And You Think I'M the Bitch?

I can't tell you how many people I've become friends with and they later have said, "When I first met you, I thought you were such a BITCH!!"

Why do people say stuff like that?

And why does everyone think I'm a bitch?

I'm like the nicest person EVER.  Ok, maybe not EVER, but I'm pretty nice. 

Well this weekend I got quite the doozy over the bitch comment.  First of all, I was at a party sponsored by Hubs's company.  Everyone was shit canned, over the top, ridiculously D-R-U-N-K.  Except me, of course, and Hubs because he is awesome.  So of course everyone was like, "Oh, what's wrong?" "Why are you so mad?"  "Why aren't you smiling?"  "Let me get you a DRINK!"  "You're taking a SHOT!  I don't care if you say NO."  (Notice how nobody was telling me how much they love me because I am a bitch.)

Anyway, this one guys says to me, "I'm a gonna tell you thisssssssss, but I'mmmm onlyyyyyy telling you this cuz I'm da-runk!  When I first metttttttttt you, I thoughttttt that you think you are bettttttter than me because you're upppppppper classssss and I'm nottttttt."

Um, fuckingexcuseme drunk dick?

First of all, I'm so far from upper class that it hurts a little.  And second of all, just because I'm not all "Hi!  Your outfit is cute and I love your hair!"  doesn't mean that I am a huge snobby bitch.  I'm just quiet when I first meet people.

I hope he woke up with a big fat hangover and felt like the world's biggest douche.

I'd better not... I have what doctors call a little bit of an "anxiety problem."

I get anxious.

A lot.

Not like worried that I'm going to be late for an appointment, but that I'm going to crash my car into the cement side wall on the way, killing 7 and injuring myself.  Then I picture the funerals and what I would do or say and how I would defend myself at an involuntary manslaughter trial.

These irrational, illogical thoughts occupy my mind every day.  Especially when I try to go to sleep at night.  That's when the really fucked up thinking happens.  It involves death and rape and destruction of myself and my family. 

Then I get up to check the locks.  One. More. Time.

I finally decided to talk to my doctor about it because it would be really nice not to worry about getting raped in my bed as I'm falling asleep at night.  Only my regular lady parts doctor couldn't see me for weeks, so I decided to call a family practice clinic near my house.  I've never been to this clinic.  Clearly, they have issues with people showing up and asking them for hard core fucking narcotics and xan.ax or something.

They really thought I was just trying to get drugs out of them.

It ended with the doctor giving me a prescription for an anti-depressant and a card for a clinical psychologist.

Bitch.

I guess I am crazy.  Add 1 more reason to the list of why I should start using illegal drugs.

Randoms

Some days at about 10:30 pm, like right now, I. Am. Done.

With the day.  I can't stand anyone talking to me.  I can't stand my child throwing fits or whining about going to bed.  All I want to do is sit on the couch, watch The Office and drink a beer or two.  Everyone else can just go to hell at that point.  God bless you Michael Scott and the whole nine Nards.

Next, in the last month or so, I have heard 3 different ladies talk about having orgasms in their sleep.  Fuckingexcuseme?  How is that even possible and how do I sign up for that?  Lucky bitches.  (Shakes fist at Mother Nature.)

Finally, it's ICLW time again and I am glad you made it over to my blog.  I have only been at this for a few months (blogging, not humping profusely for spawn.)  If you'd like to check out my first ICLW post, click here.  It's way more entertaining than this random post.

I'll Give YOU a Tip

There's a frozen yogurt place by my house.  It's delightful.  You pick your yogurt, fill your cup yourself and then add as many toppings as you like.  My favorite is original tangy yogurt with heath bar and strawberries.  My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

So, YOU get your own yogurt, YOU add the toppings, and YOU take it to the scale at the cash register.  Then THEY make you give them money for it.  Fine, whatever.  Nice customer service but at least I can add as much delicious buttery toffee as I want to, right?  But then, right there on the counter....

is a TIP jar.

Um, fuckingexcuseme???  I do all the work and I'm supposed to give you a god damn tip?  Where in anyone's any size, any logic, any anything brain does that make a lick of sense?  (I said lick.)  I think THEY should give ME a tip just for doing all their work for them and paying them $5.