If you are so concerned with hygience and need a very thin piece of paper between your ass and the toilet seat when you go to the bathroom, then why don't you dispose of it afterwards? I can't fathom the mentality of somebody who has this "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" thing going on and can't even fucking piss without making sure that a sterile toilet seat cover is safely wedged between her and the bog.
But then you lose yourself don't you? Then you become all "crack ho mom of six - who gives a shit?" and leave it there for somebody else to find. Newsflash: you love your ass so much you wouldn't dare to put it on a strange toilet seat. But I don't ok, so I don't need the remnants of whatever you did in the stall before me, still in there when I go in.
Explain that to me. I don't get it. But before you explain it to me, just pick that shit up and flush it or dispose of it or whatever the hell you want with it, but stop leaving it on the toilet seat for people like me to find.
Your self appointed Royal Ass, is a total pain in MY ass.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Does My Ass Look Fat In this Ass?
Are you a woman who is overcoming depression by taking prescribed medication? I can recommend several therapies that don’t require any drugs that can really help. Exercise, beautiful scenery, being at one with nature, being on the receiving end of a random act of kindness. But I cannot fathom how shopping for a new pair of jeans will do anything other than send you spiraling back down into that deep dark chasm from which you have spent months climbing, often with only the use of your own nails as leverage.
I mention this because as I lay about the other night eating bon bons in my fluffly slippers, watching TV, there was an ad for Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.
Yes, it probably can. But not shopping for a pair of fucking skinny jeans. First we see this wretched looking woman, a single tear falls slowly from her tired looking eye, the strain of her melancholy clearly visible in the bags under her eyes and the faraway look of helplessness on her face. THEN she takes Cymbalta. Et voila! She’s in a boutique smiling as she picks out a pair of jeans. Damn! If that’s what happens after you take Cymbalta we should all bloody well be on it!
Last time I went shopping for a pair of jeans was about 6 months after the birth of my second daughter. I got them from a shop where the sizing is really big, so if anybody asks I can say “my jeans are a size 4” and I make a point of this because if you check the label they are a size 4. But in an actual proper place, they are probably a 6. Alright, an 8. But they are not a 10 ok, so back off. Plus I have 3 kids!!! Oh, sorry, I thought you were attacking me and judging me and thinking how fat my ass was. It’s not by the way. Just check my jeans.
Anyway, my point is this. Don’t try and get me to think that the idea of happiness and life after depression is buying jeans. It isn’t. In fact for most women nothing is more fear inducingly depressing than buying jeans.
Oh wow. Now I get it. Sneaky. Buy the jeans. Get depressed. Take Cymbalta.
Aren’t pharmaceutical marketers just so clever!
I mention this because as I lay about the other night eating bon bons in my fluffly slippers, watching TV, there was an ad for Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.
Yes, it probably can. But not shopping for a pair of fucking skinny jeans. First we see this wretched looking woman, a single tear falls slowly from her tired looking eye, the strain of her melancholy clearly visible in the bags under her eyes and the faraway look of helplessness on her face. THEN she takes Cymbalta. Et voila! She’s in a boutique smiling as she picks out a pair of jeans. Damn! If that’s what happens after you take Cymbalta we should all bloody well be on it!
Last time I went shopping for a pair of jeans was about 6 months after the birth of my second daughter. I got them from a shop where the sizing is really big, so if anybody asks I can say “my jeans are a size 4” and I make a point of this because if you check the label they are a size 4. But in an actual proper place, they are probably a 6. Alright, an 8. But they are not a 10 ok, so back off. Plus I have 3 kids!!! Oh, sorry, I thought you were attacking me and judging me and thinking how fat my ass was. It’s not by the way. Just check my jeans.
Anyway, my point is this. Don’t try and get me to think that the idea of happiness and life after depression is buying jeans. It isn’t. In fact for most women nothing is more fear inducingly depressing than buying jeans.
Oh wow. Now I get it. Sneaky. Buy the jeans. Get depressed. Take Cymbalta.
Aren’t pharmaceutical marketers just so clever!
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