As I was getting ready to post my, uh...post the other day, the husband peered over my shoulder and read the first couple lines.
The husband: You wrote about Justin Bieber?
Me: YES! YOU BETTER READ THE WHOLE THING BEFORE YOU JUDGE ME OR YOU'RE GOING TO FEEL REALLY BAD AT THE END!
The husband: I'm going to feel bad?
A few minutes later (had not yet read my post)...
The husband: I know why you wrote about Justin Bieber.
The husband: Because a lot of people search for Justin Bieber and it will direct traffic to your blog.
Me: That's exactly right. You keep telling yourself that.
Confused? Shame on you for not keeping up! I know I may skip posting for a day or two, but you should be checking my blog Every. Single. Day. Nay, every hour. Honestly, I expect more from you.
DON'T DISAPPOINT ME AGAIN!
I know my expectations are high, but I would never ask you to do something I wouldn't do. I check my blog every hour. Stalk is more like it. Did someone leave a comment? How about now? Do I have a new follower? New comment? What about now?
I re-read my latest post over and over. (I couldn't help it. I love things that are awesome.)
And you know what a I realized, besides how utterly brilliant I am? I compared the Bieb to a douche-bag and an STD. So if this writing thing never works out, at least I can fall back on being Justin Bieber's publicist.
Back up plans are always a good thing. (Except for that movie with Jennifer Ho-pez. Having a giant ass does not a movie star make!)
But more often than not, you should stick to the original plan. Like you and the bar guy. Going home with him was a terrible idea. Did you really want to be pregnant at 19? And what were you doing drinking anyway? You're not even legal. You need better friends. Ones that will hug you when you're all "I haven't had a date in a year!" and join hands to form a barricade in front of douchey guy's car preventing you from getting in. Honestly. What were you thinking? Getting in the car with a drunk driver. You make the worse decisions. You're going to be a terrible mother.
And don't even think about asking your parents to raise your child. You made your bed, now lie in it. Metaphorically speaking. Stop lying (laying?) in people's beds! That's what got you in this situation in the first place.
Honestly, why I am the one having to explain these things to you? Although, I suppose I should thank you. Things were starting to make way too much sense around here.
It's time for this blog to return to its original schizophrenic programming.
Now that I've put that out there you won't judge me for what I'm about to say.
Brown chicken, brown cow.
That has been running through my head for days!
Brown chicken, brown cow. Brown chicken, brown cow. Brown chicken, brown cow.
All day! Every day!
Wake up in the morning. Brown chicken, brown cow.
Brush my teeth. Brown chicken, brown cow.
Send an email at work. Brown chicken, brown cow.
Take an order for 1,000 novelty piles of dog crap. Brown chicken, brown cow. Ha! Jokes on you asshole. We don't even sell novelty piles of dog crap. But I took your order anyway because BROWN CHICKEN, BROWN COW!
You know what that's from right? Some joke comparing the music in porn to brown chicken, brown cow. Hilarious, I'm sure. I heard it years ago, but for some reason it decided to lodge itself in my brain a few weeks ago. Playing over and over again. I would say, like a broken record, but I'm not in the mood for cliches.
Now's about the time you ask me if I'm drunk. People have been asking me that a lot lately. The truth? I'm not. Seriously I'm not. I saw what happened to you when you got drunk. I may not be 19, but still, I cannot deal with a kid in my life.
I blame the apparent drunkeness on the anti-anxiety meds. I didn't tell you about those? Oh, well that post is coming. Stay tuned. And in the meantime...
STOP JUDGING ME!
I love you.
Maybe the doctor should have prescribed anti-pyschotic meds.
I'm so going to regret this post.
Congratulations. You made it to the end. WTF? is the question you should be asking yourself. WTF, indeed.