Maybe I’m feeling way low slung in a funk because if a writer is a writer then they write and guess what: I’m not writing. I’m not blogging. I’m backed up with word constipation and shit is about to get real messy.

Resolution-wise I perused my blog rolls and I read these lovely twinkly lists of enlightened dedicative passion, stacks of word meringues with winking come-hither eyes that inspire me for half a minute and then I remember: my list of self-improvement is a swaying tower of bacon fat and hopeless jealousy. Anchored by a rusty chain-link fence of a haircut growing out and the fact I now buy clothing in XL without trying anything on.

What I put out is what I am. When I make fun of your terrible tattoo or your child’s name (a Mad Lib of your Grandma’s osteoarthritis MD’s middle name and your first cat) it feeds the beast. When I share your un-ironic shitty Tumblr account it’s not nice. When I yank out individual nose hairs to make my eyes water so I can’t see your begging-for-attention Facebook status of “Worst Day Ever” or “I hate men” or “Well, that was a shock,” it…well…hurts a lot. It sincerely does. Try it.

I am in a perma-mode of annoyance, taunt, decry, take-down, wistful jealousy and harmful rage that has never helped me a lick. It hollows you out. It makes you mean enough to make people laugh but also to forget where the line is. Where you cross the gaping chasm to just being a hurtful bitch so caught up in throwing shit that you forget you’re also covered in it.

I want to try and smell a little cleaner this year. Do things for others not because it will make a great Instagram shot but because it will make them happy. Make myself happy. Turn your camera on your phone around and if there is a concentration of chins and chin pimples and a gleam of cut-down in those eyes, we should be best friends. Because you and I, we are the same. Hopelessly out of touch with our own shells as we care too goddamn much about what the others around us are doing.

I have a kid to potty train. A husband to lick. Words to maneuver into something. A career to peck away at. Sun to close my eyes in. Blocks to walk then run then sprint. I don’t like myself and it’s time to really look at that smattering of words.

One final rant to finish this run of negativity and cleanse my palate:

Dear Mattel,

You fucking motherfuckers. Sell us expensive hoverboard replicas like 10 months ago. Let us re-place the order when our credit card is compromised, but we “can’t”edit it. We can order 2 or cancel but not edit to 1. We stayed the course even thought that’s fucking weird.

You shipped the package November 30th. Claimed there is no way to track the package. Re-read that last sentence. Everybody in the world just thought the same thing: you guys are liars.

Unless the hoverboards were coming from Mars where they have invented the technology for the fuckers to actually hover (and maybe a cure for Parkinson’s because that would be really wonderful too), every goddamn thing mailed ever can be tracked in 2013.

The final rusty nail in our Christmas vagina – the package shows up after Christmas.

Mattel, have you ever tried to get a 2-year-old amped about something that doesn’t exist or Elmo has never laughed about? We fake hoverboarded around these parts for weeks. FOR NAUGHT. She now thinks Santa is a Grade-A asshole that ate her fucking cookies and milk and forgot the hoverboards.

I know you’re a gigantic conglomerate raking in acres of cash based on little girl lust for pink toys. I am but one consumer. But listen.

Don’t lie to me. Don’t fuck with me as a parent. Don’t insult me. And most of all, if you launch and then ship a heavily promoted toy well before Christmas, make sure it fucking arrives at those homes before Christmas. It is math so fucking easy I can do it without using my phone and I’m a fucking grand mal IDIOT with numbers.


A terribly disappointed bitch who is working it out

{At least she looks cute as hell on it.}