What If Those Last Five Pounds Are in my Bra?

The other day, I was vegging around being almost completely useless, when I decided to torture myself by browsing on the Victoria’s Secret website. For those of you who know me a bit better than those of you who don’t know me at all, you will understand  how this is a somewhat self-masochistic act. As I continue to pay off the $2800 I owe to dear Vicky, I have vowed not to spend a dime there until she is monetarily sated.  However, I am in desperate need of a Boulder Holder I can wear to work that is not falling apart and poking me with an exposed underwire.

As I clicked and clicked away on the website, I reminisced about the days when it seemed I had unlimited funds to spend on over-priced lingerie and  designer shoes. Did you ever notice how perfectly all the clothes fit on those models? I am convinced that just looking at Adriana Lima and that Alessandra chic convinces women everywhere that they are a size two. Luckily, though I am clearly NOT a size two, the jeans from Victoria’s Secret fit surprisingly well on me. And even though I’m certain I could find that booby-enhancing sweater in my hometown mall for a fraction of the price, there’s just something about seeing it on Douzan that makes me want to pay more for it.

While I am completely at home in my body, (after all, I DO have wonderful breasts to play with) I have made the decision that I could lose a few pounds. Sadly, the smell of French fries in the afternoon is enough to make me forget any such decisions. But as I fantasied about over-filling my virtual cart with designs worn by the most beautiful women in the world, I snapped out of it and said to myself, “No! No, Self! You don’t deserve any new clothes until you gracefully fit into all the cute ones you’ve never worn that hang in your closet!” And with a decisive finger, I clicked right on over to my unfinished novel, feeling only slightly powerful that I did not buy the clothes that I couldn’t afford.

The thought of losing weight is never far from my mind, but the thought of exercising is. When my Rockstar suggested last week that the reason for my chronic tiredness was lack of exercise, I calmly looked at him and retorted with, “But think how much MORE tired I’d be if I ran a mile or did situps!” Because of my chestly heritage, even if I DID lose some weight, the chances of my… ahem, upper portions fitting nicely into a size Medium sweater are slim to none. When doctors are weighing the heavy-chested, do they take into account that that extra 20 pounds they’re carrying around just might be in their bra?

Since I have no shortages of men lusting after me, it’s safe to say that I practically perfect at the size I am, but it IS frustrating when I go to try on clothes and nothing fits. So I will once again make a firm decision. I must learn to sew.

There is No Director Yelling “Cut!” in Life

As I become older, I am beginning to realize that life is not like a movie. While a good part of my childhood was spent engrossed in the imaginative worlds of C.S. Lewis and Dr. Seuss, I also spent a great deal of time imagining myself as a Mermaid longing to be human, a peasant girl posing as a foreign princess (Princess Cariboo, anyone?), and a war hero digging a tunnel out of a concentration camp. (Yes, you mayn’t believe it, but The Great Escape was one of my absolute favorite movies as a child. I also find it to be one of Steve McQueen’s finest works.)

It’s been said that film is a way for people to escape from their hum-drum ordinary lives. This may also be said of Facebook. You can’t tell me all those people posting pictures every second and letting all their “Friends” know exactly where they are all the time never have a sad day. What I’d like to see is some pictures of some people crying because their Grandma died, or their spouse cheated on them, or their dog got eaten by a zombified elephant. Then at least I could look at their status update and think, “Wow, they are so honest.” or at least, “Geez, they’re an ugly crier, too.”

Anyhoo, this is totally a rambling post that hardly makes sense at all.

Despite the many grueling and searching independent films that have been made, it seems that the most popular are the ever-the-same Rom Coms with the couple who hate each other, then realize their  love for one another, only to quarrel and break up, and then come to the conclusion that they really are meant for each other. The only films where everybody dies in the end are the over-exposed big budget pics like Titanic and Pearl Harbor.

As much as I’d like to live in a Hollywood haze, the real truth is that sometimes people fall out of love and DON’T get back together, sometimes there are no life lessons to be taught from an untimely death, and sometimes men fall in love with beautiful women to whom they are not married. Sometimes barren people can’t adopt babies; drug addicts don’t get over their addictions, and alcoholics die because they slipped and cracked their head open on the pavement. It really doesn’t matter how big Kim Kardashian’s ass is, because as she gets older, it’s only going to get bigger. Taylor Swift still won’t be able to sing when she’s Dolly Parton’s age, and one day maybe Angelina will run out of kids to adopt. Because I have a Sparkly mind, I will continue to go through life make believing I’m just as beautiful and mysterious as Marilyn Monroe, and that what I write will someday matter to someone, even though in the back of my mind, I know no one really gives a shit. But if I’m lucky, somebody someday will say, “I wished you knew her, ’cause she was awesomesauce.” Even if I never really was a mermaid.

Re-Inspiration

My Rockstar went to bed at 7:30 last night.

Now, spare me the “Well, he IS 41” and “he DOES work hard.” These things are both true, but that does not make going to bed earlier than a 4 month old acceptable. Especially when I was actually home, and awake, and my normal horny self. There are just much too much other fun things to do besides for sleep when I’m around, like, doggy-style, spanking, biting, the wheelbarrow… you get the idea.

Anyhoo, while I am never at a loss for ideas of things to do, the thought of watching an Angelina movie or a rerun of Elliot Stabler scowling sexily at a perp did not really appeal to me. Even the newest book I started reading did not spark my interest. And so, I thought to myself, “Hmm, I should work on writing my book.”

It may seem strange that someone who likes to write as much as I would wait until the complete and utter powers of boredom took over before I began typing my thoughts out on the keyboard. Let me explain.

The Book (the main one I’m working on, not all the other ideas I’ve toyed with and barely begun) has been a source of constant nagging in the back of my head since I began it nearly twelve years ago. It has changed and morphed and mutated so because of my hopes of trying to create the next Great American Novel. The characters (and their names) have been changed, and the end of the story has become something I never would have expected. You are wondering where this masterpiece is so you can read it, you say? Well. you’re just gonna have to wait until it gets out of my head. Oh, yes, the entire thing is written- in my head. (Which may very well explain the voices I’ve been hearing for the last 7 years or so.) In fact, the sequel is well on it’s way to crowding the first of the series out, which may be the reason it was so easy for me to write an entire chapter last night.

Because I have written and re-written and yet again re-written the beginning chapters of my book, it has become the bane of my existence. I also found out very quickly that despite having a complete storyline, the writing of such details to get said storyline written can be mundane and worse than scrubbing skid marks out of a toilet bowl. I attempt all of my writings to be as easy to read as a Twilight novel, (without the shittiness) while maintaining only slightly less detail than a Thomas Hardy novel. (Really, is it necessary to write forty pages describing a moor? It’s a swampy plain.) Finally, I wish all my characters to be complex (maybe not as much as I am) and all my readers to finish reading what I’ve written while saying as passionately as Lestat did in Queen of the Damned when he thirsted for blood- “MORE!”

In the original manuscript written in my head, my Book was not nearly as humorous as it seems to be turning out. (Though I may be wrong, because I am greatly amused by “Your mom” jokes.) That having been said, if my Rockstar continues to go to bed at un-Godly early hours, you all shall have a novel worth reading that I shall not be embarrassed about having written in no time at all.

A Drunken Letter To Sean Bean

My Dearest Most Sexy (Though slightly old and wrinkled) Sean Bean,

I am completely in love with you.

I realize this may come as a complete shock since I have never before even hinted of my surprising lust for you, but let me be frank- I have downed a half a bottle of whiskey, and my passion can no longer be contained.

You have starred in all my favorite films: Black Beauty, Don’t Say A Word, Troy, and let us not forget the first installment of Lord of the Rings. How I wished for you to long after me as you did the One Ring, or as Smeogel said it best “My Precious”.

I must admit I didn’t recognize you, my Shining Star, in Equilibrium (Because I was lusting after Christian Bale) and Ronin (because that lady with the alien eyes was distracting me.) But LISTEN! I have decided you are the only one for me. (Besides for Christopher Meloni.)

I became aware of my burning passion for you when you so perfectly portrayed Eddard Stark in Game of Thrones. To choose honor, or your family, you so rightly chose family, even though your daughter was a little bitch and your aging wife had such homely qualities. (Such as wrinkles and a hint of that Joan Allen person I so despise.)

I must admit that I creeped on you a little bit, and found you on the Wikipedia. While your picture on there is not flattering in the least, I found hope for me, when I read of you personal life, and the fact that you have had many wives. (None of them simultaneaously). (Woo! I used big word when drunk!) Perhaps in your future, you will fall in complete and eternal love with a red head with excessive boobage?

I will be honest (because I drank Windsor) I’m not entirely sure what has drawn me to you, but be assured that my feelings are real. But I must tell you a secret- I know your real name. and it is NOT Sean Bean, But since your fake name carries Dr. Seuss qualities, I shall forgive you, and still offer a booby squish.

If you find it in your heart (or your pants) to provide me with the other-wordly love I desire from you, please let me know.

XOXO, Sparklebumps

 

Shame On You, Cinderella

So yesterday was an icy cold day yesterday in the Midwest, and I spent the day doing what any civilized child-minded person would do on such a day: I watched Disney movies with my Rockstar’s Daughter. ABC Family has become my newest favorite cable channel.
After re-aquainting myself with the story of Aladdin, (while singing under my breath to all the amazing songs written by one Alan Menken), I was thrilled to see that Cinderella was the next film to be featured. I realized as it began that despite having had the Golden Book version of the movie and having read it so much I had it memorized as a child, I had never actually seen the movie. Though the animation was aged and far inferior to that of my favorite The Little Mermaid, I appreciated the ugliness of the evil step-mother, and was inspired to in the future write the story of how she became so bitter and ugly. But nevermind about that for now.

I was of course distracted from the Scrabble game I was winning (philo IS a word, dammit!) by Cinderella when Bibbety-Bobbity Woman adorned her in a sparkling gown with look! glass slippers!  but I was even more distracted to watch the non-handsome prince immediately fall forever in love with her upon first sight. He knew he wanted to make her his queen without even knowing her name. Now I have just a little bit of a problem with that.

Yes, of course every girl (including me) dreams of being so beautiful just a glimpse of her will make a prince fall in love with her. ‘Tis true that a sparkling gown and glass slippers may aid in such a thing, but if a prince would notice such things as that, one may wonder if perhaps he should be searching for another prince. What disturbed me so about their first meeting was not that he fell in love with her, but the fact that she didn’t even say anything. There was no hint that she was a hard-working PETA member who could sing better than her ugly step-sisters, or that she was a dog-lover who could also cook a mean breakfast.

Now  I understand how a man could fall immediately in love with a beautiful woman, as this seems to happen surprisingly often to me, but I am convinced my stellar personality and DDD’s have a little something to do with that. Upon meeting me, men haven’t a chance to simply adore my supposed beauty, because they are lickety-split bombarded with questions of there origins and whether they wear boxers or briefs. My curiosity always gets the better of me.

Anyhoo, I am upset that the story of Cinderella fools little girls into thinking that all they have to do is look pretty in order to find happiness. Yes, accessorizing is a tool to help a girl cheer up when she’s feeling down, but she can’t just go around looking pretty and expect a prince to fall into her lap! She must at least be amusing, or sweet, or something! No man wants one of those bitchy pretty girls, do they?

When “Suck My Toes!” Is No Longer an Insult

When I was terminated from my bookstore, I believed my days of being adored by creepies passing by had come to an end. While a normal human being would be relieved at such a thought, the histrionic part of me was just a little dismayed. Where would I accrue such entertaining stalker fodder for my bloggy fans if not in the mall? Luckily, I forgot for a moment that I am me, and shall forever find myself in situations not like ones the ordinary individual experiences.
‘Tis true my flirtatious personality and excessive boobage may have a little something to do with that.
Enter the Toe Sucker.
I cannot say much of how I came to be introduced to the Toe Sucker, except that I interviewed him, and because he had once upon a time sold designer shoes, I hired him. After only a week, I realized that such decision should not be made for such reasons. Apparently, knowing me for only a week was sufficient enough for this man to be completely enamoured of me.
A few weeks after the lapse of his employment, I was surprised to receive a text from said person. The Toe Sucker, (as he was yet to be dubbed) was a 57 year old who in his text claimed to have the libido of a 27-year-old, and desired to become more intimately aquainted with me because I am “so good-looking and smart, and sexy.” (Clearly, he is partially intelligent. My heart leapt into my throat (or maybe it was just bile) when during our text conversation he asked if he I would allow him to suck my toes. I immediately ceased responding to his texts, because while I do not deny being curious about the affect toe sucking would have on my nether regions, I could not help but remember that I have a sexy Rockstar as a boyfriend and a slough of other boys who are much younger than 57 who would probably be willing to suck my toes if I asked nicely. (And rubbed my boobies against them.)
Not to be deterred, for the next month or so afterward, the Toe Sucker randomly would text me, assuring me of his stellar Toe-Sucking Ability, and how amazing and sexy I am. He also invited me to a shopping weekend when he wished to introduce me to his children (who are my age) for some unknown reason. When I asked if I could bring my Rockstar with, the Toe Sucker responded with, “Are you crazy?!”, confirming that his intentions were not completely honorable. Soon, I tired of his excessive attempts to sweet talk me into bedding him, and I thought I was rid of him.
A few weeks ago, I was going about my business when I was once again texted by the Toe Sucker. He asked if I had reconsidered the “amazing weekend” he had invited me to, and when I said no, the Creepy became the Asshole. He texted such insults as, “That’s ok, I know other whores” and “the job you have is a perfect job for a greasy dirty woman like you”.
While I have unmatched patience for fucktards, blatant insults such as these are not to be tolerated. When he told me I could “go have a good time with my boyfriend”, I responded nicely with an “I WILL have a wonderful time doing my sexy man while you are busy sitting at home fucking your hand.” This was not received kindly, and threats of police intervention were issued by him “if I didn’t stop texting him.” “WTF” was the only thought I could think at that point, considering that HE was the one that refused to quit texting me. And so, I continued about my business, the whole while convinced that the Toe Sucker was indeed on many un-identified prescription pills.
The very next day, I received a call from the afore-mentioned asshat (which I didn’t answer) and a message pleading me to forgive his behavior. I assured him there was absolutely no reason for me to continue our non-existant acquaintance, and with a “Fuck you, and delete my number”, I bid him adieu.
Apparently the rememberance of my general awesomeness and glorious boobage is ingrained into his brain, for just this weekend I was once again bombarded with texts from the Toe Sucker begging me to “send him a picture of my toes” and to “please allow me to know you.” After his failed attempt to compliment me by comparing me to Helen of Troy with a “Your eyes could launch a thousand ships”, I really just wanted to say “Suck my dick and fuck off” or “Suck my toes”, but I’m afraid such insults would fail to impede his affections in any way.

Stress Outlet

It’s happened.
I have become like everyone else.
To quote Inigo Montoya- “Let me sum up.”
I have always prided myself on the fact that I do not outwardly stress about things. While stressed women everywhere are going around being grumpy bitches who lash out at unassuming spouses, and retail associates, and Pizza Sluts, I have always (mostly) remained calm and sensible. (I think) Sadly, due to circumstances beyond my control, I seem to be melting into one of those terrible harpies.
While I cannot deny that being the head Pizza Slut has immensely helped to pay off the $2800 I owed to Victoria’s Secret, the bullshit that comes along with it has worn thin what little sanity I possessed initially.
Add to that the fact that my Ex (and every other person of child-bearing age) is having a baby, and that it’s been almost a month since Christmas and I have yet to give my friend Delightful her Christmas present, and my beloved brother keeps calling me and I haven’t energy to have a four-hour-long phone conversation with him, and my Rockstar’s Daughter decided to freak out at me this morning because I told her to brush her teeth….
*breathbreathbreathbreath*
My once-curly hair has become an outlet for my stress. True, having bleached it in order to dye it a beautiful Little Mermaid-esque color probably didn’t help, but in the last week, it’s become ‘Fro Nation up in here. And not the good kinda ‘fro. Imagine luminous red flames being smothered by the foam of a powerful fire extinguisher, and you have perfectly imagined the coiffure that sits upon my head. My hair is simply relaying to the world exactly what I’m feeling in my over-thinking head and my exhausted heart. So the question is, if I shave it all off, will the stress go away?

A Letter To SOB’s

Dear Sons of Bitches,
If you think this letter is addressed to you, then it probably is. So read on.
I do not appreciate the fact that I have befriended you, and you see fit to slam shit around in a childish manner. To this I say in an equally child-like manner- “NO NO NO NO!!!!”
I do not appreciate that I was asked to participate in a group project, and then was sorely under-appreciated, and made to feel that I had over-stepped myself. I over-step myself on a daily basis- the exact reason I was asked to participate in the first place. So, NO! I shall not participate in any other group projects. My writing is better without outside interference anyway.
I do not appreciate that I did my best as a matchmaker, and was not even informed of any juicy details that may have occurred because of my Love Fenaggeling.
I do not appreciate that I was customer friendly, (only because I was paid to be) and was cursed at.
I do not appreciate that I am me, and am compared to someone who is disliked by many. (And who is clearly NOT me.)
I do not appreciate that I tell someone I appreciate their beauty, and do not even receive a hug in response.
Kiss my ass and Fuck Y’all.

Edward Hotspur and the Best Birthday Present Ever

So sorry this is late! I blame it on the aliens that abducted my brain a few days ago. It is hoped my story makes up for it. This was supposed to be a choose your own adventure post with links to other amazing writers, but I’m afraid that ship has sailed without me. Just go to H.E.’s blog and you will find a birthday trail for Hotspur. So! Ed, I give you the gift of fantasy fiction…

“Happy birthday, Honey!” The incredibly attractive woman known as Mrs. Hotspur greeted her birthday boy- a less attractive (but only slightly) Edward. She planted a passionate kiss on her hubby’s lips.

“Thanks, baby. So what’d you get me?” Ed hated to admit it, but he was all about the presents. His ego was big enough that he believed everyone should give him at least one.

The Mrs. bit her lip nervously. This was a little bit out of her comfort zone, but she knew it was something he wouldn’t soon forget. She grabbed his hand and led him down the hallway to the bedroom.

“Ok, so I know I should have asked first, but I didn’t think you’d mind.  I got you a pet.”

When he heard “pet”, Ed expected to see a precocious puppy or one of those massive ragdoll cats that are completely useless, but when his wife stepped aside, he was absolutely speechless. Kneeling in front of him was a curvy redhead. She wore only a corset, a dog collar, and a pair of red patent leather stilettos. His pants felt a little bit tighter as he admired her naked breasts; her nipples were pointing directly at him, it seemed. Her head was down in a submissive position, but when he gasped in surprised, the woman looked up at him, and he was shocked when one of her eyelids dipped down over one of her dark brown eyes in a flirtatious wink.

“Holy shit! What is Sparklebumps doing here?!” Ed’s voice sounded about three octaves higher than he was used to.

Mrs. Ed shrugged. “Well, I wanted to get Salma Hayak, but she’s famous and  well, you know, not super horny. But Sparkles is exactly the same height, and her tits are just a little bit bigger. She’s agreed to let you be her master for the night. I know you always wanted to try being dominant, so…” She leaned close and whispered seductively into her hubby’s ear, “She’ll do whatever you want her to… including me.” Before she stepped back, Ed felt her nip his ear in such a way that shivers flew down his spine.

Ed ran his hand through his hair as he looked first at his wife, and then down at his birthday present. She hadn’t moved a muscle; she awaited his command. Well, fuck. He thought. What the hell?

He stepped forward, and Sparkle looked up at him.

“Happy birthday, Master. Not how you expected to meet me, is it?” She grinned.

Ed cleared his throat. “I’m not complaining.”

“What would you have of me, Master?” As she asked, Sparkle raised her hands to undo Ed’s pants. He put his hands over hers to stop her.

“Stand up.” The authoritative tone in his voiced surprised him.

“Ah.” Sparkle lowered her head and rose, and as she did so, Ed admired the nicely muscled legs she had gotten from years of wearing heels. He looked over at his wife, expecting daggers to be shooting from her eyes at the fact that he was eyeing another woman, but instead, she only smiled, and nudged him forward.

Ed took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Go over to the bed and bend over.” Nice ass,  he thought, as Sparkle did what she was told. He stepped forward and grabbed her by the hair.

“Shame on you for not thinking of the lady first. I’m going to spank you now, and then you will pleasure my wife.” Sparkle made a slight noise in her throat that seemed to affect Ed’s already hard manhood. He lifted his hand and brought it down perfectly on the meat of her rear with a delicious slap. Sparkle gasped, and moved her hips against the edge of the bed, while Ed watched the pale skin of her ass turn a lovely pink color. He heard a moan behind him, and was surprised to look into his wife’s face and see her blooming desire. He gave Sparkle one final swat before releasing her hair and stepping back.

“Now take care of my wife.” Who was this bossy, domineering man? He didn’t realize he had it in him. He was so used to being light-hearted and blogging about pissing unicorns and other bizarre things.

Sparkle slid off the edge of the bed and crawled over to where the Mrs. was leaning against the wall lazily. She looked up for confirmation, and must have found it, because she ever so slowly slid the Mrs. pants down, leaned forward, and laid a soft kiss on the lacy panties underneath. Sparkle then slid the panties off, and Ed watched in fascination as Sparkle’s tongue slid out and delicately tasted his wife.

The Mrs. moaned quietly, and that was all Sparkle needed. She proceeded to go down on the Mrs., and Ed was amazed at how erotic it was to look in to his wife’s eyes as another woman pleasured her. More erotic still it was when he watched the pleasure rise and the eye contact was broken when she closed her eyes and came.

“That’s enough.” He stood up expectantly. “I want you to stay over there, Little Bitch, and watch now while I make love to my wife.”

Disclaimer: I meant no disrespect in the story up above, Ed. H. E. told me to write something for your bday that was about a semi-biographical blog like mine, and since I live in Fantasyland, this is the only thing I could think of. It helps that your wife is gorgeous, but tell her not to be mad, ok? It’s just for fun. If you desire, I can finish it, but I didn’t want to go overboard. Happy Birthday! XOXO

Funny Thing

…is that’s it’s not funny it at all. But we put on a happy face and make a joke so as not to burst into tears. or some bullshit like that, right?

I got a text from my Ex-hubby the other day. I hadn’t heard from him since a few months ago right after he got married, but I knew exactly what it was he wasn’t telling me.

So when is she due? I text him after his initial blahseh greeting.

If I was going to have a baby, would you want to know about it? Was his response.

Not really, but I’d find out eventually, so we might as well get this over with. I steeled myself for the next text.

I just know how upset you got when people told you they were having babies. Always thinking of other people. Polite bastard.

So? Putting it off wasn’t helping anything.

June 29th.

You wouldn’t think one tiny little text with a date would make my whole world feel like it was ending. Well, you would be wrong. Surprisingly, it began with internal bleeding; you would never have known the news of someone having the baby that was supposed to be mine was eating through my insides like the ebola virus.

I guess I’m supposed to say congratulations or something. That was civil, right?

My sister is pregnant too.

The ebola virus had worked it’s way to the outside and I felt my body begin to melt into a hideous liquid mess of tears.

How are you doing, now that I told you? The “funny thing” is, he was asking because he knew exactly what was happening.

Not so good. I guess I didn’t really want to know you were having a baby. (Or that my internal organs would liquefy and my soul would die when I found out.) I only thought that last part.

Yeah, my eyes teared up as soon as I sent the text. I’m sorry.

So why is my Ex-Hubby sorry he’s having a baby and had to tell me? I’m sure you’re completely confused. After all, he should totally hate my guts because I cheated on him and then left him because I wasn’t in love with him anymore. I may have forgotten to mention- I also left because we tried for three years to have a baby, and when one didn’t appear, I realized I didn’t want to be with this man if there were no children. So I thought I had better find someone I actually wanted to be with if I was to be barren.

I’m sure you’re all thinking I’ve destabilized because it’s my ex that’s having a baby. That doesn’t help, no; because there was a time when I wanted to have 5 little boys who looked exactly like him. But you see from earlier in my post that I didn’t start crying until I found out his sister was having one too. It’s the fact that EVERYONE ELSE is having babies except for me. I’ve found out in the last two weeks that my cousin (who didn’t want a kid the last time I checked) and his wife are pregnant, the first girl I ever fell in love with and her hubby are, my ex and his new wife, and my ex-sister-in-law and her hubby (who also stated he wanted no children). So it’s safe to say that half the people in the world who are procreating are doing it because their spouses want them to. So all those half-wanted babies will be loved with only half as much love as they deserve, while my non-existant baby is loved with every fiber of my being.

“So why don’t you have a baby, already?” People keep asking me. It’s not that simple.

I have found a man who I want to be with. Unfortunately, he has a ten year old and is perfectly happy with only her. Because he has not yet spent 12 years with me, he doesn’t have the understanding of me that my Ex did, and so does not realize that telling me to hold someone else’s baby is like asking me to cut my own throat with a sharpened toothbrush. He does not understand that for the last two days, it has taken all of my will power to keep a constant stream of tears from falling. When I told him my Ex was having a baby, his only response was, “How do you know it’s even his kid?”

My Rockstar has agreed to have a baby with me when we have more money. The “funny thing” is, there will never be enough money. There will always be more bills, or other things to spend money on.

I can’t think about this anymore for right now, because I already can’t see, but this is to all of you who have kids who have ever even for a moment wished you didn’t, and all you parents with children with health issues, and all you pregnant women who are pissed off because you can’t sleep or have morning sickness, and all you individuals who “accidentally” had kids when you had “real” lives you wanted to have- you better fucking thank God or Shiva or whatever other deity it is you worship every fucking day for your babies, because if you didn’t have them, you could be just like me right now. And trust me. This doesn’t feel good.