This isn't a post. It's just a long, shouty whine.

I am so ANGRY.

I don't even know how to convey the depth of my irritation here.

*deep breath*

So, you may know that I recently had to stop eating meat, so I wouldn't die.

I did that.  I did good.  No bacon, no burgers, no ham, no steak, NO DELICIOUS FUCKING MEAT!!

Well.  Then I started getting sick when I drank milk.  So I switched to soy milk. (Soy milk is actually pretty good, but let's not get distracted here, I'm still mad.)

Last week I got the flu vaccine.  And had a reaction.  Today I ate a cereal bar ( or possibly two) and had another fucking reaction.  Turns out?  Everyfuckingthing is made with GELATIN which is made from PIG SKIN (and/or COW BONES) which I AM FUCKING ALLERGIC TO.

Sorry about the shouting.  Like I said, I'm pissed.  All the things.  All the good, bad for you, tasty things are making me sick. 

I just have one fucking question, and I'm scared to hear the answer.  Does pie have gelatin in it?

Don't answer that.

In apology for this angry pointless post, I give you a bunny driving a Barbie car.  Please forgive me, I'm just hungry.

                                                            Beep!  Beep!

If you need me, I'll be in my shell.

I feel like this turtle today.  Except some slightly drunk people in canoes helped this guy out, and so far today I'm not seeing any drunk people.  Or canoes.  Dammit.  Where is karma when you need that bitch?

I can give the bird left handed, so there.

Oh Chronic Pain, you evil, sneaking, rotten bitch, how I loathe you.  My dinner sits uneaten because I can't use my right hand.  What fresh hell is this? 

It's not enough that my bones hate me and plague me with random deep agonies Every. Single. Day? 

It's not enough that my skin burns for unknown reasons and requires me to put ice packs on my feet to fall asleep on those nights that I don't have to immerse the bitches in boiling water to make my skin stop crawling? 

It's not enough that I lose at least a week out of every month lying in a darkened room, hoping someone will just shoot me or that my head will finally spontaneously combust? 
  
Chronic Pain, you miserable slut, is it too much to ask for you to just pick one part of my body to torment? 

*Please note that I realize there are worse things I could be saddled with, I am sincerely grateful for all that I have, and none of this shit I've got is going to kill me.  So everybody just calm the fuck down.

There's an app for that....

As you know, assuming you've been reading this blog religiously, as you should be, I have been going through some dietary changes.  I'm going to refer to this as the Foodpocalypse.  Because it fucking sucks and, also, because I can.

Anyway.  I've been looking at apps on my phone to help me determine just what the fuck is in the food I eat, in an effort to stay alive and not be so damn hungry.

In my app search I have NOT found anything useful.  I have found some very disturbing apps which I am going to list here, because I am bored good at sharing.

1.  Massager.  By Hooha.  I don't think I need to explain this one.

2.  How To Get Pregnant (Here's a tip, if you're using your phone on your hooha, you're doing it wrong.)

3.  Am I Fat?  Seriously?  You need an app for that?

4.  App of Death "The test performed does not indicate that you'll die...it's just a prediction....stay calm."  O-kay.

5.  How to Grow Taller  This one is by the same person who also knows How to French Kiss, How to be a Hipster, and also How to Call in Sick.  A certifiable very knowledgeable person, this one.


Gotta run.  App of Death just finished downloading, so I may or may not be back later.

R.I.P. Meat

Well, all the tests are back and it is official, I am now allergic to meat.  Thank you Lone Star tick, you little bastard.

If you don't know what in the hell I'm talking about, Google "alpha-gal."

I'm happy to know I'm not a nutcase (regarding this issue; I am very aware that I am, in fact, mostly crazy).

It has long been my rule that if it lived in water at any time, it does not go on my plate.  Clearly, I'm going to have to reassess.  Yesterday I had chocolate pie for breakfast.  This doesn't seem like a good long-term plan.

Can you have dementia at 33?

This morning I had to go to town, which always sucks, and I had to talk to not only my son's doctor but also my therapist, who is amazingly insightful and very, very good at what she does.  This is a recipe for disaster.  I've threatened to fire the woman numerous times because she is that good.  Anyway, I went, I did what I was supposed to do, yay me.

On the way home, I was hurting really bad (because I didn't take my meds this morning because I was driving my kid *pats self on back*) so I dug out my medicine and tried to swallow and then realized I did not have a drink.  So I choked on the nasty little pill, and then started thinking that my esophagus must not be normal sized, and I was going to stop breathing, and wasn't it ironic that I was going to die in a car accident while choking on a pill that is supposed to make me feel better.

This is the kind of crazy we're dealing with here, people.  I eventually found an extra-strength 5-hour energy drink in my purse and drank that so I wouldn't choke to death.  Then my purse fell off the seat, exposing the full bottle of water I had just gotten in town less than five minutes before this whole debacle. 

Now I am alive, which is good, not too worried about my esophagus, which is also good, but quite a bit wound up, which could be either good or bad.  I think we should all probably be thankful that my husband still refuses to let me have a blow torch.

Unwilling vegan

I am SO UPSET.

I ate this:

And then THIS happened:




















Then, I ate this:

Please see above picture of itchy red me.

I have almost died four times in the last two weeks.  I may be exaggerating a little.  But maybe not.  It's been bad.  Wtf, y'all, is this even legal??  I am on an all Pop Tart and coffee diet until further notice.

 

 

 

Conversation regarding blogging, drug use, and the importance of a good alias.

Initially I had decided not to tell my husband I was starting a blog.  But since we have an
open relationship (not that kind of open, ohmygod) I decided I had to.  Also, since I'm going to be talking (shit) about him frequently I guess it's only fair.

 

Gus:  A blog?  Cool.

 

Me:  Yeah, I thought I should tell you because some things are going to change around here.   I'm not going to have time for a lot of things.  Like cleaning the house and my real job.

 

Gus:  We'll hire someone.  (He's so supportive.)

 

Me:  Also, I may have to start doing drugs.  You know, so my life is more interesting.

 

Gus:  You're not going to use my name are you?

 

Me:  Yeah. But not your whole name.   Did you hear me say I'm going to have to get a habit?  For work.

 

Gus:  I want you to refer to me as Gus.

 

Me:  No, you are not a Gus.  Come up with something better.   Now, about the drugs.

 

Gus:  No.  Call me Gus. You can even explain that I'm not really a Gus.

 

Me:  No.

 

Gus:   Then I don't want to be in it.

 

Me:  Too bad.

 

Gus:  I'm killing you off in my book.