I have been lacking so much in this blog, that it is near criminal.

I love writing. I love blogging. So why have I put this as well as other numerous things that I love to do, on the fucking backburner?
Specificially this year?

Because, to be honest, my marriage is failing.

There. I said it.

And when one’s marriage is failing, and falling, and pieces are flying, and children are involved, you tend to let things slip away. Including your blogs, and your videos, and your writing, and your enjoyment and your joy and your pieces and parts of everyday life.

This year has sucked. Pretty damn bad. I haven’t had such a shit year, in soooo very long. I should be thankful, but as we all know, when it rains, it pours and I don’t mean a storm of cleaning rain- I mean a storm of shit.
Pretty visual- eh?

I will spare the details. I will spare the insane amount of time that this has gone on. I will spare all that stupid woe is me bullshit.

But I refuse to spare myself anymore. I have to do what I have to do. I Have to go on. And I have to enjoy life again.

I am not going anywhere, I will never let who I am, slip away anymore.

I am angry right now.

I had to let go of someone who was once close to me last night.

I had to say good bye. As if I were on my deathbed.

I had to let it all go into the wind. 24 years of a friendship that was started in a little school yard in 1981.

I once had this friend, she and I were inseparable. We went through years of being children of addicts. We were each others support when our parent’s were going through binges of drugs or alcohol. We were each others touchstones no matter how hard it seemed.

She even introduced me to my husband. She knew he was the perfect person for me. That’s how close we were. We could finish each others sentences. Pick up each other’s step in a heartbeat.

She is now an addict. She is now lost. And me? Well, little ol’ me has tried to pick up the pieces of what I thought was the puzzle to the schoolyard picture, and I have tried diligently over years and years to put it all back together. Last night, I gave up.

I had to let her go. I wrote her a goodbye letter that was worthy of a “spilling your guts and letting it all out” award.

Will she reply? I have no idea. I have decided if she calls not to pick it up. If she writes not to open it, and if she emails me I have her blocked.

She has thrown my frienship around like trash. Disappearing and reappearing back and forth over time. I can’t do that anymore. Within two days of her trying to enter my life again, I felt drained, sick, and just not myself. She is not that worthy.

So, like I said to my husband, I could have written her “Abba dabba ooga booga, meet me at fuckensteins castle, where we will unleash the purple fur twats…” and she would read it the same fucking way as what I wrote originally. Because she is that lost. She won’t get it.

But, I get it. And that letter was written for ME. For closure. For my own fucking good and no other reason.

I can’t help but think of being in that schoolyard 24 years ago, and how a lifetime of having her in my life would end up so sadly.

I have to literally leave in like 4 minutes to get my daughter.
To slide across a field of sleet and snow and fetch my youngen from school. Wee. I am so excited.

Anyhow, I must tell you that I do not recommend looking at victims of the tsunami. Please do not be as FUCKING RETARDED AS I AM, and become curious and click on that ever forbidden link posted on Flickr. Because when you do, you will see how fucking insanely wicked Mother Nature can be.

And you will have nightmares.

Bad mother fucking nightmares. Of bloated zombies. At the foot of your bed. Looking at you. No words spoken. Just looking.

Scary, huh?

Yea, I know. I am SO FUCKING STUPID.

Also, when a disaster of HUMUNGOUS PROPORTIONS happens and you are 3 months post partum, I recommend not READING ABOUT IT. Because it will trigger depression deeper than you can imagine.

Ok… more on my retardedness when I come back and IF I get a chance to go online, because my children eat my time up until I collapse.

The bummer entry…
That last entry was probably one that I should have kept to myself. But it was bugging me.
I got it off my chest and I feel better.

Things like that get to me from time to time. I guess her going to the store I had been in before and buying her one month old some formula and getting killed because of being in the wrong place at the wrong time got to me. It was formula by the way, not a gallon of milk like they mistakingly said. Her mother was interviewed and said it was baby formula. For her one month old.

There is a bank fund set up for her babies. I might send them twenty bucks. I actually WILL send it to them.

Enough. I can’t talk about this anymore.

____________________________________________________

Baffled Pot Liquor…

I am sitting here baffled. Baffled by my fucking pot head neighbors.
Actually, baffled and PISSED.

I was sitting here, on the computer, balancing baby on my lap, bottle, and computer mouse, and I smelled POT. I thought I was losing it. But then I remember last week I smelled POT. Also while sitting here. And if I remember correctly, I smelled it and then felt HIGH after smelling it, but thought it was my pain killers.

So…. tonight, I smelled it again. But hubby was up. So I asked him “come here… you smell that?” I said “that” because if he said “what’s that?” then I would know that it was me, and not POT. So he goes “FUCK YEA, I smell WEED.” I was all like “I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT!” and I jumped up and covered the baby’s ears for some retarded reason, like as if covering his ears would protect him from getting CONTACT HIGH.

So he smells the heat vent. And he goes “OH MY FUCKING GOD! It’s all up in here! SHIT!”
I was laughing, I dunno if it was from the “all up in here” comment or from CONTACT HIGH. But he got pissed real quick and went upstairs.
Then I was all “oh shit.”

See… my neighbors, upstairs, even though they are in their mid forties and have two SMALL CHILDREN ages 2 and 8 that live there also, they are fucking pot heads and alchies. They keep to themselves, unless the wife is on a drunken high and smashing vases against the husband’s head. But, alas, we ignore that, if we can.

The husband is a huge pot head. He giggles a lot and is often seen with Frito’s in his hand. Bagged or just gathered in a bunch.

So, we figured, good old Ray was smoking himself a bong, or bowl, or was sitting in front of a machine that was blowing it at his face or ass or something. And for some fucking reason, it was going into the registers and being transported from their apartment through the vents and into our dining room heat vent. Not cool, man. No, not cool.

So Keith goes up there and confronts him. The second time while we have lived here, the first time being that we smelled it from the front PORCH in the summer and asked him to please try not to smoke a whole fucking BUSHEL if he could, or if he could, to please cover the front of the door with a fucking TOWEL? AT LEAST? YA THINK?

So, I guess Rayray the fucktard gets kinda pissy, but is nice to Keith about it all, and they both smell his vent. I try not to picture two men bending over smelling vents, because it makes me giggle. Must be the CONTACT HIGH.

They figured what happened was what I said, that it went through the vents and circulated into our apartment, or what the fuck ever. Ray said he would smoke elsewhere in the house, or would blow it out the window. Keith told him he doesn’t care, he just doesn’t want the shit being blown in our faces, “we have kids, ya know, we don’t want them inhaling this shit. just like we don’t smoke and impose it on other people in their homes, I don’t expect it to be shoved at us.”

Thanks baby, for being nice. But you should have been meaner, like me.

‘Cause lemme tell ya this, I thought I heard the neighbor lady “drunken whore” come home from work and say something like “its our house! shit!” or something to that degree when she was coming in down the hall to her place, probably when the husband told her Keith went up there to confront his bong ass blowing machine.

Listen here bitch, its not just your house, it’s a two family house, and we- unlike you- have decided that pot and drugs and drinking are days of the past. Selfish twenties. Over. Done with. Along came kids and responsibility, along came decisions not to be drunken pot heads that fuck all day long.
As I was saying unlike you, we have chosen to lead lives that we would like our CHILDREN to follow.

*takes breath*

And also, if you EVER come knocking on my door, with that funky assed attitude about why we are invading your privacy, I will knock your crotched face ass so far into next week it ain’t funny.

I am from the ghetto, wench. I am out of it, but it still lives inside, and when someone pisses off this bitch, I fight. It runs in my blood. And it boils when people like YOU and Rayray the smokey ass piss me off.

Enough said. I have rambled on enough. I think it was the CONTACT HIGH that made me RAMBLE.

** EDIT***
I will also point out, not to FUCK with me, cause my best friend’s husband is a COP. (don’t smack me Trini, please).