Things here are shitty. They suck. If you were here, you would probably have me committed, a la Britney.
I am angry. I am very, very angry. I am pissed off at the Universe. It has fucked me over royally, and I don't care who knows it.
(If you're sitting there thinking that the Universe isn't really responsible, and that it's either A) God or B) me, or even that things aren't all that bad, please click elsewhere. Now. This is *my* nightmare, and you aren't going to rain on it.)
My life is not the life I want. I don't like it. I don't enjoy it. I deserve better. I think that's my big problem. I deserve better, and instead I got this, and that pisses me off. I, Jane, am a pretty pretty princess and a Kennedy and a Mensa candidate and a few other wonderful things, and I might as well be living in a trailer park with a man named Bubba and a pack of rottweilers.
I deserve a man who will fawn over me, a man who will think that the sun shines out of my ass, and worship the ground I walk on. I deserve someone who will treat me like I am the Grand High Pooh-bah of the World, a one and only irreplaceable treasure. Once upon a time, I had that. I was with someone who thought that I was made of diamonds held together by fairy dust and the grace of the Baby Jesus. You know what I did?
I left him for someone who ***THIS POST HAS BEEN EDITED BY THE AUTHOR BECAUSE HER HUSBAND READS HER BLOG***
I deserve children whose noses don't run all the time, who think I am perfect and gorgeous and the World's Coolest Mommy. I deserve children who sleep through the night, who dress themselves and wipe their own asses, who are brilliany baby geniuses, who never cry and always smile and are never, never sick. You know what I have?
I have children. Normal children. Just like you, and her, and that lady over there. They fight and yell and scream and cry and poop and puke and run and dance and give kisses and hugs and sing songs and count to ten (!) and ask "Why?" more times than I could ever count. They're gorgeous, yes, but definitely human.
I deserve a job that pays me what I'm worth. I deserve a job that recognizes the ways in which I bust my ass for other people all day long, how I spend way more time than I have working to do my best, how I struggle to find the nicest, best way possible to tell a mom that her son is a ginormous bully, or that her daughter is acting like an idiot to try and fit in with the other girls her age. I deserve a job that gives me respect, the respect that I don't get from kids, kids who think I'm just a talking head out to give them more homework. I deserve a job that allows me to buy food and medicine, with enough left over to fix the smashed-in front end of my car.
Instead? I make $21.25 an hour, when you break it down (assuming that I only work 40 hours a week, Monday through Friday. Ha.). I get sass and attitude like you wouldn't believe. I get ignored while I'm talking. I get blamed for other people's problems. I get treated like hired help, instead of a trained professional.
I deserve a house. That's it. A house that's mine, that I can decorate and clean and arrange and just *be* in. I had it. It's still there, empty. I'm not there.
Instead, I'm here, sharing a 3 bedroom, 1000 square-foot house with 7 people and two cats, including two toddlers, a teenager, three diabetics, a crazy lady*, and a female who insists on wearing that hideously offensive Axe body spray for men, which smells like burning flesh and melting plastic. Did I mention that the cats think their mission in life is to kill the other and take all the food?
I deserve friends. I'm likeable. I'm slightly too loud, I tend to overshare, and I curse like a sailor if I'm not careful, but I'm smart and funny. I'll braid your hair and make you friendship bracelets. I deserve a book club, people I can call that I'm not directly related to or living with, someone who asks how I'm doing and genuinely cares.
Instead, I am completely alone. I have colleagues, all of whom already have friends, and a husband, who is nothing like the man I thought I married. And a computer. And a blog. Which at least 87 people a day visit and read, but only two or three usually comment on.
I deserve a high metabolism. I deserve to be able to eat anything and everything I want, all yummy things that are bad for me, and still be able to fit into my size 6 jeans. I deserve boobs, and an ass that doesn't jiggle when I walk.
Instead, I have to diet and give up everything that's any good because I don't have any money for even bigger pants.
I deserve to be happy.
And I'm not.
*Ok, that's me, but still.