Why I’m an Ungrateful Bitch Bless All Your Little Hearts

I’m going to come at this from a Christmas sucks and all you jolly people can rot in hell standpoint. It’s just been that kind of year.

Things to get out of the way — not everything has been bad. Paul and I are still together. Our third book is coming out in the spring. We do still have a roof over our heads. Our assorted parental figures are healthy and not living with us.

I, despite my best efforts to the contrary, am still breathing. Is everything hunky dory? Um, no. I have a plastic tube down my throat that hurts like bloody hell, I can’t talk like normal people, my memory is hit or miss. Our cats have names? I don’t always know them. Or what year it is. Much less what day it is. So don’t ask. And if one more person tells me how lucky I am to be here or how God must have something really special in mind for me, I’m going to tell them that that something special is to skull fuck them with a fluorescent purple dildo strapped to my ass because God’s just kinky that way. It’s his version of tea bagging.

Not to disparage your faith or make baby Jesus cry, but yeah. Don’t say that to someone who tried to commit suicide and didn’t quite punch the piƱata. We’re conflicted about it, okay? Just smile and nod. Give us a hug if it makes you feel better. I’ve stopped wearing bras because life’s too short for underwires, so hugging me is all kinds of fun. If I’m still here because God wants me to be here, that’s between him and me.

As far as luck goes, I don’t think I’m all that lucky. Lucky would have been not being bipolar in the first damn place. Lucky would have been not having to have a plastic tube shoved down my throat at all. Lucky would have been not being bitchy to my husband who wouldn’t have been an asshole on that particular day. Need I go on?

I’m alive. I’m dealing with it. It’s not fun. I made a whole host of new problems for myself and the people I care about. I am the quintessential example of a bitch.

And Christmas sucks because I don’t have a tree up because the cats would just knock it down. And if they didn’t, the beagle would appreciate the indoor toilet facilities. These are not maybes in my world.

There would be no presents under it because Paul and I just don’t give each other gifts that way. And the rest of our family members already have their gifts from us for better or worse since my parents’ gift arrived damaged and the post office couldn’t find their house to deliver Patric’s gift, so it got shipped back to TX. Paul’s mom bought her own gift, but we took her to the store, so that has to count for something. Anyway, bah humbug.

Food gifts? Don’t we cook? Normally, yes, but right now I have this disgusting tendency to eject mucous from the tube in my throat at unpredictable intervals. So, no gifts from our kitchen this year. Unless we don’t like you. If you get a bag of homemade goodies from us this year, we really are trying to tell you something. See the paragraph about God and tea bagging. Bless your heart.

What did you do to deserve all of this? Probably nothing. Like I said from the get go, I’m an ungrateful bitch. So have a holly jolly, very merry. From all of ours to all of yours. And I’ll go skulk in my corner with a nice big drink. Just pretend I’m not there.