I’m not even joking, lol.
Cheerful chin chin 😝
See, on your day off, you want to do the opposite of things. You want to do NOT things.
Things include parties. Parties are fun when they’re gatherings of like minded people, together for laughing and joking and sometimes, for showing off the new furniture- sometimes. Parties are not fun when you have to endure them for any reason. Which is why I flopped down on the ground in front of my mom and threw a loud, wailing tantrum about how I don’t want to go to my stupid cousin’s stupid house and be nice to stupid people.
But, as expected, I wore stinking pretty clothes and went. At least there would be cake, I consoled myself.
There was no cake.
Five hours of talking about clothes, husbands, and the weather later, I have survived, and I am home.
There is a special place in Hell for cousins who hand you their squalling toddlers and run away, leaving you to wrestle a baby you haven’t seen since his intrauterine life.
Satan will bathe in the contents of his spittoon the women who chase you around parties asking why you haven’t gotten married yet.
I’m going to put my pjs on, then I’m going to go sterilise my face because someone’s kid BIT MY FACE. While the mother watched. And then she told me how precious it is that he learnt to that, while the kid hopped off my lap and chewed her toe. My dogs are literally more well behaved than that.
Parties like these are why I have a bottle of whiskey hidden under my bed. I need a damned stiff drink.
I like kids, but if you’re raising brats, remember- they’re not ah-dawwrable to anyone except you.
On that note, I’m going to pass out. And if any of you haven’t read this yet, I highly recommend you do. The Oatmeal is always good for a laugh. 🙂
To Catch A Thief
To catch a thief, you need a shoe
And maybe some blueberries
Skim milk, cereal-oh wait, that’s for
Breakfast- no, get cherries
A pair of socks will do you well
A bed head is a must
An itchy toe is just the thing
A sense of self robust
Spirit, willing, determination
To go get yourself shot
At least, get 1-2 fractured knees
Work with what you’ve got
To catch a thief, you’ll need the shoe
Berries are for a distraction
The pair of socks to help you creep
Up closer, ninja action
The bed head so your silhouette will
Strike fear in the hearts of men
The itchy toe will keep you awake
Where courage fails; then
Surprise the bastard in the dark
Pelt him with fruit unseen
Let him feel the point of your shoe
Poking his neck, lean! Lean!
Put your weight into it, if
You only stretch up chest high
And keep the will to get shot handy
Thieves tend to be ready to fly
Between the milk, and the stabbing heel
You’ll have a thief ready to be caught
Good thing you saved the milk for breakfast
– look at that, didn’t even get shot.
My bedroom’s the one closest to the door. So at 4 am today, when the light outside flickered on and off for a minute, being the raging insomniac I am, I bolted awake. I listened very, very closely. There seemed to be some sort of scuffling near the gate. My dogs are on the other side. After a few moments of crippling sleep paralysis, I somehow moved with leaden limbs and dread pouring through me.
There was a thief in the house.
I got out of bed, looked for a weapon, and picked up a heel off the rack. Then I picked up the blueberry jar in front of my door and tiptoed out very, very softly- Bruce lee would have been proud. In the span of two minutes visions of my dead family were dancing in front of me. It’s a wonder I didn’t flat out run or wobble in the dark- I’m one of those people who can trip on thin air. And I knew it- the front door was open.
I crept closer to the door from the darker side, just in case the burglar was standing on the outside. Still holding the heel- in retrospect, not a bad sleepy choice – and the damned blueberries. There was a steady clack-clack-clack coming from the yard- was he trying to get into the shed? Why did he leave the door open and go into the shed? Had he run out with something?
I did a quick survey of the hall. All the bedrooms seemed peaceful enough, all the doors shut. Swapped the berry jar for a torch on the counter and sneaked out into the yard, going barefoot and slowly because ninja and all that, but I didn’t want to surprise the man and get stabbed. I went around the house- he was there, a dark shape, washing something on the outside tap??? I froze, confused as hell. Suddenly he swung around and started walking towards the house, in my general direction. Now or never!- I let out an almighty shriek like an avenging banshee and jumped out onto him.
Hopped out, more like. Dad screamed right back at me.
He’d got an emergency call at work and was leaving. All the sneaky fuss had been to make sure he didn’t wake us up- mom had already gone back to their room. He was waiting in the yard for the cab to pick him up, when he noticed the dog’s dish was lying in the grass and went to rinse it. Which is when I came charging out from the side of the house in my pajamas, holding a high heel aloft. And all the screaming woke the dogs up, who, bless them, had slept through every scrape and rustle we’d made till the surprise-surprise!
I mean, my response isn’t completely kooky. This exact thing has happened before when I was little. One of the nights when dad was away, mom got up next to me suddenly and walked straight out to the living room and chased a burglar out. She’d counted an extra head, and instead of screaming, in a fit of adrenaline fueled courage, gone after the thief before he went into our rooms. She actually did chase the man out. And he was so shocked by this charging specter out of nowhere that he ran for it. He took all the VCR and the speaker system with him though. Mom chased him into the street, and then he just ran for it. It’s weird how almost ten years later, I did exactly the same thing.
And if you think I’m making any of this up, think again. It’s now 5 am and I’m writing this down because I can’t sleep, and what the actual fuck, I nearly my stabbed my father with a shoe.
This is why I treat you with
Condescension and amusement in
You infinitely stupid creature
I am complexities and galaxies
Universes thinly restrained
Destruction and your two-celled mind melting
If I so deigned
I’m the weakest and strongest person you’ll
You should fear me, revere me
And I know this
But you’d rather call me ‘baby’
And ask to see my tits
To The Writer Who Sexted Me
I’m not even angry, to be entirely honest. The entire situation was so funny in a cringey way. Having a personal idol crumble down in front of you eyes and proceed to bonk you on the head during his descent- yep. I’m sitting here with the most irrepressible bemused grin you can imagine.
The story here is that a writer whose work I’ve liked on multiple occasions, added me on Facebook. Given that we had about 35 writing friends in common already, and that I was a fan, I added him without thinking twice about it. I quickly skimmed down his ‘About’ page. I’d read most of his recent posts, oh look, he’s married and got a kid, how cute, new book in the works- and about five minutes later, when I’d gone back to work, a notification pops up.
Ohkay.. It’s not unusual for some people, especially the British lot, to start off with a ‘hallo, beautiful’ or such like. I could let that slide. I responded with a ‘Hello, thank you for inviting me to be friends. I look forward to reading more of your work.’ I don’t know if the scaly old maggot stopped to even blink at my reply. Next notification reads-
‘Do you have Skype?’
This was definitely odd. ‘No, I don’t use Skype.’ I wrote, a bit terse now. ‘What for?’
‘Oh, how sad‘ popped up. Then a few minutes of nothing, aaaaand-
‘So what are you wearing?’
I kid you not, I wasn’t even pissed. I decided to fuck with him a bit for being such a reptile right off the bat. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What are you wearing? You know.. clothes?
I didn’t reply to that. Then,
‘Do you speak English? Are you Greek?’
Do I speak English? This guy has commented on one of my poems. I gave him a polite enough greeting to start off with. I think it was established that I do speak English. About ten minutes later and-
‘We should get to know each other better. Do you have Messenger? Whatsapp?’
‘I think you’re a little confused about something. Good bye.’ I unfriended him the moment I sent the message, and that was that.
Apparently not. A few hours later, my phone pings.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’ So unfriending people doesn’t mean they can’t message you anymore. ‘Are you in bed, darling? What are you wearing?’ That did it. I was debating whether or not to tell him to check what his mother was wearing while she fucks his dog, when-
‘What colour is your bra?’
Seriously. I mean, what is wrong with guy. He’s no spring chicken. He’s no drunk guy ambling over and asking me if it hurt when I fell, as if that’s the most ingenious pick up line every crafted (And incidentally, it should be a bro-code commandment never to use that, it stopped being funny twenty years ago). This is a guy with his wife somewhere around him. I’m closer to his son’s age than his. It doesn’t matter if you’re short or fat or bald, or tall and handsome and intimidatingly pierced. Surely by now he must have figured out that there is nothing so deeply unattractive that poufing around like a randy dodo on steroids. Or the verbal equivalent.
He kept messaging while I blocked him. And then he followed me on Twitter. It’s sad and hilarious at the same time. You’d think someone who writes fairly engaging political essays could have learned social cues by now.
Or learned to do anything but that.
To the writer who messaged me. I’ll keep it short, for the sake of brevity. You’re an ass.