Bent Words

Bent Words

May 21, 2020

Dear World:

Keep your expectations of me low.



I’m trying.

I’m drowning in a sea of sticky note reminders, highlighters and my new friend, the mechanical pencil.

I make too many mistakes to use pen nowadays.

My mother scared the living hell out of me when I was a kid by screaming/shaking/baring her teeth in such a way that probably a bear does. I did that to my Big Kid yesterday. Which caused her to kick out the screen of her bedroom window and run away barefoot on her bike. We found her but I wasn’t really willing to find her at first. So I sat down and had a beer. It was quiet so I needed to take advantage. Luckily Kevin remembered she was still missing and went to get her so she’s fine. For now. Probably 200 bucks in damage to our window however.

The Middle Kid fell asleep in my bed last night and I was too tired to even realize it so I passed out to the sound of You Tube blaring on her tablet (kids don't play with toys anymore -- they watch other kids play with toys who profit from said malfeasance) and woke up with her left foot suction cupped to my face. She tossed and turned all night and I was going to move her but, again, I was too tired to make a move. Then she woke up screaming.


She had to go to the bathroom so I rushed her in and started helping her undress when I realize she was wearing a pair of underwear, a pair of tights, a pair of shorts, a pair of pants AND a fucking skirt. What a cruel joke to play on a parent! Seriously. So then I get all of that off and get her bare ass onto the toilet only to find out that she had peed on a longish shirt she was wearing. I go take THAT off and of course it is one of seventeen layers there as well! She has an undershirt on, a t-shirt, a stupid pajama shirt and a frilly sweatshirt as though we lived in the arctic and it was 30 below outside.

I thought she had a fever but no, she’s just dressed like a fucking eskimo. I don’t know why.

I ran out to the truck to get something but apparently someone left the keys out so K-Dog somehow got the idea that he would do to the truck what he has done to my car which is to basically appear to live in it without actually doing so. He has three sweatshirts and a pair of work pants and the girls have their rain boots and winter coats in there along with enough crumbs to form two loaves of bread and enough half empty bottles of peach tea to hydrate a team of soccer players.


Why do you touch my things and destroy them?

Since I’m in the basement now, the basement looks beautiful but the entire upstairs looks like a frat house. All the bills that we have ever owned are scattered over the kitchen table like a table cloth. We still haven’t filed our taxes or filled out our wills which need to be done sometime last week and the counters are full of everything you would normally put away into a cupboard if you didn’t have a severe deficiency in cleanliness. Recyclables aren’t chucking themselves away so I took those out, did all the dishes, made sure you could SEE the counter and said fuck you to the table as I passed it by.

I’m not touching the bills.

Unless to shred them when no one is looking.

I marched my ass upstairs and took one hour to clean which including making the bed which never gets made now that I’m up at 6 and treadmilling before anyone else wakes up. I HATE THAT. You do not leave a bedroom without a made bed. It is a RULE. Because it’s a good rule. Because we need rules to survive and not kill each other. But unfortunately, the only way I’m going to not kill is if you clean and I don’t think you can handle it. But at least now I’m not embarrassed to walk through my kitchen anymore. Until I get to the kitchen table which we’re not talking about at present.

I stand most of the day so my legs are a little sore and I normally drink ALL the water but since I’m working from home I also drink sodas and too much coffee so all of this negates the hydration station. Somewhere in there I left out the alcohol. But the point is that I needed to sit and write this for a moment so I won’t go ballistic.

I'm still going to go ballistic but now I'll be a little more organized with my hatred.

Oh, yeah, and I almost left out Mister.

The Baby is okay but teething or something because the little fuck nut chomps the hell out of my nipples. I’ma switch to formula if he keeps it up. He is a meatball and my last hope. At least we end with a boy so hopefully it will be easier.

That’s all I have for now.

Standing up again…

Written at 2:26 p.m.