You win. No one cares.

When you have an issue and your life is sucking balls, and you want to vent? You vent. You complain because it's a release and it makes you feel better. Your friends? They listen. They make you feel better, they tell you what you want to hear, make you laugh and help you out.
Not some people though.
Other people point out their problems. They make you feel small, your feelings and problems insignificant, and like you don't get to complain because someone has it worse. Well, twats, guess what? Someone ALWAYS has it worse, ALWAYS. However, that does not make another persons issues any less relevant to them. It does not mean that they should smile over job loss, money loss, any loss, any stress. What it does make though- is you a fucking twat, with all intents and purposes of making it about you and your own shit storm. You are a locomotive of negativity and self centered behavior. Crashing your ass into other peoples lives with your pity party piss, what about me, attitude. If competing in the Olympics for life's worst hardships were a sport, you would surely win the gold.
We get it.
We just don't care.
Because you are a twat about it.


In other news, I gained a pound. A single pound. Please feel free to cry to me about the 45 pounds you have added to your frame this Winter. Keep in mind though, Winter activities are intense, and should you have done them, rather than bitch about the snow and cold- which burns no calories, you'd feel better. Also keep in mind that the gym remains open during the Winter months.

All other pregnant people are exempt from this. We complain about our weight, because we can. Because we are being taken over, consumed with insane cravings and constructing a whole person inside of our hot bods that are generally used for twerking. We know we are beautiful and pregnant, "not fat". We will complain anyway. We can't "not worry about it" when our tits bulge out of our bra, our jeans betray us, and our thighs are capable of chub rub. One time Girth offered me one of his shirts to wear on a particulary bad day finding clothes that fit. I raged, cried, threw all of our clothes all over the bedroom and basically terrified him. So- there is pretty much nothing to say to us...just sympathize and hug us.
Good luck.    

Us.

I think I've changed my mind today. People often brag about their lives, about loving their perfect lives. This used to drive me insane. Because no one is perfect- we all know that. But maybe, just maybe, they need to tell themselves that. It isn't about telling it to the world, but about reiterating it to themselves. Reassurance, validation, wishful thinking? Who cares, really. So, I changed my mind. I stepped off the soapbox and decided that I did not care. That I did not care what they had to tell themselves, or the rest of the world to get them through the day.
We all struggle.
We all have messes.
We all find ways to cope. Or we don't.
Sometimes people comment that my marriage is a perfect one. That our lives are just perfect.
Stop it, silly people.
Not sharing a fight does not mean it does not occur. Not sharing it does not mean that I am hiding it. It simply means just that one simple thing...
I did not fucking share it.
Do we fight? Oh my balls, we sure do. I scream, I cry, I have packed my clothes, fuck- I have packed his clothes. He has yelled, he has called me names, he has reached his limit. We have been hurtful and insulting and nasty. I have done things that made me almost lose him, and I have almost let him go. We clash. Inside of the 900 square feet of house that we live in, we fight.
But we also love.
And we love so much harder than we fight. We are way better lovers then we are fighters. Better friends than enemies, better companions, better off together. It's all passion. It's all our own.

So whatever someone tells themselves, or tells anyone else, is all that it ever is. Just words.
Not life. What we all have behind our doors and within our walls is the life we have. What everyone else has is an idea, a perspective, a notion.
For us, for all I share, the best and the worst of us are all our own, only for us.

Ramble, complain. Repeat.

Lately my biggest pet peeve has been twats. Twats who by 5 p.m. on Monday are already scheming about Friday night, rushing the entire week on by so they can drink, so they can sit their sloppy asses at a local bar, beg for drinks and shots, and cry to other twats about the single life. They rush Monday through Friday right on by, rushing away life, their kids, their jobs...it's disgusting. Instead, their kids, their jobs, all the rest of life is merely a distraction, or the reason behind their NEED to get out. I get it. I like to go out too, my kid drives me nuts too, and everyone has stressers. What I do not do however, is repeat the same cycle week after week like sidling up to the bar is the love of my life. Every weekend their kids are shuffled off to the sitters or to their dads, and these twats act like drink tabs are the only worry in the word they've got. They should be crying at the end of the night- about how sorry and desperate they are. How about cherishing time, how about bettering yourself at work, how about being a good mom? The things a man will look for when he wants a woman. After he has banged every other twat in tight jeans at the bar (like her)- he will look for a woman (not her). Being hot only gets you so far, being easy doesn't get you much further...being a filthy twat gets you absolutely no where.
It would be such a great change of pace to see these twats stay home with their kids for a change, do something productive, keep their Magda like tits inside their shirts, save some money and not post on a social networking site pictures of them with every swinging dick in the bar. Just once, maybe that would be alright. Give that raggedy muffin a break, see if it can get some of its shape back. When I eat off a meat tray, I like to see it all rolled up nice and fresh, untouched. What I would not want is meat that has been pulverised and handled by 45 people before me. People want their own prime rib, not community, food bank style roastbeef.

In This Skin.

31 Weeks, 182 pounds...a 34 pound weight gain- so far.

Lost.

Uneasy.

Inhabited.

Round.

Sexy.

Surreal.

Comfortable.

Confident.

Beautiful.

Fleeting.

Volatile.

Curvy.

Uninhibited.

Vulnerable.

Primal.

Insatiable.

Found.

















 

Only 9 Months...

Being pregnant means...

You will be surrounded by people who will tell you how best to do your "job". Humor them the same way you would any other know-it-all-asshole in an actual work setting.

If you dare complain about morning sickness, mood swings, anything pregnancy related- distraught bitches will hop up onto their soap boxes and try to make you feel ungrateful. This is common among meddlesome, jealous twats who need to find something else to do. Tell them to kiss your plump pregnant ass and move it along.

It is okay to feel like you are the only woman who has ever gone through pregnancy. That you are the first woman to ever give birth and should be treated as such. You are entitled to those feelings. You are entitled to that treatment. Whether you are the first or the 999 billionth- you are growing a person inside of your body. This makes you fucking rock star.

You gain weight, you become soft and round and beautiful. If the weight gain is an issue for you- be sure not confuse nourishment for two with meals for two.

Reserves of patience, compassion, and strength that you never even knew existed will be tapped. You will understand what it means to go, when you didn't think you could go anymore.

You will lead a different life. DIFFERENT, not better. Do not climb onto that wagon of yenta's who find their lives to be better and more full filling than those without children.

Just be pregnant. Be mean, be happy, piss your pants, sprout hemorrhoids, give advice, take advice, feel your baby move and body change. Revel in it. Have great sex and huge orgasms. It's only 9 months, fleeting in the bigger picture.

 

 

 30 weeks. See you soon, Charlee Girl.

 

Sometimes, we have those days.

Sometimes I feel as though I spend all of my day yelling. That no matter what my offspring does, he is not acting right. That he is not listening, that he will not be quiet for two minutes, he won't pick up his room, he is spilling his drink, he is not moving fast enough, on & on & on. It becomes one thing after the other and my patience has no time to replenish. When I reflect back on those days, as I am having a more calm day, I pick it apart. Did I yell at him because he would not shush it for 10 minutes, or because I needed him to shush it for 10 minutes? Did I yell at him for spilling that drink, or did I yell at him because I was sick of cleaning that day? The awful thing is that all of those answers are more about me, less about him- yet he catches the heat. Those are the days when I am selfish and making it all about me, all about what I need, want, or do not want. When he is simply being a four year old. He goes to bed every night at 8 pm, no hassle. Though on a night when Girth and I are prepped to watch a movie that we are excited for, or when I am carpet crawling because I want to get it on- our kid fights going to bed like it's his job. You know what I do? I take it personally. Irrational...ridiculous...absolutely. I am irate though, because of course he is fighting bedtime because there are things that I want to do. No sense, only selfishness on my part. To separate these feelings though is quite possibly one of the most difficult things for me to do. To base my reaction off what has simply occurred, rather than how I feel about what has occurred. Perspective. When he asks me to fix his car for the hundredth time, and I am losing my shit...how big of a deal is it? To me, it is nothing but the turn of a wheel. To him, it is a crisis. His car won't work right. It's his car, he is four. This is the equivalent of my car not working right, at just about thirty-four. And because we have managed to raise an insanely compassionate loving child, he would fix my car for me in a  second if he could, with no qualms. Yet I show agitation spinning the wheel on his ride, or I just refuse to do it anymore. What I want to do is keep him free from stress and anger, yet sometimes I feed it, or become the source. Learning to deem his problems for as real as he sees them is a task, but crucial to his development in how he will help others deal with theirs now, and as an adult. I really need to get consistently on board. Sometimes I wonder who teaches who in this house.

Sassy deep voice.

When I take a shower, I am actually still just sitting in the bathtub. Always done it, love it. So, I am showering the other day and in pops Girth. This never happens, you know...because we are married. So I am sitting there, and he is standing there washing his hot bod. I being the poster child for pregnancy piggishness, immediately want to partake in sexual activity. Except when I turn around, because he was actually going to receive  a beej...he peed on me. I begin scrambling around in the bottom of the bathtub, while he towers over me unleashing his bladder upon me laughing like a psychopath. If I was into Golden Showers, this would be cool- but I am not. And, he doesn't know it yet, but he done fuckedddddd upppp (insert sassy deep voice for effect). I asked him how he could just pee on me while I was sitting there, relaxing, letting the water hit me looking all naked and beautiful. He replies:

 

"You mean like a fat mermaid?"

Oh. Alright, alright. We can play that game. I inform him of how he just lost out on a filthy shower Blow J.
Terror filled his eyes.
Followed by sadness.
Then by hope.
Now he's coming at me with a boner, and I'm like- NO. And shoved the plastic Cinderella hair rinsing cup over his cock & balls, making a cool suction noise, and it stuck there.
"You got a princess on yo' dickkkkk!!!!" (deep sassy voice again). He didn't get one either. I am the keeper of the beej and what I say goes. Hopefully he chalks this up as a lesson learned & keeps his stream in check.

One other thought...I think for Girth on V-day I shall get my vag waxed into a heart, dye it red, and shoot hershey kisses out of her like a cannon. Sounds cool, right? Don't anyone steal my plans now, ya hear!