Wanna Buy My Shit?

When the fuck did schools and kids' organizations become a festering pool of fundraising hell?? I was a Girl Scout, I had to sell cookies. But I'll be God-damned if there's not another order form or prize brochure or "permission to sell" document I'm supposed to sign every week. I am not exactly shitting out money but we are doing okay for ourselves. If you need some funds for PTA or Girl Scouts or field trips, just ask me for the fucking twenty or fifty bucks you REALLY need instead of dragging me through this cluster fuck?!

The number one problem I have with this process is the luring of the young children with an assembly. For the school fundraiser, the kids are shown how they can win an Ipod, a flat-screen TV, hell, even an electric guitar!!!!! Do you know how much shit you have to sell to earn an ELECTRIC GUITAR?! About $2000 in wrapping paper, folks. Santa doesn't need that much fucking wrapping paper. And the merchandise is mediocre candy in small cardboard "tins", shitty jewelry made in China, paperback crock pot cook books, random kitchen gadgetry I have seen at the dollar store, and oodles, and OODLES of gift wrap. For every 5 items your kid sells, they get this little rubber duckie on a lanyard necklace. The ducks are all different and like Silly Bands, are like CRACK when your child in jonesing for one. I have two children and several other things I am REQUIRED to sell through scouts and dance. So school fundraiser--suck my hairy stink star.

I also am selling Yankee Candles for my older daughter's outdoor education field trip in the spring.. The actual cost of the field trip is $35. So let me get this straight, I have to sell these giant candles for $23 bucks apiece and then deliver them? Awesome. Here's thirty five dollars. It's all in pennies because I saved them from my couches from our move. Bite me, Yankee Candle.

Pretty soon I need to sell cookie dough for BOTH of my daughters, who have made their competitive dance team. Yippee fucking skippy. It's yummy, it's even good raw from the tub. It does make great cookies. But my kids are pretty busy, between school, hip hop, jazz, ballet, two dance company classes, religious education, AND Girl Scouts. This leaves the "selling" part up to me. My family does not live close by. I cannot mail raw cookie dough. My chest freezer can only hold so much dough. Every other kid involved in dance in the state is selling cookie dough. Am I going to come to your front door and do the splits to buy some of mine? Hell to the no. Facebook will be my selling tool. If you like cookie dough, you know where to find me.

Girl Scout cookie season is also almost upon us, beginning in November. Again, let me remind you, I have TWO Girl Scouts. That's double the Do-si-dos and Thin Mints. We often get relegated into the Loser Cookie Sales Hall of Fame--with so few options to sell to, so many fundraisers, and so little time, it is a miracle if each kid sells 50 boxes. Moms should get a God damn badge for selling. Or at least a martini. I love me some Girl Scout cookies but holy shit, I can only freeze and pack my face with so many a year. And Isabella's troop is required to sell "fall product" which translates into, oh goody gumdrops, magazine subscriptions and MORE candy!!! Please someone just hit me over the head when this bullshit is over. And if you need Christmas ideas, a shitty rubber duck on a lanyard will be a big hit.

Denim Distress

My very first blog post, "Put On Your Mom Jeans" inspired me to write on this topic again. Because although a few years have passed since I began writing, I still remain traumatized and angry at the thought of shopping for jeans. I would rather try on 50 bikinis than have to deal with finding "the perfect jeans". There ARE no perfect jeans for me. If you are blessed to be a small, single digit size 6 or smaller, finding jeans and pants in general I would wager is an easy task. Pop in to the store, grab an armful of teeny pants, not bother trying them on, and maybe only have to return one pair because "they just run way too big". I say FUCK YOU out of sheer jealousy. I have lots of friends who are tiny, skinny little things, several of whom have had babies. I was pretty thin once upon a time. But now I am 37 3/4 years-old, have had two kids, and don't quite have the metabolism I did when I was 22. God damn fucking aging process.

Don't get me wrong, I wear my muffin top and stretch marks with pride. I gained plenty of pounds with both pregnancies. I love my kids and am glad I was able to give birth to them. It's a messy miracle to bring a baby into the world and most women's bodies have some "battle wounds" in the form of loose scrotum belly and floppy tits. Those teensy little 20-somethings who walk on the treadmill maybe once a month and can chug beer and scarf pizza at 2am will get theirs. A few of them might still be able to fit into juniors' sizes after kids and ten or so years of marriage but most of them will be just like me--jiggly and coping on a day-to-day basis. It's all good. Just don't expect to find any hot, non-mom jeans for your flab-o-licious booty with ease. And no, you cannot shop at Forever 21 for jeans anymore.

In their heydays, department stores like Mashall Field's (RIP) and Macy's had amazing customer service, sales people at every turn. Nowadays finding a living, breathing person to help you who is not simply trained to ring up sales transactions like a robot is a challenge. Though the dressing room signs have posted "Not more than 6 items at a time per fitting room", who the hell is going to stop me? I peruse the racks, noticing a surplus of XXS and size 25 jeans abound. Well goody fuckin' two shoes for those waifs. I pile as many pairs of jeans I can possibly carry (and locate in my size) without toppling over onto my forearm before entering Fitting Room Hell. Because I know once I am in, any other options I desire must be sought on my own. The lone sales lady is working 4 departments away in the suit department, is not on commission, and does not give a shit about me.

I try not to glance into the three mirrors and the florescent light that is so bright I could perform a spinal surgery in there. I disrobe and grab the first pair of denim on my pile. I can tell by merely pulling the jeans up to my knees if they are going to be workable. By this I mean I have an awareness that they should be fairly tight when I buy them, as they will loosen with wear. This does not mean I should have to actually shove my overflowing back fat, muffin tops, and some mound of flab that is erupting like Mt. St. Helens from my belly into the waistband with a spatula and some spray butter. I should be able to button them without lying down and using industrial pliers. And most importantly, being able to breathe in them would be nice. Pair after pair I discard in disgust. I sigh as I realize the last pair was in the category of "I really HOPE this pair is mislabeled and fits me because they're cute as shit". They are labeled correctly. And do not fit. I trudge from the dressing room, put my jeans back because I am nice like that. I am feeling defeated and moist with boob sweat.

I did finally receive some DAMN good customer service at The Buckle. I had three, count 'em, THREE sale people helping me with cheerleader-esque enthusiasm. It was insane but really, really nice. No one was waif thin. No one gasped when I told them what size I needed or when I needed to size up. They brought me boots to show me different lengths. They didn't try to upsell me to $200 pairs I did not want to blow money on. I don't know if they worked on commission but they all deserved a cut. I found some jeans. It was not painful. I wasn't even sweating. I was SMILING. I think I clicked my heels like the finale in Riverdance when I left. I just might wander back there just so I can socialize with those nice people who don't abandon me in my fitting room like that weird uncle no one wants to talk to. You just lost a sale, Macy's, because your sales people are more in tune with when their next smoke break is than SELLING. I hope you get pregnant with quads so you can deal with scrotum belly and we'll see how smooth those size 25's slide over your hips then. Here's your spatula and spray butter. No worries, it's on me.

You Fucking Stink

Ever notice that the aroma of certain places or things can make your stomach turn? I just go my car washed, full service style. I was asked what scent I wanted in the car. Scent? I'd just like it to smell CLEAN. I decided on lemon but was told there was also jasmine or baby powder. Double yuck. Jasmine reminds me of crappy drugstore cologne that comes in a gift set with a free loofah. And baby powder makes me think of well--- damn babies. In case you aren't aware, my uterus has a sign that reads "Closed for business". I merely hear that blood curdling scream of a newborn and do not feel the urge to lactate or swaddle or coo. I want to get my period right then and there so I am sure another month has gone by where I have avoided getting knocked up by potential demon spawn. Yup, all that from the suggestion of some air freshener.

I stood in line for a class at my gym today for 25 damn minutes. It is a crowded class and one that requires setting up a mountain of equipment. Trouble is, a yoga class was running before it. When the last sun salutation and downward dog was done, we filed in like cattle. The odor in the air was a mélange of vomit, toe jam, and open bed sores. My eyes were burning like I had been maced. We tried to prop open the doors in hopes the fermented panty cheese tangy air might waft out. The culprit? Those bitches finding their inner chakra who apparently bathe their feet in dirty ass juice before taking their socks off to use the yoga mats. The same mats, might I add, that we are required to drape over our bench and do push ups on. Can you get athlete's foot on your palms?


Another scent I loathe more than country music and "c" words spelled on purpose with a "k" is the smell of canned tuna. Try as I may, I just can't get past it. I love tuna sashimi or even grilled tuna. So what in the hell happens between catching that tuna from the ocean, cooking it, chopping it into pieces, and putting it into a can that makes it smell like a fish mongers socks??? I don't get it. But what I get even less is how everyone, my kids and husband included, can pop open a can and eat it straight up without batting an eye. Do you not SMELL that? I think a homeless person just sat on your sandwich. You might want to pass on that one.

When it comes to malodorous situations, nothing is as potentially offensive as dropping ass. But farting is natural. Yes, it stinks. Yes, it is sometimes loud. And yes, you have the occasional shart to "spice things up" and cause you to itch if you don't have access to some Wet Wipes. I personally get the giggles over farts. I think people who are so damn serious that cringe at the mere mention of bodily gas need to pull my finger. Chill out, Tanya Tight-Ass. Quit taking your Beano like jelly beans and let nature take over. If you are stuck in a car or under the blankets when someone Dutch ovens you, that's not so funny. But generally tooting is pretty damn hilarious. (Unless my dad does it and the woman at the drive-through window at Walgreen's can hear it and gags..)

Lastly, I would like to address B.O.. This is the stench that arises once you have hit puberty for both girls and boys. Initially it emanates from the armpit region but can easily be secreted by folds in your gut, neck, back fat, etc. My daughters, though both fairly young, have had their own deodorant for a few years. Once I got an "I love you, mom" hug complete with that oniony aroma, we made a little drugstore run for some Ladies' Secret. I take great issue with people who refuse to acknowledge their own aroma. If you tell me, "But I don't smell! I have never worn deodorant!" or "I use that special crystal they sell at Whole Foods because it's all-natural. The body doesn't NEED deodorant." I'll tell you what, French onion soup pits, I stand behind you in class at the gym. Every time you do an overhead press I am blinded by tears that typically only arise if I am actually CUTTING ONIONS. If you tend to sit alone on the bus or lunch table or even at a cocktail party, I suggest you drop the hemp necklace and belly up to the anti-stank section of your grocery store. Fuck Whole Foods deodorant. They make great exorbitantly priced deli salads but their organic, all-natural health and beauty stuff blows. And for Christ's sake light a match, something reeks and I can't tell if it's your ass, feet, or FUPA.

Timesucker

I have a love/hate relationship. It is with a little social bitch named Facebook. If I had to give it a gender, I envision it as a nerdy dude in too short corduroy pants, an old Atari t-shirt with pit stains, greasy unwashed hair, and a smattering of acne on it's pasty white face. But it is fucking genius because it has become a lifeline, an addiction, an obsession. It is my "go to" activity whenever I wake up, am bored, or want to communicate with my friends. It given me connectivity with relatives and friends near and far. I can chat with grade school pals I have not spoken to nor seen since 1987.

I feel like I need Facebook rehab sometimes. Yesterday there was some glitch that caused all of Facebook to crash for some time. I started panicking, becoming borderline frantic. My mind was racing with possibilities. Was it possibly just MY computer? What if that Zuckerberg dude decided to say, "Fuck it!" and put the kibosh on the whole thing. What if he decided, "You know, I am a billionaire. I am donating $100 million to the New Jersey school system and then I'm out. Those cocksuckers who made that new movie made me look like a douche bag. I'll show THEM who wears the pants in this little relationship!" Oh God, please, Mr. Zuckerberg, please don't do that. Then I looked at my beady eyes in the mirror and realized I was a social network crackhead asshole.

Just like with anything else, what did I do before I had luxuries like email? The internet? A cell phone? Tivo???? I dealt with life, as boring and non-technological as it was. But when you have a taste of the good life, it is so very hard to imagine life without it. Though I joke about it often, is THIS what it feels like to be hooked on crack the first time you try it? Well someone better get Dr. Drew on the horn because this bitch is getting the shakes, the shits, and pretty soon will need some God damn methadone to down off this monster buzz. I am acting as if life without Facebook would render me medieval, as rustic and rural as if I had no electricity and had to pump my own water from the well.

Facebook can cause problems other than total social dependency. The status updates we put up on our profiles can wreak havoc on our psyches, emotions, and self esteem. Is what she just wrote about ME? Why the hell did that moron like her OWN status? Look at those pictures from that party I was clearly NOT invited to? Guess that whore is off my Christmas card list this year. And then WHO should you accept friendship from? Your students? Your kids' friends? Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends? In-laws? It's a crap shoot, people, because if you are like me, the urgency to curse and make sexual innuendos is strong. And if the wrong person reads your post, they think you are highly classless for cursing, alluding to stinky crotch, or hairy nut sacks. I have not unfriended anyone because they have told me that I am offensive. I am not holding a gun to their head to read it. You don't have to press "Like" when I say my cooch smells like Funyuns after working out. I respect you if you want to unfriend me because it violates your own (fucking stupid) code of ethics. Or if your kids shouldn't read my shit--that I get.

Another downfall to Facebook is the opportunity to share photos from events. Sometimes when you have been hitting the sauce for a few hours with friends, you have a tendency to do really stupid stuff. Like doing the splits in the door. Or pretending you are muff diving up your BFF's jean skirt. Or flashing body parts and I'm not talking your elbow. There is often a Facebook Code before parties where whore galore pictures might be taken. There is the "Facebook photo appropriate" time frame of the party. Then there is the "Put that fucking camera away so my mother-in-law does not see my beaver" portion of the evening. You just have to be sure you don't piss off the wrong people at the party or all the untagging in the world will not make you get your job back. (Giving a BJ on the office copier at the holiday party probably wasn't a great idea...or those 8 rum and Cokes you chugged.)

So even though Facebook is highly addictive, causes me to neglect my children, grocery shopping, and feeding my dog, and will guarantee I will never, ever have a job in politics, don't expect me to quit it anytime soon. Am I in denial? Fuck yeah. Do I need some 12-step program to help me "get off the junk"? Probably, but since no one else wants to quit this euphoric social acid trip, don't try to trick me into meeting up at your Jesus freak church for "social hour" and then try to have some fucktard intervention over this. I can quit any time. I swear. And if you tell me otherwise, I will unfriend your as faster than you can say "superpoke".

Now THAT was Awkward!

You know those moments in your life when you have to cringe at how awkward they are? You know you have a few you'd like to forget. Or even for the friends who witnessed the fucktard comedy of errors to erase from their memory. For example, barfing in school. I was lucky enough to pass through all 16 years of my educational path without hurling chunks in the classroom. If this happened to any of you, you KNOW how God damned shitty and awkward that is. I can still remember the kid who barfed during a 1st grade field trip to a planetarium. He had red Kool Aid and Cheez-Its in his brown paper lunch bag. And about 2 minutes into the in-the-dark solar system show, he yacked his lunch on the floor a mere two seats away. I can still recall the tangy odor, the fact that they refused to let us exit until the whole show was over (fuckers), and the shame this poor kid faced returning to school later that week. He was branded as "The Puker". That shit's hard to live down. There are some moments, though none as terrible as barfing in school, that have happened to me.

One of said moments, which I have referenced before in an earlier account, was when I vacationed in Mexico this year. I decided, with little forethought, that packing some "toys" for our romantic vacation might be a little fun. Because why would it ever occur to me, Miss Uber-American Tourist, that they might check my luggage while I pass through customs? We had met up with one of Sultan's co-workers and his wife at the airport, a couple I had never met before, and they passed through security easily. They pressed a little button and theirs came up green. Yay for them. But when we pressed the same button, it was as red as a baboon's ass. Fuck me. I literally started sweating and my colon was cramping up in fear. The woman who was clothing raping the luggage looked warily at me as my 'stache sweat began to bead up on my upper lip. I began to mentally prepare myself for the scenarios that could ensue. Best case scenario, she gropes the top layer and lets me go. Worst case scenario, she pulls out a sex toy and somehow the love stick begins gyrating as she raises it over her head in frantic abandon.
"Es esta una bomba o un DILO????!!!" she screams as I get dragged away by two swarthy Mexican guards.
Man, let's hope I like what's behind door #1.
I approach her station and try not to look like I'm smuggling condoms of heroin in my asshole. But I know I already do. Sultan notices my angst level and tells me to chill the fuck out. Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe....
She makes eye contact and I swear, for a mere split second, though the language barrier between the two of us was vast, I spoke Spanish with my eyes and told her what was up in that suitcase. She gave me a knowing smile, patted my top layer softly, and closed the suitcase lid. Halle-fuckin-luja!!!!!!! I whipped that little fucker out in the cab and drained the batteries on the way to the hotel.

My next awkward situation never ceases to astound me every time it happens. Those of you who know me well know I have a bit of a problem when I go shopping, be it for crafts, groceries, furniture, or clothing. My colon goes into spastic rapid release mode and I have approximately 3.2 minutes to find the nearest restroom to take care of it. I have learned I am not alone in my affliction. Because you can sure-as-shit (bad pun, I know) bet that if there is a singular bathroom to be occupied, there is someone in there dropping a deuce. And I have long since given up on my Shit-iquette. If I have to drop a load, I am going to do it. Have you never read the book "Everyone Poops"? Get over yourself and your uptight rectum. I cannot believe people STILL think that when they are in the lone shitter in all of the store, after they hear someone jiggle the knob, the universal signal for "Hey, I have to shit, too! Don't hog all the toilet paper!", they don't pinch it off and get a move on. I can't even count the number of times a mom will walk out, wave their hand in front of their nose, declare, "This store has the WORST bathroom conditions! You do NOT want to go in there!" Really, lady? I am prairie-dogging right now so I don't CARE if your stanky ass left a steam trail. I am only going to add to that aroma chaos, and so will at least one of my shopping-triggered crapping kids. It's shadoobie festival, they might as well hand out People magazines and some Lysol. Don't pretend it was some phantom shitter who made their get-away in their brown cape and muddy boots. Please. Now light a match already, it fucking stinks in there.

Most awesome awkward moment: I taught a little person in one of my ballet classes two years ago. Both of her parents are little people, too. (I am obsessed in a very unhealthy way with TLC programming so I have taken a liking to little people and the 25 shows there are currently being broadcast about them.) The mother of my student also happens to work as a pre-school teacher where I teach dance classes. We have an annual staff Christmas party and this past year, I arrived late with the dance department because I had to teach. This meant everyone who showed up on time took full advantage of the open bar and was nicely lit by the time we arrived. Little person mom was pretty buzzed when I saw her wander over to say hello. Then I realized a few things. #1) Drunk people cannot hide what they are thinking, especially with the way their eyes wander. #2) Little people pretty much come up to your waist, if you are conversing with an average-sized little person. #3) Platform stilettos make you really tall when you are already 5'9". #4) A super short holiday dress plus hooker heels plus one drunk little person equals a new TLC show: "Little Teacher, Tall Beaver-Shot Ballet Teacher". You know you would at least Tivo the first episode.

Moobs

Just got back from some family fun time, a la Griswold Vacation. We visited what is heralded as "The Waterpark Capital of the World": Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin. Not sure who exactly knighted this small town with this title but there are a shit-storm of water parks so I'll let it slide. We spent four days eating mediocre, over-priced food, getting turbo wedgies and high colonic cleansing on water slides, and gawking at the array of people parading through these parks in their swim attire. It was like an Old Country Buffet just for people watching and I was fresh off a carb cleanse and ready for some fulfillment.

The number one physical epidemic I witnessed was the hundreds of boys and grown men apparently attending a National Moobs Convention. What are moobs you ask? Well they are also referred to as man boobs, gynocomastic breasts, muggs (man jugs), or bitch tits. Like women's tits, men have a huge variance of shapes and sizes they wear proudly on their man racks. Some are saggy, some are long and low, some are connected to a tube of back fat which wraps around the back, some have giant pepperoni nipples, some are covered with greying hair, some are sunburned..... but they all have one thing in common. They are fucking NASTY!!!!! Do some God damn push ups, wear a T-shirt, hell, get some lipo on those bitches. Gentleman, you are not supposed to have tits. Period. Generally a first warning sign you might be growing your very own pair of fun bags is when your gut protrudes far enough out you cannot see your own dick. Seek a personal trainer because your tits are about to sprout. If you can no longer see your dick OR your feet, well then you are just fucked. You might as well go to Victoria's Secret to get yourself a bra because your back is going to hurt like a mother carrying those melons around.

When did this become so commonplace for men to have breasts? Were there dads and school friends of mine with boy titties when I was younger and I was just too oblivious to notice? 'Cause I have a penchant for making fun of people's physical deformities and you can sure-as-shit bet I would have jumped on that bandwagon. I witnessed one teenager covering his chest with folded arms, which was no easy task considering the set he was sporting. He was clearly embarrassed and wanted no one to see the moobs. Then he went to get a brat and chips for lunch. And probably some frozen custard later on. Dude, you are only hurting yourself here. And your chances for ever getting a blow job.

No woman wants a dude with bigger tits than them. I have a pretty decent sized rack, some days in can be a downright nuisance. But I also have a vagina so it makes it acceptable. I honest-to-God saw some men with jugs larger than mine. Even with a serious commitment to cheese curds, naps, and beer pong marathons, I think it takes a unique set of genes to accomplish this growth. Now along with these chesticles, they also had a belly bigger than a 5-in-1 bouncy house but it still made me wonder. And then gag and verp a little in my mouth. Next year I will find you, oh elusive National Moobs Convention. Until then, enjoy those cheese curds, boys.

Sunshine and Mother-Fucking Butterflies

I've been down in the dumps lately. Crabby, unmotivated, sad, pissy--all words I would use to describe my mood. No, I'm not on the rag. No, I do not need to take some sort of medication. No, nothing bad happened to me to trigger this. I'm just having a few bad days. Back the fuck off, okay? I've got a lot of shit on my plate. Suck it.

Have you ever felt really mopey for no God damn reason? Ever felt bummed but couldn't pinpoint why? Yes, you have, Mr. Happy Go Lucky so quit lying. People who constantly feel the need to blow sunshine and roses up your ass by posting bible quotes, inspirational quotes, or nothing but "I love my family, my husband, my perfect children, my sex life, my lovely clean house, sorting laundry, wiping toddlers boogery noses, wiping asses, and never wiping the shit-eating grin off my face" are huge fucking liars. No one is THAT happy. And if you say, "I am!" I am going to come and punch you in your genitals with a cast iron frying pan.

Is it a God damn crime to have a bad day? Not the last time I checked. I suppose some people tend to lean towards either the empty or full glass but let's get real here. If you say nothing but happy, borderline-hopped-up-on-Ecstasy comments, I'm not buying it. You are hiding something. I don't know exactly what your dirty little secrets are but they are not hidden by your "Let's sign Oprah's No Phone Zone pledge!" mentality. It's like wearing a giant red flag that says, "Hello, my name is Mary and I haven't had sex in 9 month." Or maybe, "Hi, I'm John and my wife busted me wearing her granny panties and now she won't sleep in the same bed." See? We all have our issues. Be normal and man-up for Christ's sake.

This phase will pass, it always does. I have my "I love being a mom because my kids are so sweet and loving" moments, too. But those are mostly when my kids are sleeping over at someone else's house and I have had at least four drinks. Maybe a handful of Valium like jelly beans at Easter. So sue me. I doubt I have to clarify that I'm being 67% sarcastic so don't call DCFS or Dr. Drew for an intervention just yet. Plus, I haven't been able to get a God damn 'scrip for Valium in months. Fucking tight-ass general practitioners..

Sometimes you just need to scream, to yell, "Motherfucking cocksucking, taint-licking twat rag!!!" out the car window. At church. Just DO it. You'll feel better. If you keep that Hallmark quote bullshit spewing from your lips and never let your true feelings of frustration pop out every once in awhile, you're gonna have issues. They need to make some sort of Activia for the soul for people like you. You are backed up and need a cleansing of your emotional colon. Beware, there's a shit storm of pent-up dookie building up---like an elephant-size shit's worth. Have you ever seen an elephant take a dump? That's all the bullshit you are clenching on to because you think society wants you to be proper and positive and holier than thou. What a bunch of douche cocks. Especially if you watch enough Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, and Oprah while listening to Enya in your bikram yoga class, you are really fucked here.

So if you call me and I do not answer, it's because I need to rest in the fetal position and watch a Toddlers and Tiaras marathon while eating Velveeta Shells and cheese for an afternoon or two. If I don't respond to texts, it's because I have nothing nice to say. Didn't your mama teach you that crap?! If you are trying to get me back on the work out wagon, just know that I will eventually roll back towards the wagon. I might need a pulley and rope system to hoist my ass back up, but I know where my sneakers are. I kinda need my space, that's all I'm saying. Once I feel like me, I'll come back. But my asshole is severely allergic to sunshine and roses and especially butterflies so I hope you have an Epi pen to shove up my ass when you try to blow that shit up there. Just keepin' it real....