I walk in the door from a 6km run and, naturally, the first thing I do is check my phone. I’ve got about 4 messages from my mother alone, and I’m thinking something is wrong.

…

Boy is it ever wrong:

Marie: have you ever waited for a chipmunk to get our from behind your stove?

Marie: Tom Thumb (her cat) chased him through the open door while Elmo (her…other cat) was waiting to come in!!!

Marie: Waited 30m now.

Marie: Thanks for coming to see us on Mother’s Day and thanks for supper. It is so nice to spend time with you.

You can’t write this shit people. This is real life.

<3 you, Mom.

Ps. 85% of photos of my mother are of her bending over. And that is Elmo. Gardening with her. On Smother’s Day.

whatshouldwecallme:

(Source: realitytvgifs)

And it’s an actual diagnosable mental disorder! Gooooo me! All the people out there that go “oooh Annie, you’re so lucky to be NORMAL” can suck a dick. It’s real, yo. It comes from the =streets=.

That’s a lie. It doesn’t come from the streets. It comes from your lungs and exits through your mashing lips. It manifests itself in the form or wheezing breaths, cutlery clinking on teeth, and smacking mouths.

It basically ruins the chance of you and I ever eating dinner alone together in silence.

I’ll stab your heart out with a butter knife about ten minutes in.

Misophonia, meaning “hatred of sound” is a form of decreased sound tolerance. Which means that the simple sounds of people eating, breathing, coughing or some repetitive noises can annoy the shit out of someone with misophonia or, if you’re me, cause them to whip into a rage fueled outburst.

I can’t help it. And it probably comes from growing up with a dad with a deviated septum that had to breathe through his mouth while he ate. Welcome to my only Daddy Issue.

This is why I like going out to bars, restaurants, or anywhere with so much noise that it drowns you out. It’s not that I don’t love you or enjoy your company. It’s just that if I hear you smack your lips one more time or scrape your fork on your teeth, I’m going to launch into a berserker rage and She-Hulk down the streets into the night.

Ps, guys, don’t do a She Hulk image search if you’re not up for all the naughty green bits. But that’s for another post.

I used to be an online date-er, and I’m not ashamed of it. There are still, remarkably, people out there that want to make people feel shitty and desperate for using dating sites to find a lady, a boy, a lady-boy, etc. Why? I have met men in every imaginable way. Passing on the street, out for drinks with friends, at the coffee shop, at work, at the library, from a class, through a friend of a friend. There is no sure-fire way to meet your match. I’ve met as many idiots and losers in person as I have online. There is only one universal truth: people are fucking crazy.

So I’m at work, trying to look busy because my brain is slowing slipping out of my ear and onto the ground, and I decided to have a gander at ye olde dating profile. It says I’m “seeing someone,” because I couldn’t let this magnet for comic gold go.

This is one of the many messages I received today from a man that has been having a conversation with my dating profile over the last few months (I have never responded):

Beautiful girl…

Roses are red,
Sentiments are felt,
Words are read,
Eyes can’t lie.

I’m saying I think we would click,
You’re a hot chick,
I have a hard ____,

LOL… I couldn’t resist,
Life isn’t so fisted,
Let me get you off this OK Cupid list.

Call me… I want us to get to know each other better.
Happy Valentines annie … Beautiful girl.

WHAT THE FUCK.

Especially at work. Bear witness to my work emails:

Me: I’m such a noob.

Her: You are so not a noob! You are a doorway!

Me:You’re so good to me.

Her: That’s because I want to get into your pants/skirt/dress… whatever you are wearing…lol

Me: Get in line, sister.

Her: Yyyyooo I’m the baddest B***h in town. I don’t line up—I just cut in line and steal what I want.

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted. Why? I don’t know, because I’m busy and important, that’s why.

Okay, maybe it’s less that and more that I got a new job at the beginning of September and am now terrified of being jobless and penniless and homeless with Gladys, so I’ve been busting my ass from day one. Trying to make myself indispensable so that should the day come that belts need to be tightened, that hopefully they won’t be able to survive as a company without me, the most integral cog.

Wishful thinking, I know, just let me fucking have it.

So I’ve been too busy doing everything for everyone, saying yes to everything, no to nothing, in addition to, you know, the rest of the shit that comprises the angry every day life of moi.

Just to bring you up to speed; I’m angry, I hate most of you, I’ll verbally spar with old ladies, I’ll be the first to jump in and stand up for a stranger, I like cock, I hate boys, I cook and don’t clean, and I like good deal but will never ask for a discount to be applied when it isn’t and already should be.

read this and you’ll feel better about your day to day lives, and find solace in the fact that my blood pressure is higher than yours and I’ll be dead by the time I’m 35.

It’s here, and right on time. Fall. Schoolbooks packed into bags, lunches made and forgotten on tables, arms and legs saying their goodbyes to summer sun. When the air begins to lighten, and our breath begins to show, our thoughts turn to sweaters, family dinners and cool, dark nights.

In recent years, Fall, for me, has become less sweaters and more loss. It’s impossible to ignore the presence of death when it becomes the soundtrack of your life in the form of crunching leaves. These last few years have brought me a wealth of sadness at this time of year. From family spats to the death of a beloved grandfather and of an unlikely friend, this season makes my heart ache more than Christmas ever could. When everything signals the end, how could I ever turn my thoughts to anything else?

The quiet death of summer brings Fall colours into life, and all I see are the dark and empty spaces where people should be. And, well, if we’re being honest, we all know those are spaces can never be occupied by anyone else; they’ve been indefinitely reserved, some of the best seats in the house.

The anniversary of some great loss is never something you want to celebrate. Who wants to remember the day they lost their iPod? Who wants to remember their family’s last meal together? Who wants to remember the day the music died? The day he died? Or she died? I am an angry person, we all know this to be true. But I am, unfortunately, a ridiculously sensitive artiste that can’t get over the injustice of it all.

My feelings are embodied by a season and I can’t escape that. A family left in shambles. Two people wiped from the Earth, but not from my memories, a year and five days apart. And yet, on I go, saying and doing all my silly things. I have to, right? What else is there to do? The damage has been done, but there are people left behind still to love. And love them I’ve got to because that is what keeps me sane and that is what will see me through, one day to the next.

I miss you. I miss you both. And you make me ugly cry all the fucking time.