The innocence of huge fucking knockers

Our friend insomnia brought me to a Pinterest page devoted to "bad" cosmetic surgery.

Now if you're going to hate, I feel like you owe it to the hate-ee to at least be fair, honest and specific.

"Bad" plastic surgery, first of all, is determined by the recipient, not the observer. If you don't like what you're seeing, turn your fucking neck or shut your face. It's that simple.

Now, about fairness. It is NOT fair to compare a Marie Osmond photo from 1977 and one from 2011 when she's three weeks out from a mini-lift or something and be all like, OMFG, her face is melting off her head. Ewwwww!!!!

NO. She's not 14 anymore, dummy. Can you do math? And here's a novel concept, the human body takes TIME to heal from any surgical procedure. Not only the cosmetic ones.

Despite the sexy name, cosmetic surgery does cause temporary swelling and bruising. The best a person can do is take care of themselves and let the body heal. It does take time. It can take a year or more to grow into a lifted face. F'real. I'm speaking from some bits of personal experience, k?

Honesty matters, even when you're being a snotface. If you dislike someone just because their lip injections look fierce and you're jealous, try not being jealous and see if that helps before slapping up an unflattering and/or OBVIOUSLY digitally manipulated image and perpetuate a falsehood of said photo being the result of "bad" plastic surgery. Use your damn brain. You have one, right?

Now, specifics. There are surgical mistakes, quackery, extremes, etc. Then there's bad makeup, bad light, unflattering haircuts; all manner of polishing one's look can go a-wonk sometimes.

If it is indeed a cosmetic surgery gone awry, fine, if you must 'call someone out' then say so. But if it's a shitty makeup job, don't call that surgery. Because, well, it isn't. Duh.

Lastly, the fact that a person feels the need to devote a rather full Pinterest page of random-ass, misinformation-filled comments and images of alleged 'bad' cosmetic surgery says FAR more about the Pinner than it does about my huge fucking knockers, which have done absolutely nothing bad to you, me or anyone else, for that matter. They're actually rather awesome pillows. But you'll never know because you deserve to sleep on a burlap sack full of rusty thumbtacks.

Wellbutrin Aggression

A few months, weeks, months, something ago, Mr. Buffie was chirping in my lobes that I'm emotional and bitchy even though I practically walk around with a Cymbalta drip.

Two, maybe three visits ago, I told the shrink he was on my case and she was like, fuck all, you don't seem as bad as you have been. Her mouth didn't say 'fuck all' but her eyes did. Cymbalta is a tricky med and she needed time to research a cocktail companion for it that wouldn't side-effect me into zombification or kill me with serotonin syndrome.

Welcome to Wellbutrin.

First few weeks, eh, don't really notice much. A bit more energy maybe. Definitely more manic, which I seriously don't like. But something new has cropped up. Wellbutrin aggression.

If all my family and friends were to make lists of the top 100 most aggressive people they knew, I don't think I'd make it onto a single person's list. That probably isn't the case so much these days.

I've always been a snot. Maybe even a brat. I'm an only child. That's what we do. It's who we are. What are parents going to do if there are no other kids around whose needs must be met? We onlys can hardly be blamed for it if we got all the things, all the attention, all the time.

Now if you're feeling sorry for Mr. Buffie, fucking stop it.

He knew immediately that I am a princess. How? I told him. I'm a princess. Oh, you want to date me? Well, jump through these flaming hoops first, prove you are employed, housed, vehicular'd and worthy, then I'll discuss it with my parents and consider it.

Snotty? Yes. Aggressive? Not even. More like matter-of-fact, simple, silly.

Lately though. Tonight for example, on the way home from some local Italian place that isn't going to last until Halloween, he told me that dad is thinking of upgrading his still practically new Mercedes. RAGE! I saw red. I actually screamed. Mr. B knew WHY I was mad but he couldn't figure out how I arrived at /that much/ mad.  (Daddy and I are close but our relationship, especially when it comes to money, is complicated.)

Next time I see my dad, he better hope he's not in anything newer than 2010 or made in Germany or I am going to beat him with a tire iron and take away his wallet.

And there's a dickhead in our neighborhood who has been severely butthurt for the past six months about the retiree across the road who parks his POS Suburban in the street because there's not enough room for it in his driveway between his boat trailer and his wife's little econocrap. And their garage is too full of old people crap for the boat trailer or the wife's car to fit in there.

What does dickhead do? He or she hoooonks every time they drive by. Morning, noon and night. It's a blue Ford Explorer. They drove by at 9:47 tonight.

You, whoever you are reading my shitty blog, anyway you know I have fibromyalgia which means I don't sleep well. And the retiree is a nice man who likes to go fishing at 4 a.m. but otherwise, he keeps to himself, doesn't hurt anyone. Next door to us is a quiet, young family with a special-needs toddler in addition to a baby. Across the street is a woman recovering from a heart attack. Across the corner street is an older, single woman who keeps her house and lawn perfect and doesn't bother a soul.

So Honking Dickhead is irritating all of us with this BULLSHIT because they have to move a few feet into the other lane to go around 4 a.m. Fisherman's Suburban?! IS IT REALLY THAT MUCH OF A PROBLEM, DICKHEAD? I don't think Fisherman is getting your point, either. Because you've been doing this for a long time now and let me look out the window... Hey, there's a big white Suburban right there, legally parked in the street. Current tags, operational, fully inflated tires and all.

Wellbutrin has had enough of the honking. Wellbutrin doesn't want them to honk anymore. Wellbutrin is just about to set up camp in the driveway and shoot out their motherfucking tires if I hear one more honk within 15 miles of this whole damn town. The scope on my .22 rifle is ridiculously accurate and the high-capacity magazine will give me more than enough opportunity to perforate that mostly-plastic SUV and if tires don't send the honker a message, maybe shooting out the glass will? Maybe I'll make myself a set of stop-sticks with some gutter nails and a nice piece of wood, painted black so they don't see it at 9:47 in the p.m.

Wellbutrin aggression is just getting warmed up. My middle finger has never been so busy. Shitty drivers, you are all STILL on blast, btw. After the uninsured wonder twins made short work of Sir Hiss and my truck last fall, I remain convinced Mr. Buffie and I are the only people in Kansas City with insured vehicles. I operate my car under the assumption that no one else on the road has it. If someone so much as sneezes near Ramon, Imma be on the evening news. "Crazed suburban fat woman was jailed today after using a very large purse to beat a man..."

Those are a few examples. I feel like I should try to sleep but frankly, I'm still kind of pissed off about the Italian restaurant (I told him it was a bad idea) and my dad's pending NEEDLESS vehicle upgrade and the honking, and the people whose driving was so terrible, I was a legit 10 minutes late to work this morning, my brain is a soup of irritability, I can't even...

If you're the honking asshole in the blue Ford Explorer, I joke about shooting at your car. As a responsible gun owner, I will only shoot at you if you try to break into my house or try to steal my purse or threaten me/my family/my cats physically in some way. HOWEVER, your days of disturbing my peace are numbered. I haven't decided yet how to deal with you (law enforcement in these burbs is a joke, it's all about grabbing cash, not protecting nor serving) but when I do, let's hope for your sake I'm off the Wellbutrin.

Shit is dangerously close to getting real, f'real. I've been depressed before. I've been manic before. I've been angry before. But typically not all at the same time, not for such long periods and never at this level of intensity.

Wits end... That's where Wellbutrin Aggression lives. And I'm there.

This is why I'm fat.

My parents took exotic cooking classes as a hobby, so we ate all around the world from quiet, unassuming Oklahoma City.  My mum is a wizard.  So are all her sisters and their daughters and their granddaughters.  But guess who was skipped by that particular gene?  Yep.  Me.  Oh the irony.  The painful irony to have this sophisticated but sensitive palate yet lack the ability make nom magic like Mum.  It does explain, in part, my physical state though.  That state being big.

Therefore, I like being in the kitchen but it's for eating, not cooking.

Let's talk about fluff for a sec, because, y'know, it's what people talk about.  Trust me, Cosmo and Glamour obsess about size way more than I do but it is a favorite topic.  And for me it's as much positive as it is negative for Cosmo and Glamour.  And that's why their editor's opinions will never, ever matter.  The diet industry is a biggun, speaking of girth.  That's a bunch of ad dollars, so you can't 100% blame them for it but in a way, you can.

Negative attitudes and opinions never matter because most of the time, people just act like they hate something in an attempt to make you feel bad for liking it.  Don't think that's true?  I just defined passive aggression, which is the third most common element in the universe behind hydrogen and stupidity.

Back to weight.  Recently, I attended a gathering where multiple members of the same family were present.  Perhaps multiple is too conservative.  More like upwards of 20 or 30 people who all shared DNA.

Something I noticed...  Among the members who were big, and most were bigger than 'average' by height and width, the fat ones were all fat in the exact same way.  Every single member carried their weight in the same place on the body.  All of them, the same shape, just different sizes or slight variations.  Tell me again that part about how the way your body looks is always a choice?  It's a choice for some but not all, maybe not even most.

Now this isn't nanotechnology or some great science at work.  I'm not claiming it to be anything more than an insomniac babbling online because the musical group on Conan tonight was a bust.

But seeing that whole family reminded me of my family and Mum and her sisters, and their daughters and granddaughters.  We're all some level of fat and again, with the exception of me, healthy like oxen.  Anyone who expects people of ginger origin to be sickly never met my mother's relatives.  They live hard and they live long.  By live hard, I do mean they don't sit still for long.  OCD and ADHD may have be introduced to the gene pool by my ancestors.  Buuut, some of them have also smoked and drank, practically out of the womb, they're still smoking and drinking and knocking on the door of triple-digit birthdays.

If you think body shape isn't as much genetic as eye color or cancer, that's alright.  But if you think that gives you validation for treating big people like shit, you're dead wrong.

You can still hate me for it.  That's your problem, not mine.  If you would like for me to attempt to change your mind, prove to me first that it's worth my time and energy.  We can iron out details in private.  =^_^=

My study of shit attitudes is the same as my study on how fat happens.  Observing people, except with attitude, it's about the way they act in different kinds of situations, the way they are susceptible to influence.

You might have a shit attitude if:
You hate more things than you like,
You hate trying anything new,
If you do try something new, you hate what you tried,
You hate it when people like something you hate,
You hate when people like something you don't hate so you hate on whatever they like,
You hate it when people are happy and you don't feel like they have earned nor deserve it,
You hate it when people are happy, even if you do think they deserve it,
You rarely think anyone deserves to be happy or successful,
You hate anyone in a better station in life than you because you think you've earned and deserve to be on top,
You think you're owed something from the rest of us because you manage to tolerate everyone else despite hating them,
You're a selfish, rude, oblivious fuckhead.

Now do you see why shit attitude opinions don't matter?  Because the only thing haters do is hate.  They maybe aren't thoroughly one-dimensional, but not far from it.  And they hate everything, so hating you or something about you is inevitable, unstoppable and affects you only if you let it.

That's what I've learned.  And this is why I'm fat.

Whine and Spirits

That's not a typo.

I've been in an uncharacteristically nettled, horrible mood recently (and a teensy bit currently but it's receding) and it was crippling, more than any physical ailment I've ever had.  Totally wore me down.  Maybe I'm over it?  I hope so.

Here's the whine...  I have a voicemail I'm actually afraid to hear.  I've never listened to it but that vile little red circled "1" won't leave the icon unless I do.  And it isn't even from a friend or a relative or business relation sort of person.  It's an I've-only-met-you-twice acquaintance.  I'm a scaredy cat; this is widely known among those who know, y'know.  LoL  That circled icon peeves me to no end and was a big mean old contributor to my bad mood.  And I don't feel like blaming myself so I would much prefer someone else fix it.  Mehhhh.

Sometimes I almost think I believe in ghosts.  I believe in the possibility of ghosts, I guess.  But actual spirits, who knows?  It's weird to see departed friends on the FB.  Remembering them makes you smile but you can't avoid saying goodbye again, every single time.

Occasionally I will forget, just for like 5 seconds, maybe less.  I will forget about goodbye and in that tiny moment they're alive again.  What is that all about?  It's so bizarre.  Is that a ghost or only a misfire of neurons and static electricity in the brain?  What if it is both?

Remember those old rechargeable batteries?

I don't remember when it was.  Sometime in the 80s probably, but Energizer or someone made rechargeable batteries.  (I have misspelled rechargeable twice now, btw.)

And I don't know if this is science or if I just half-listened to my dad explain how they work because he tried to give a lesson in boring shit to his already disinterested tween daughter right in the middle of my Barbie time.  Silly parents.  (Love you, dad!)  But didn't you have to sometimes run them completely down before recharging them or else they wouldn't "refill" properly?  Or something like that...  Put them in the freezer?  Zap them with a taser?  Am I just making this completely up or were they really like that?  Remember there was a plastic recharger/holder that was too hideous for the kitchen wall but you knew if you put it in the garage, the Y chromosome holders in the house would lose them within a week.  If you upgraded to the deluxe model, you got a multi-size holder/recharger so you could put the flashlight batteries and the remote batters in the same fugly case.

In a weird, hazy way, those batteries remind me of the plants you srsly can't kill.  Not a cactus.  The vine-y ones with the green and white speckled leaves that ALL of your aunties have in their houses (you know they do, don't lie).  Those goofy plants get all droopy and sad; you pretend not to notice for a day or so.  Finally you break down and water it.  A couple hours later, the near-dead plant looks perky and green.  Why do they do that?  HOW do they do that?  Is it a testament to the plant's physiology (do plants have that or is it some other science word) or is there a happy accident resulting from my bad slacker plant-keeping habits?

For real, I don't mean to neglect my plants but the ones I have at home are hanging plants and it's hard for me to reach them.  Mr. Buffie will water them for me but you try to catch him when he's not busy.  Human tornado.  It's nuts.

Uhhh.  Oh, a point.  Yes.  That.

So maybe insomnia is like those batteries or that plant and I have to just get a gnarly case of it on a regular basis so I can properly recharge my physical and mental batteries or am I only avoiding root rot because my dizzy cow of an owner (that would be me) forgets to give me water at least once a month?

Or perhaps the universe is really pissed at me for tuning out my dad and unintentionally abusing my plant.