Bad Press

Apparently I have an Un Fan- below is a comment received on my last post:

you're fucking bonkers. please buy a journal...and see a therapist who specializes in personality disorders... your sniveling is more than obnoxious, it's revolting. and yet you seem amused by yourself. a true narcissist. pathetic. do your poor child a favor and get help fast.

Being the narccissist that I have been acused of being here is how I am going to take the negativitity thrown at me.  When I see a commercial for Victoria's Secret- ones where the models are 6ft tall weigh 100 lbs and have DD bra sizes and softball size asses I say " She isn't even pretty".  When I watch the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and see women with 8 houses, no jobs and 4 nannies I say "I wouldn't even want all that money".  When someone tells me that their child has slept through the night since birth, was potty trained at 18 months and has never said a bad word- I immediatly assume that the parent is a delusional psycopath and that the child will end up in juvie by their 16th b-day.  I am not proud of these thoughts.  I know that I make them because it makes me feel better to think that no one can be perfectly beautiful, happily rich, or have done everything right in the parenting department.  My "hater" has a hard time with my honesty.  My "hater" apparently can't stand my writing, my humor or my ability to poke fun at myself.  My "hater" should stop reading my blog because I am not a narcissist, nor am I pathetic and my child loves his Mamma.  What I am is honestly just a funny bitch with a talent for writing :-) If I do say so myself!

Worry worry worry

I worry.  I worry that blogging about my worrying might scare people off.  I worry that you think I am talking about you, as in you think I'm worried about scarring you off.  I wake up in the morning and worry that all the drinking I did the night before is going to make it impossible for me to fit into any of my clothes.  I worry that my butt looks big and my hair looks flat.  I wish that I could flatten my butt and fatten my hair.  I worry when you don't call that you are dead.  Then I worry that you are alive and that you don't want to talk to me.  Then I worry that you are dead but that before you died you decided that you didn't want to talk to me.  I worry that I drink too much- then because I'm worried I drink.  I worry that someone is in the woods behind my house watching me.  I worry that they see me naked and then decide to stalk someone else.  I worry that Red Bull will give me cancer.  The worrying makes me tired.  So I get a red bull. Then I worry. I worry that this is the only life I got.  Then I worry that I am wasting too much time of it worrying.  I worry that I am finally going to be in a place where I am perfectly happy- like Folgers commercial happy and that then the World will be hit with a meteor and I will have only been Folgers commercial happy for a day.  Then I worry that I am out of coffee.  I worry that I may say the wrong thing.  I am currently worried that I am self destructive, needy and that my shoes don't match my outfit.  I'm worried that by saying that, you are going to think that I am self destructive, needy and that my shoes don't match my outfit.  I worry that I am not worrying enough about the important things- Like I should worry more about my credit score and selling my house but I don't have time to worry about that because I am worried about what I am going to wear on March 5th to a fancy party.  I worry that I sound shallow- I worry that I am shallow.  I worry that you think that I am shallow because you are right- I am shallow.  I worry that you didn't see my shallowness before and that I have now shown you my shallow light.  I worry that you think I am fabulous and that now I have to stay fabulous.  I worry that I can't possibly stay this fabulous for long.  I worry that talking about my fabulous-ness has reiterated your thoughts about my shallowness. I worry that I have no catchy way to end this blog.  I worry that I should have ended it sooner.