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Knocked Over By A Feather

But It Didn't Keep Me Down…

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fuck it friday

Fuck It Friday: Curfews

When my daughter was just a baby still, I would gaze sleepily down at her drinking her bottle at 2:00 am, dreaming of the day when she wouldn’t keep me awake at night.

Fast forward 19 years.

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Guess what? No matter how old your child is, if they are living under your roof, they will be keeping you up at night.

My kid got her drivers license last November and also bought herself a nice little used car. (She named it Jamie.) She worked hard to save up the money at a gourmet burger place. She continues to work hard to pay for her insurance and gas.

So, she is now mobile. No more asking me or her step-dad for rides.

On non-work nights, she goes out. We just renegotiated her curfew.

“12:30,” I said in my this is final voice. (The world is a fucking scary place.)

“My friends don’t have a curfew,” she responded, like that nugget of information would actually make a difference.

“I don’t give a shit about your friends,” I answered, looking up to the heavens for God to give me the strength to endure.

“Okay. It’s better than midnight.”

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FYI, I don’t use rollers in my hair.

Damn right it is, kid. Quit your bellyaching.

To her credit, she checks in with me on a regular basis, via text message, a luxury parents of past generations didn’t have.

“I’m at Walmart.”

“Again?”

The text messages are nice to get. Until I head off to bed, that is. I rarely stay up late nowadays because I am old.

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Um, yeah, I know.

At 10:30 at night, I’ll be laying down and receive a message like this:

“We’re at the playground.”

Oh, lovely. Where’s my anxiety medicine?

A dark playground is no place for anyone, but what can I do? Not a whole hell of a lot, she’ll be 20 before I know it.

It’s not like there’s a keg of beer waiting for them behind the slide. If that were the case, I’d have something to work with.

“Be safe. Stay together. Don’t forget to kick in the groin and run.”

I leave the bathroom light on, so if a miracle happens and I do fall asleep, when I wake up to go pee at 3:00 am, I will see that the light is off and know that she is at home, safe and sound.

You never stop worrying about your kid(s), it just changes form.

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Fuck It Friday: Pain

What can I say that I already haven’t said about living everyday in pain? Let’s see what I can come up with.

It can make you crabby, bitchy, angry, and sad, all at the same fucking time.

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It can make you wail.

'It's out new method for determining who we should treat first. We take people in order of how loud they scream.'

It can make you think that you are dying.

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It can make you lie so that others don’t worry about you.

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It can make you think that you’re a worthless turd.

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It can make you fucking hilarious.

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It can make you swear like a drunken sailor.

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Let see? What the bloody hell?

 

Wishing you a pain-free Fuck It Friday.

The Ex and I: A List Post

 

It’s been 14 years now since I left him, but I still have nightmares about my abusive ex. The latest one happened just last night, although the details are sketchy. I did talk about him a bit with my therapist yesterday, so it must have stirred things up in my head.

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I haven’t seen him in person since 2011. Here is a list of things that I would rather do than to ever have to see him again.

Eat nothing but lima beans for an entire week.

Get a colonoscopy. (I spelled that right on the first try.)

Go to a Justin Bieber concert.

Watch a Barney marathon.

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Eat your brussel sprouts, kids!

Abstain from saying the word fuck for a year.

Sleep on a slab of concrete.

Tell everyone about that secret that nobody knows about. 

Let the public flick boogers at me. 

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Take that, Mer!

Drink a gallon of buttermilk (hopefully without vomiting.)

Go without my iPhone for a month. 

Book another luxurious stay at the nuthouse for a week. (Okay, maybe not.)

Break my fingers with a hammer. (I better stop, this shit is getting ridiculous now.)

As you can clearly see, I loathe my ex entirely.

Have a cathartic Fuck It Friday.

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