I Used to Be Funnier…
Calendar of Awesomeness
Better than anti-depressants! … Sort of.
Misery loves company. That’s what I hear, anyway and I’m sure that’s probably the worst excuse for omitting the whole truth from any situation whatsoever. I realized this somewhere about the time my very good friend, we’ll call her “Mama Duck” was telling me all about how wonderful it is to be a mother. Except the part where the whole reason I was over there in the first place was to “wife-sit” … which in a round-about and nicely put way, means that I am keeping her off the news and out of jail.
You see, I thought she was just an overworked, tired mommy that needed a break when she mentioned something about how the hours between 4-6 PM were like being a prisoner-of-war except better because at least as a POW you get they leave you alone for the better part of the day and they don’t know your name. Also, as a POW, no one insists upon being tucked in at bedtime because YOU DO IT BETTER THAN DADDY. (I have no idea who does it better in her house, it’s probably the one that doesn’t want to kill them all and then herself… I’m making a point here) I digress, the point is that I really didn’t know that at EXACTLY 4PM on the dot it was like something goes off in these kids (GOD LOVE THEM, I certainly do) that makes them turn into evil little monsters that are flying off the walls and forcing us to run for cover.
You think I’m shitting you, but I’m not. There was 3 of them and 2 of us. We were outnumbered and I’m pretty sure that the laws of common-sense-warfare tell you if their team is bigger, you will be wearing the spilt macaroni & cheese and apple juice, even if you are SUPERWOMAN. Which you aren’t because no one can be Super woman. She actually only exists to make all of us female people (or race or whatever the hell we are, a gender I suppose) aspire to work ourselves a little harder and to take just a little more onto our plates because damn it, if Superwoman can do it, SO CAN I. But you can’t, because you’re not Super woman. And here’s another little fun fact about Superwoman: SHE DOESN’T EXIST. She was just a normal person like the rest of us who put a cape on to tell her kid a bedtime story that got blown out of proportion and BAM. Just like that, cartoon that delineates how the rest of us are supposed to be. How can you even live up to that? It’s not even metaphorical, it’s just plain fucked. I can do a lot of things, I can be everything to everyone and I can cram an extra 3 hours into a day somehow. Did I mention I could Leap tall buildings in a single-bound? But goddamn it…. I’M HUMAN. So I can’t be Superwoman or Super-anything because by the time the day is over, I just want my pajamas, a soft pillow, and my blankie. Superwoman doesn’t even have that shit. Which I think makes me better than super woman. So eat that Superwoman and your cliché awesomness. I am not that. I am woman, and I don’t roar either because I’m not a lion, or Superwoman so let’s just get that straight. I had a point. It is gone. But Superwoman still sucks. Superwoman, superwoman, superwoman. (I’m a Brady Bunch kid apparently) There now I’ve said it enough. AAAHHH. Eat shit and die Superwoman because you made us all inferior and that blows ass.
Some people make really ugly babies.
I would just like to know what ever happened to the prize inside the damn cereal box?!
I’m happy to report that so far I’ve not eaten too much glue or gone after anyone with scissors. I do wish I had my blankie though!!