Seasons of Love

My mom shows her love by giving unending acceptance and unbridled freedom. Whatever you want, however you want it, she offers it to you, because she loves you. Sadly, as a child I didn't feel loved by this; I felt abandoned and neglected. My mom thinks I'm mean to my children because of all the rules I have for them. But I'm showing them I love them by protecting them and giving them boundaries to make them feel safe. My mother ran away from home to escape all the rules and regulations her parents gave her. Do we all look at love from a 360 degree perspective than what I parents gave us? Do we all strive to give what we felt we were lacking in our childhoods to our progeny? I don't know.

I am trying to remember that love is still love, even if it doesn't come in the package I prefer. I am trying to fight my freakishly honest nature and my big mouth from hurting the people around me. I hope I can be honest without being blunt. Maybe it's just another thing I'm giving the world because I feel like I don't get enough of it: Honesty.

Truthiness

I can't help it, I will most likely tell you exactly what I'm thinking. I mean, geez, why are you asking unless you want my honest opinion. I am sorry that my honest opinion wasn't something you liked. It didn't make you warm and fuzzy, it didn't applaud your anger as righteous or justified. My advice was and still is to chill the hell out. 'Nuff said.

I ain't yo homie

Uh oh, it's that time again. The time when I realize that I am, in fact, no one's close friend, except Hubs. It starts the same way. I have some extra time at work, I hop on myspace or facebook and *BLAM* I see it. All my "friends" are having superawesomecool lives out there, and I AM NOT A PART OF IT!! I am, in fact, just a sad sack of ickyness that spends her entire life either working or sleeping; rinse, wash, repeat. This line of thinking will almost certainly lead to thought of why I'm overweight, which is an express lane to the mire of "NOBODY LOVES ME" which will, in fact, be followed by a rousing chorus of I should just go eat worms.

Sheesh. Perhaps I will skip all the prelimonary steps and just go home, get drunk, and cry myself to sleep watching the Lifetime channel and wondering why all the women on there get beat up, raped, and addicted to drugs.

Happiness is...

Happiness is a warm ice cream cone cupcake on a blustery day. Srsly. Trust me on this one.

I tried to eat my lunch outside today, as I usually do. I was extra excited about it, because blustery fall days are my FAVORITE days to be outside. Sadly, it was SO blustery I had to go inside. My monkey lunchbox almost blew away.

(oh, the huge manatee!)

I felt much like Piglet on that glorious Windsday.

Hey blue van guy

Dear blue van guy,

Thank you for driving for 3 miles with your right turn signal on, then abruptly turning left. I'm sure it was amusing for all of us who were spending our morning trying to figure out where the heck you were going. It truly was an inspired concept art piece, a thought-provocing diatribe to the exestentialism of life and the meaninglessness of the non-verbal cues we all send out into the atmosphere. Or, wait, maybe it's just bad driving. Hrm.

Randomness from the Welcome Desk

"Peaches, come here. You know, you're being really hurtful to me"

You know what's really hurtful to me, lady whom I don't know? That you're calling your rather large (roughly 11 year old from what I can see) son peaches. That, lady, is pain.

You know what else is painful? Manpris. You know, guys who wear pants and roll them to the length of capris, their their tufts of crinkly leg hair jauntily poking out under the cuff. Please, stop the madness guys. Manpris are wrong!

Huh?!?

So, Sis accused me of being on drugs yesterday. She claims that she has "never seen me so animated" before. Whoa. Where the heck has she been? I'm practically inked and painted, I'm so friggin animated. But, whatever. And she may have a point.

Hubs and I met for lunch yesterday, on account of the fact that I work late and he's been putting in 8 hours of overtime this week. So, we're sitting and talking and I SWEAR I was trying to pay attention to Hubs, but there was this guy at a table that was just to the left of my line of sight. This guy had letters tattooed down his left arm. Big letters, that (as I managed to puzzle out) spelled "Andrew". So, it made me think: Who is Andrew? Is that the big tattooed-guy's name? Does he have a condition? Maybe it's his son's name, now isn't that sweet? Wait a second, he's got ANOTHER name down his other arm! It says "Carnegie"...no..wait, it's Carleigh! Oh great, he's got two kids and two names. What happens if he and the missus have a little too much pinot grigio one night, things heat up, and then HE HAS NO OTHER ARM TO PUT THE NEW BABY'S NAME ON. Oh geez, you've really tattooed yourself into a corner there pal.

All the while, Hubs continues to talk, completely ignoring my despair for Mr. Tattoo's nameless, no room at the inn (er, on the arm) youngest progeny and so I refocus on the conversation until OHMYGOSH does the guy behind me have tuberculosis or WHAT?!? Here I am, trying to enjoy a delicious 2 piece leg and thigh meal (with seasoned fries for my "fixin") and Doc Holiday over there is forcing a lung up within 2 feet of my medium Cherry. No, not Cherry soda, the drink is just called "cherry". Anyway, I'm pondering whether or not I'm going to become the next Satine in La Bojangles Rouge, and that's kind of worrisome because while I do enjoy bursting into song and honest zitar players, I would look HORRIBLE in a sequined body suit.

Wait, what was I talking about again?