In Which I Rant SO Incessantly That I’m Not EVEN SURE How to Title, Categorize, or Tag The Rant.

You know that one time when I was all like  “Fuck you Universe and your lemons because I’m a boss and if I want apples then you best buh-lieve I’m getting some juicy apples bitch”?

Who even ARE you Elizabeth?! 

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Well let me tell you what’s been happening. You see, I’ve been desperately trying to negotiate with the Universe for the past month, because a sister is battling some multifactorial stuff. And would you believe he (Yea..the Universe is a male and he is an ancient ancestor to Zordon from the original Power Rangers) was all like-

Zordon_power_rangersLook here Brain-Fucked-Betty, I’m all outta fruit for you. So NOW, if you want the crap lemons everyone else gets, you’re gonna have to pay. And I’m not talking ten-for-a-buck at Walmart. I mean business Sharon! You hear me? BIZZ-NASS! How you like THEM “apples”? 

Well…SHIT! I have nothing but a whopping $1.45 in my checking account and 3$ plus a mascara marinating at the bottom of my purse! 

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You would think it’s safe to presume that a 31 year old working mother circus clown disguised as a “has-her-shit-together” mother, with 267, 986 bills to juggle (I know! Impressive right? And no. No you cannot hire me to perform at your little shit-head kid’s birthday party) would know better than to set her financial game up for failure by going on an impulsive, overdramatized, emotionally-posessed shopping-rampage at Target. And to answer the greater question here- No. No it never solves anything and No. It never really makes me feel better for longer than a day after I’ve already strutted that new shirt or shown-off those earrings or whatever material thing I thought would put my soul at ease in the spur of the moment. But I’m only human. 

…Right?

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Oh?? Excuse me? Sir? JUST-A-WEINER?! Wha- WHO the fuck invited you here? Did you not get the memo? We’re not friends. Like I loathe you more than I loathe people who can afford to spend ridiculous lumps of money on stupid shit that’s actually free-by-the-laws-of-nature like caviar, (Seriously, fish eggs. How inhumane can you be? You don’t see fish sitting down to enjoy a fresh FETUS do you? Then again, I eat chicken eggs so I suppose I just categorically fucked my argument) oysters (fish slime dude…), and escargot (insert 1 of 775 thousand reasons humans should never eat snails).

Also- since we’re already down this rabbit-hole…Please stop trying to slow me down. You don’t own me. The only thing “Despacito” you’re gonna ever get outta me is the rate at which I fold and put away my laundry. And don’t ask “What do you mean” as if to further prove my case on just HOW dumb I actually think you are. Like, your level of dumb deserves isolation from the general population. On another planet. And YES. YES it is “too late to say sorry”. Smart ass. And by way maybe I could “Love myself” if you ceased to exist. See, I can play that game too. 

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So before I was rudely interrupted…

Back to the part where I had a mini-meltdown at work. What is this “mini-meltdown” you ask? Oh you know. That thing where you sit down and start opening up your mail and the bills just DON’T. STOP. PILING. UP. like Mt. Fucking Debt. And you’re already overwhelmed with every other thing in your life when you realize you more-than-massively fucked up that day at Target. So now you’re scavenging through every possible crevice, corner of your wallet and purse on a poor-wo

man’s hunt for tags-to-rig-back-on-the-clothes and receipts to return all-the-things because a store credit is NOT gonna cover this 380$ toll bill, and a hold on your registration.

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Now don’t you worry dollface because you can bet your sweet ass (let’s not refer to my ass as sweet and let’s never bet on it) won’t find any of that. Consider this a cosmic Fuck you. Courtesy of Sir Universe The Almighty. Leader of The Cosmic Lemon Posse. Metaphorical King of FuckEmAllinTheAssLandia. God of Irony. Father of Alanis Morisette. (Well Isn’t THAT ironic?! Don’t ya think?!)  

Now one cosmic Fuck you, has led to the next cosmic Fuck you and when it starts raining cosmic Fuck you’s it’s almost guaranteed that you have about 15 seconds left before you go AWOL on whatever remaining sense of sanity may be meandering around that feeble mind. And so it is time.

Here’s a break-down on how to have a mini-meltdown (at work). Take notes humans. After all, I am a meltdown-connoisseur.

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  • Stop.
  • Calmly get up from you desk chair.
  • Initiate inner-strength. Hold shit together for long enough to clock yourself our for a few minutes, and then immediately proceed to the nearest restroom.

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  • Enter restroom. Proceed to ensure that the door is ACTUALLY locked. Proceed to check again. One more check? And again in the name of good ole’ OCD.
  • Engage in self-pity analysis. Stare at yourself in the mirror and think about all of your problems-past, present, and future and preferably all at once. Enhance with your best ugliest-cry face possible.
  • Proceed to lean your back against the nearest wall.
  • Initiate rapid, deep respiration.
  • Right when you think you are going to scream at the top of your lungs-remember you are in a professional setting. ABORT!
  • Initiate overdramatized self-pity. Proceed to allow all of your internal and external issues to take a comfy seat on your shoulders.
  • And now slowly, but surely.. (paying mind that your back never leaves the wall) slide down. Down. All the way down into a fetal-positioned silent-sob. (Insert hair pulling at will).

tumblr_mszg61yOK71sgp412o1_500-1MISSION MINI-MELTDOWN: ACCOMPLISHED.

Are you HAPPY now Universe? Gettin there, Betty.  Who the FUCK is Bet-just forget it. 

Three minutes after said mini-meltdown, the realization that I accomplished nothing, strikes home once again. It was fun, but nothing got paid in a timely fashion. So I think to myself  I just need to clear my mind. I need to declutter my brain. I need a mental “clean up” and then, I find myself doing the unthinkable. And this is the prototype of the fuckeries (if you haven’t caught on by now, you should know this IS my favored word) that I’m capable of, which only validate my self-proclaimed mental deprivations.

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I have no words with which to further explain myself (can you believe it?!).

And this is exactly what I’m feeling like, now that I am putting this incessant rant out of it’s misery.

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Unapologetically Yours, 

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Author: Ely

Stormy-day-Chaser, Wit-Warrior, Unapologetically-Cool-Mom, Humor-Junkie, Queen-o-Drama, Caffeine-Addict, Self-Made-Cake-Hustler, Ranter-of-ALL-things, Word-Thug, Pet-Unlover, Sassy-Introvert, Effervescent-Soul.

1 thought on “In Which I Rant SO Incessantly That I’m Not EVEN SURE How to Title, Categorize, or Tag The Rant.”

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