TauntSociety

The office renovations are complete.  Mostly anyways.  Data?  Done.  Voice?  Done.  Demo?  Done.  Expansion?  Done.  Office moves?  Done.

Saturday was the big move and I gotta say I almost had fun.  They sent me a crew of 6 20-somethings all covered with tats and these kids were fucking hilarious.  I almost went tinkle on more than one occassion I was laughing so hard.

When everything was done, when everyone had gone, I bent down gently to pick up an empty trash can and it happened.

RIP.

Note to self:  Not 20 anymore, can’t pack/move/unpack boxes and equipment for two weeks and not get some kind of life stomp.  So I got my life stomp.  Back’s all fucked up making me limpin’bout like I’m closer to 70 than to 40.  I could use one of them walkers with the tennis balls on the front and a hook for my purse.

So I go get a massage and since my boy Brennan moved a couple weeks ago, I was recommended to Frank.  Now I’ve had problems with motherfuckers giving butterfly kisses instead of deep tissue massages.  I try to tell them, I can handle it, you aint gonna hurt me.

Frank?  Frank hurt me.  I whimpered and tears flowed from my eyes.  My nose ran and drool licked to the outside of my mouth and joined my tears on the floor.

I should have given him a safety word, although it would have been of no benefit.  I was unable to speak, to scream, to breathe.

I am wondering if he was sent from the bowels of hell, from the devil himself, to kill me.  How much was the contract on my mobility worth?

I don’t whimper.  I got tattoos covering me the size of Arkansas and I didn’t whimper.

Well, I guess I didn’t used to whimper, ‘coz I do now.

I whimper when I get up to pee.  I whimper when I I roll on my side.  I whimper when I stretch the heating pad.

So, needless to say, someone can unpack their own goddamned boxes today, I stayed home.

WHY do people wanna tell me all their fucking problems?  I had to tell someone today to seek medical attention.  OTHER THAN ME.

Okay, if you family or dear friend, you get a pass.  You earn the right to vent and go crazy with x-mas presents and bearing witness to many beer droppings.

If you do not fit into that ghost town of a group, please, for the love of all that is good in the world, please go fuck right off.

Work?  Oh, don’t get me started.  Except I need to get started just a wee bit.  Walls coming down, ceilings displaced, the smell of paint, the whir of sanders, the constant pissing and moaning about where they moving to, what they doing while they there, who gets to do this and who aint doing that.  Shit people, I aint got the answers to all life’s problems, I just work here.  I do what I’m told do ‘coz I’m old and domesticated with a freaking mortgage and dreams of retirement when I’m 82.

And we’re just getting started.  It’s gonna get worse before better.  I just hope that I can keep my big fat mouth shut long enough to weather the storm.  See above, hittin’ on that mortgage thing again.

*breathe in … breathe out … inhale … exhale*

Over here counting to 10

While I may not be able to define what IS sexy, I can surely attest to what IS NOT sexy.

Two suits in a min-van.

Yesterday I witness two gentlemen tearing ass through traffic, bobbing their heads, even complete with a gangsta lean.  However, the fact that they were driving a light blue minivan with those horrible fucking stick figures on the back glass sucked all the sexy right outta their asses.

Let me stop right here and say I hate those motherfucking stick figures breeders place on their vehicles.  Especially if it is accompanied with a cat or dog stick figure.  I see that shit in Target parking lots and I want to wait for the perpetrator to come outta the store so I can beat their ass like a screen door in a storm.

There is NOTHING, repeat, NOTHING sexy about a minivan.

A necessity?  Maybe so.

Sexy?  Absolutely not.  In no way, shape or form.

Suits are never sexy.

Well, unless they are on a motorcycle.

Or dispensing spankings.