Malignant, Mysterious, Messy Monday

12,330 Days Alive

4 Hours Wasted Driving

2 Projects Restarted

2 Trips to the Post Office

1 Day Streak on Esperanto via Duolingo

0 Words Written for CampNaNoWriMo

Today sucked, for the most part. So let me talk about yesterday.

We met Baby Bubble yesterday!

Mal, he who was formerly referred to as Duckie but is now Mal because Mallard and I’m FUNNY LIKE THAT, and I had a blast talking Garden planning in his back yard.

And Steph got to hold Baby Bubble practically till her arm fell off.

Such a sweet baby.

And Bubbles kept me company while I made a frittata, over cooked some bacon to perfection, and talked Mal through making some orange and yogurt parfait!

So. This last picture. Can I tell you how much it took me not to crop out my fatness? Especially after what happened today. It took a lot. But there’s all of me. Ain’t I lovely?

So, amid the failed passport appointment, the lab visit where it took three sticks to get me to bleed and now I’m a gorram walking bruise, and seeing DeeCee, I went to the good ole WalMart. Like you do when you need to get bloodwork done and there’s a diagnostic place inside.


Me: Walking into Walmart. I’m wearing shorts today. Makeup. Feel cute but definitely not hiding my fatness with cleverly cut clothing. Minding my own damn business.

Them: Some trio of dip-swilling fuckwhistles with a rebel flag emblazoned on their rear cab window of their too-clean, insecure in their masculinity dark blue, nonsensically lifted pickup-truck driving. Said wanna-be tractor driving, 4H failed, pissant faux-ass-rednecks start hollering out of said fairly useless on actual off-road pickup truck.

Highlights of their little trio include “I’d smash that thunder thighs!”, “Hey, piggie piggie,” and mooing/oinking at me whilst whooping like they’d made it nine seconds on a gorram bronco without an anchor rope.

I was having a shitty morning. Normally, that shit rolls off. This time… welll. I hell-shrieked like a fucking banshee from the ninth circle itself that I hope their dicks fall off from fucking their sheep. I might have said inflatable sheep? Don’t recall.

They tore off like I shot their Timberlands with goat shit pellets or something.

Bonus, the old Viet-vet parked in handicapped said “That was fucking beautiful,” when he stopped wheeze-laughing. His name was Curt. He gave me a crinkled, $5 to buy myself some chocolate because, apparently, dealing with “limp pricks” like that means I need to get myself some chocolate. I basically met the one and a half legged, American veteran, octogenarian version of Remus Lupin.

So it could have been worse. But man did it piss me off.

I have been… productive ish today? Not bad for a day off.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

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