Ugh, whatever.

Today I littered. I smoked a cigarette in my car, and I flicked the butt out of my window. This is something I normally do not do. But I've had a stressful week so far. What with my boss in the magically magical land where dreams come true and where you poop out M&M's, often called Disney World. AND my neighbors below me hate me because my son runs around "Like a wild animal" and because he is SO LOUD and OBNOXIOUS, her stupid mini douche of a dog "cannot sleep because she mistakes the loud thumps for thunder, and it's JUST NOT FAIR." Whatever.

So I littered, big deal, eh? YES, IT WAS A BIG DEAL BECAUSE I ALMOST MURDERED A MAN ON A MOTORCYCLE. Only during mid-flick did I realize he was behind me. Thankfully, however, he had on a helmet with a cleverly attached flicked-cigarette butt shield. Or whatever. What if the butt scared him enough to drive him off the road into a firey death? He got even, with his middle finger and a mean mug.

On a happier note... I get to see him soon. And if you could see my face right now, you'd see me smiling. And a large blemish on my lip which slightly resembles herpes. Because whenever I get a pimple, it always conveniently ends up on my lip.

i got nothin'

The apartments I live in are super nice. Imitation marble counter tops, fake wood floors, tiny appliances, and cops chasing teenage kids around with their guns drawn. Really, it's a great place for me to raise my son.

I think it's time I break my lease. Actually, these apartments are pretty nice for the price I pay. But the people who have slowly moved in, truck load by truck load, are not so nice. How can I sleep at night when the neighbors above me are fighting, and the neighbors beside me are constantly having sex. It better be glorifying orgasmic sex, because it keeps me up at night. The sound of nuts slapping against someone's ass isn't exactly soothing.

The other day, my dad and I were sitting on my balcony drinking a cup of coffee when we see this 17 or 18 year old kid hauling ass across the lawn. "Damn! That kid can run fast!" says my dad. 3 seconds later, 2 cops with their guns out go sprinting after him. Good. So I live in the clean ghetto. Cause, y'know, these apartments are still brand new.

Can I ever catch a break? Probably not.

I have writers block, so I'm going to stop writing now. That makes sense. I'll be back shortly, don't give up on me just yet.

Oh, wow.

This is another Google Analytics post. I wanted to come up with something witty to say to each of these, but I can't. Because you people are fucking CRAZY. One might say I am crazy myself because I write about this stuff and if I didn't write about it, people wouldn't find me through google. But I write about it all in good fun. For all I know, these people googling poop and pubes and HOW TO POOP A LOT are serious in their googling expeditions.

1. how to poop a lot brought me 4 visitors.
2. "join the army" "dentures" brought me 8 visitors. (Really? Really.)
3. pube talk brought me 2 visitors.
4. cant hardly wait to fuck as soon as my period is over brought me 1 visitor. (what IN THE FUCK could you possibly hope to find googling this?)
5. drink so you cant feel your feelings brought me 2 visitors.
6. for some reason i never have to poop brought me 1 visitor.
7. is it bad if you poop alot brought me 1 visior.
8. jason needs to poop and cant get out of shower brought me an astonishing 7 visitors.
9. poop blog brought me 1 visitor. (This one disappoints me a little.)
10. This one is my favorite: business woman brought me 1 visitor. (Y'know, cause I'm a fucking professional. What!)

This might be the last post EVER about poop and pubes. It's just getting to be to much. It's RUNNING MY LIFE.

My head hurts.

I've been going back and forth on this for a while. I've been stuck between a rock and a hard place, so to speak. I have been for a while now, and it's tearing me apart, limb to limb, navel to nose. I am depressed. I think you know this. I think I know this. It isn't like I haven't publicly come out and said this before, but before, I had something to blame it on. But the farther away from my marriage I get, the more I realize that this shitty feeling I have in the pit of my insides doesn't come from James or my marriage all together. Because when I see James, it's like nothing had ever happened between us. We're good friends. We get along, we laugh, we drink, we say bye. There is no lingering feeling of love there, because it feels as if there never was any love between us. It feels like if someone were to ask James if he loved me, he would say "Georgette? What? She is awesome. But I could never love her." and vice versa.

I couldn't be more satisfied with my relationship with my ex. So satisfied, that I honestly never think about it other than when I blog.

It isn't a depression that leaves me pale and crazy. I don't sit around with a feverishly sad look on my face. I interact, I laugh, I eat healthy foods, I smile, and for the most part, I mean it. I don't know what it is. Now would be a good time to see someone for the sake of my mental health. Just another sacrifice I make so my son can have his Yoo-Hoo and Spaghetti-o's.

Turns out, I should be jobless.

Being an insurance agent is probably the last thing I actually wanted to become. I don't find talking over coffee about coverages and perils very interesting. Id rather chat about boobs and where the cheapest weed is at. But no, I have to be pleasant, and present myself as a business woman who knows how to sell an ice cube to an Eskimo.

But then I think about what Id actually be doing if I wasn't an insurance agent. Seriously. What in the fuck would I be doing? I never actually have ever given this any thought. Before my insurance job, I was a stay-at-home-mom. Before that, I was in the Army getting pregnant and married (aka being All That I Can Be.) And before that I was smoking pot and listening to Sublime and shit. I guess you can call me the jack of all trades.

But since the age of 9 or 10 (which is right around the time that I found out that being the manager of McDonalds does not entitle me to all of the happy meal toys EVER) I've always wanted to be on ESPN. But only during football season because that's the only sport I really like. (Go vikes, whattup! Favre and Peterson could possibly be the deadliest combination. I'm just sayin'.)

So that job choice is out the window. What else could I possibly do? Any ideas? I mean, aside from giving a mean blow job, and being able to drink tequila all night without puking, I have no real talents.

Oh wait, I can also blog about stupid shit that makes me sound like the worst person ever.

I'm not really that great at giving head. But I'm decent. Whatever.

...poop too. I blog about poop a lot too.

It was just one of those days again. It feels like the days where I am happy are few and far between, and really, I am cool with that. Things could be worse.

But I don't know what I would consider worse. Leaving my cigarettes at home when I leave for work is pretty bad. My son throwing a matchbox car off my balcony and it railing someone in the face, that's pretty bad too. (Which actually happened before, and I almost pissed myself from laughing so hard.) Sitting in front of a client and having to take the biggest shit of my life? That, I think, is the worst thing that could happen to me right now. And it did happen. Yesterday, actually.

Why that always happens to me, I do not know. For some reason, I never have to take a "Oh my fucking Lord I am going to pass out" shit unless I am in a situation that absolutely forbids taking 5 minutes to drop the browns off at the super bowl.

A client was at my desk looking to purchase an auto policy, which was eventually purchased, but not until after they witnessed me having a heart attack in my butt hole. Which is always cool, y'know, 'cause you try to make it seem like everything is fine, like you're not about to shit all over yourself. But when you start to sweat bullets in an office that is set at 69 degrees fahrenheit, and your skin turns a lovely pale yellow, I'm pretty sure they notice. Like "Jesus, this girl looks like she is about to fucking kick the bucket." And as much as I wanted to say "Look, I have to poo. BRB", I can't, because I'm sure Id get fired, or they'd demote me to the window cleaner or some shit. This is what I get for drinking 4 cups of coffee and smoking 8 cigarettes back to back. Or God hates me. Or maybe I have IBS. I don't know. But me and my booty hole are in a fight right now. We're mad at each other.

I can't imagine how disgusting you all probably think I am. But whatever. EVERYONE POOPS.

I know, I blog about pubes a lot.

UPDATE: Pubic hair is taking over my life. I had a dream last night that someone tried selling me a throw rug made of pubes. I'm literally gagging.

Apparently, I am the spokeswoman for Rogaine for pubes. Just ask Google analytics. I mean, I don't even know what is trendy anymore when it comes to pubic hair. I like when a dude keeps it trimmed and whatever, but as for women? I don't know. Id like some feedback on this. I get my shit waxed, but sometimes it can become pricey, and it's pretty painful. And I really hate having to tell someone "Hey, look, I gotta get going. I'm gettin' my pubes waxed." And shaving? That fucking sucks, too. I get razor burn from hell, and by the time I am finished, my twat looks like a bloody mess. And I am NOT spending 40 dollars for a tiny bottle of fucking pussy cream that supposedly prevents razor burn.

Plus, whenever I am expecting to get laid, I shave, and I don't even get to 1st base. Then, when I am totally not expecting to get laid, I'm all spikey down there, and I'll be so close to doing the McNasty, but then I remember that I've got a porcupine in my pants and I have to book it.

I'm just having a terrible day. And my fucking pubic hair is not helping. Fuck pubes, man.