Tag Archives: Hulk Terry MAD

Already.

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Remember how I was all, IMMA POST EVERY SINGLE DAY EVER!?

I forgot that it’s really tough to keep that kind of promise when you’re days away from leaving the country (maybe. I’m looking at you, Heathrow!) and it’s a close countdown to Christmas and there’s a MILLION THINGS HAPPENING.

Things:

1) Ainjel is here and her CD sounds awesome
2) My tooth hurts. Endodontic flare up or something.
3) I bought snow boots and thermals.
4) I had Christmas tamales. There’s nothing, nothing like Christmas tamales.
5) The Saints lost. I … I … I don’t even know.

Sidenote: I really, really hate Everybody Loves Raymond.

I’m angry.

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I guess it was wallyworld drama – but I’m so pissed off at something I can not name right now it’s making me shake.

I’m going to drown this in Shiner bock and play poker tonight.

Musn’t worry so. It ages you quicker.

Domestic hell.

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I hate Wal-Mart.

Aside from hating everything it represents in the sense of suburbia boom – I hate being there.

It’s a cesspool of domestic hell. Crying babies, screaming (SCREAMING) brats hollering for toys or (god forbid) attention from their dazed parents wandering at a turtle’s pace stopping only to snap at their significant others or to yank whatever it is their child is screaming about out of their hands.

I will never want this.

I never want mini vans filled with car seats and plastic brightly colored “of the moment” toys.
I never want my thighs to widen while my pocketbook shrinks all to buy some mass marketed over priced THING that my child HAS TO HAVE.
I don’t want to worry about diapers or rashes or 10 day long fights with my husband over who bought $10 of something THAT WAS NOT BUDGETED FOR.
I don’t want to trade my sex life for teletubbies.

This is the ugly side of Martha Stewart’s Living. You don’t see her crying in the kitchen or masturbating with cucumbers because she’s undersexed and anxious.

This is the flip side of the cutesy Monica/Chandler wedding. We in TV land don’t get to see them in 10 years screaming at their child bringing home a hickey and a bad report card.

This fucking sucks.
It’s not for me. No way. I’m not signing up for it. I may be forced to grow up, but I will not succumb to this domestic hell.

I see a move to NYC in the not too distant future.

Or I pray for one at least.