today has been spent in a town about 1 to 1.5 hours away, kicking it with Redhead's mom whilst her personal mechanic combed over the car to identify some problems I knew of, and many that I did not know of. Mira (my Mitsubishi Mirage) got to stay the night with Personal Mechanic until the rest of the parts she needs come in tomorrow morning.

The kicker about her getting work done? She needs about $400 worth of new parts. I'm being charged a grand total of $500 for all of it.

I was quite anxious leaving her behind, and felt out of sorts being in the passenger seat instead od the driver's. But tomorrow I will go pick her up and pay the nice man, and she will no longer suck gas and stall. Yay.

Currently: Curled up in bed under a sheet, an afghan, and two big thick comforters, AND still shivering. Legitimately ill. Send soup and fruit juice.

Blogging Will Be Light...

...the next few days.

Small Child has a stomach bug and has been keeping me on my toes. I've been so busy changing exploding diapers every hour that the smell is permanently burned into my nose. Not pleasant.

Also, I have two concerts to go to this weekend. One I bought tickets for some months ago, and the other, tickets were given to me last week. Twisted Christmas, with Breaking Benjamin and Papa Roach is tomorrow night, free tickets thanks to Former Roommate, followed by Stephen Lynch Saturday night. Massively looking forward to it.

In other news, I survived finals this past week. Passed all of them (as far as I know, I'm wondering about my sociology final), and I have officially survived my first semester as a college student. Yay! So, of course, this weekend, as beautifully timed as it is, will be my official celebration. There may or may not be alcohol involved at some point, and if there is, who know, I may do some of the ever-popular drunk blogging. Heehee!

Blogging will resume next week.

Oh yeah, tomorrow I will have a belated Cute Kid Pic, since I was in such a hurry this morning. Daniel's diaper went 'splody again, and I had to bathe him and change the crib and then boogie down to campus to for book buyback before the lines got horrendously long and have time to get to my final and....

Untitled

Nothing to report on my end of the internet. My muse is a lazy bitch; I swear to god, she's run off with my best friend. Which is funny, because my best friend is gay, but hey, a lot of things don't make sense to me.

More content when I can find it.

How's things with you?

Owmyhead

I love my luck, man. I'm due to leave for Blogorado by plane on Thursday, and yesterday afternoon, what happens?

My head stuffs up and feels like my eyeballs are going to explode. Thank you, Sinus Gods!

Woke up this morning with no improvement. Gah. This is gonna suck.

Thankfully it's just my sinuses. If it were anything worse, I would have to (god forbid) cancel my trip to Blogorado, and miss out on meeting such cool people, and that would make me sad. And we don't like me sad, do we, kids? No, no we don't.

So, yeah. Need some Sudophed to clear this shit up quick. Hopefully they won't think I'm cooking up some meth in my bathroom and they'll leave me alone.

Gah.

W00t!

So, all my classes are cancelled today. Well, my morning one is.

Apparently, somebody cross-wired one of the transformers at the power sub-station next to the library on campus. Said cross-wiring caused a fire and knocked out the sub-station.

Half the power in town (everything on campus) is out. Some of the buildings are running on the emergency back up generators, and others are completely dark.

No daycare. No classes until this afternoon... Which I can't go to anyway, because the daycare is closed...

Fun times, fun times.

Babble babble...

I cannot seem to stay awake for the entire day. Nor asleep for the entire night.

Matter of fact, I napped a couple of times yesterday. Ended up falling asleep around 10:30 last night, only to wake up roughly around 1 AM this morning. It was still 1 AM at the time, the clocks on the phones hadn't jumped forward an hour yet. Woke up and crawled out of bed just as there was a knock on the door.

Ninja had finally gotten off work and had shown up. He texted me earlier in the night, asking if we'd still be up when he got off. I knew I wouldn't, but the Redhead would, so I told him to come on over.

Ninja hung out for a while, listening to music and bullshitting with us. That's how it goes. Around what would be 2:30, he glanced at his phone and went, "Oh. Time jumped forward an hour. It's after 3. I should go." And off he went.

Redhead and I piddled around for a while longer and ended up curling up around 4, snuggled down and ready to sleep some more.

Then a thunderstorm rolled in ahead of a cool front and woke me up around 5:30, 6 AM. I woke up and watched the lightning flash, rain battering against the window for the better part of an hour, listening to the rumble of thunder overhead.

God damn it, I am tired.

The storm slacked off and I fell back asleep, waking up around 9 AM. I laid there for an hour, trying in vain to get back to sleep before giving up and getting dressed. I should know by now, I really should. No matter how little sleep or how restless, my internal clock won't let me sleep later than 8:30 or 9 at the latest. It just doesn't work that way.

So, I did what any hungry pregnant lady did. I got dressed and walked my happy ass to the gas station to buy smokes for Redhead, drinks for both of us, and something to nibble on. Donuts for him, cheese danishes for me. Yum. I was also displeased to notice the price of cigarettes, even the cheapest of the cheap, Dorals, had jumped a dollar overnight. Redhead would not be happy about that. And then I sat down and proceeded to write the post about Iced Earth, while listening to a wide variety of their songs to inspire me. It was nice.

Also, I thought about my cat, Ping. Crazy little fucker. Love him to death. He'll be 11 years old this summer. Getting on in his years. I've had him since he was six weeks old, and he's gone through everything with me. And that's been a lot.


I've really started paying attention to some of the quirkier things he does here lately. He grows increasingly more affectionate as the days go by. Used to, he would just curl up next to my feet while I slept, occasionally wrapping his paws around my ankle. Now days, he's either directly next to my shoulder, tail flicking against my nose, or wrapped around my head on the pillow, as seen here.

Total mama's boy, Ping is.

And, like most cats, he's prone to random fits of insanity. He'll go from snoozing peacefully to a streaking blur down the hallway of the apartment, nearly kicking his litterbox over as he attempts a 180-degree turn on the linoleum, and back into the living room, bouncing his shoulder off the door frame and sending him into a roll on the carpet. He definitely doesn't feel his age, it seems.

Or yesterday. Yesterday was comical. I was attempting to clean and get some stuff organized, and wandering from room to room in the little apartment. Every time I stepped into the living room, though, Ping would stop whatever he was doing, whether it be attacking the draw string on a hoodie on the floor, or chasing a golf ball, or just cleaning his paws, and he would immediately tuck his shoulder in, rolling in that preciously cute way that cats have onto his back, back feet kicking in spastic little fits. For no reason. And I would stop and rub his belly with my toes, then move onto whatever I was doing. And he would climb back onto his feet, and carry on with whatever task I had interrupted him in.


But here lately, it seems like he's got an odd little personality quirk. Well, odder than usual.

He doesn't like closed doors. At all. If you go into the bathroom and lock him out, he will sit at the door and cry and yowl and paw, desperately trying to open it himself or get you to open it, until you either finish your business and come out, or give up and lean over to let him in. Either way, the second the door is open, he blinks at you, and runs off again to do whatever it is he does.

Or if somebody is at the apartment, and I lay down to sleep... He'll instantly curl up next to me, no questions asked. And since Redhead is usually watching TV or listening to music, I'll shut the bedroom door. Granted, the apartment is in an old house that's settled, so the door doesn't quite close right, which means... Yup, you guessed it. Ping paws it open, then immediately comes back to lay next to me.

I'm beginning to think he's claustrophobic. It explains a lot of his behavior the past few years. The smaller the place to live, with doors closing him off from whatever room (and therefore limiting his space), the louder his cries became. When I first moved in with the Redhead, after returning from Texas, Ping was insane. It was a very small one-room studio apartment, with an impossibly small kitchen and bathroom. Not a whole lot of run-around space for a spastic kitty. And he would keep Redhead and I up at night, crying over nothing.

When we moved in with Ex-Roomie and Princess, he was immensely happier, with an apartment he could actually run laps in. Amazing! Then they brought a puppy home. A puppy that's only goal in life, it seemed, was to try and swallow my poor cat's head. Said puppy was not allowed in our bedroom, for the simple reason that we didn't like the stupid mutt, and she was nowhere near housebroken. She proved that, sneaking in when Redhead hadn't closed the door completely and pissing in the middle of our bed.

She got a sound beating for that one. And I don't want to hear any cries of animal abuse from anybody. A dog is not going to be disciplined if you don't hit her in some way. Ex-Roomie doesn't believe this, insisting on merely yelling "Stella, no!" at her. No wonder she doesn't listen... and her behavior doesn't improve.

But anyway. Nobody cares about that stupid dog. I'm talking about Ping. So, to escape the wrath of a dog that nobody paid any attention to, Ping started staying in the bedroom with Redhead and I most of the day and all through the night, with occasional excursions out into the rest of the apartment while Stella was locked away.

And it went right back to the way it was at the old place. Crying all the time, shedding horribly, and just everybody being generally unhappy.

We moved into our current place just in the nick of time. Now he's back to bouncing off the walls, running hell-bent for leather after God only knows what, rolling around like he's a kitten, and just being a lovable, playful little minx.

But seriously... Can cats be claustrophobic? The smaller the space, the louder he gets... And if you close a door, he'll make sure it gets opened up, even if he has no interest in going through it.

I should call a vet and ask them that. Very weird.

Intermission: "Red"

Okay, so from time to time, when dealing with the suckiest of the suck... I'm talking about the dreaded WRITER'S BLOCK... I'll just do a little exercise they taught me in my high school creative writing class. Pick a subject, any subject, something basic and simple, and just start writing your thoughts on it. Colors have always evoked an interesting response with this exercise, so last night while wasting some time waiting for a friend to meet me for dinner, I did this one. Who knows, maybe when certain bloggers are slow to update, they could toss up something basic like this to fill the gap between real meaningful posts. It does give you an interesting insight into their minds, at least.

And yes, I know I owe you a post about growing up in a cult. I haven't seen that friend yet. I'm working on it, though!


The color red.

A color of fire, passion. Bold and brave. Headstrong, some would say.

The color of your life. Blood. A deep crimson, the sign of your mortality. Watch it slowly ooze out of your body, feeling the weakness grip you, and know that your time is almost up.

The color of anger; the bull seeing red. Such an all-consuming rage leads to seeing blood spilled, feeling your anger sated as every precious drop is soaked into the earth below.

The color most closely associated with fire. It burns the eyes as much as the skin with the unmistakable allure, drawing you closer even when you know the inherent dangers in the flame.

The color red, simply put, is the embodiment of all things uncontrollable. Fiery tempers, raging flames, one's own mortality. A certain amount of influence can be made, in an attempt to control, but man's grasp on that control is weak and easily lost.

Perhaps this is why we, as people, are so drawn to redheads in society? The same fiery temper, and our foolishly undying urge to control that which we know we can't.

We wage a losing war. Against a color, of all things.


I didn't say it was GOOD, I just said it was filler! Jeez...

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

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*