Measuring life….

There are few times that I am kept awake because I have not written and there is too much going on in my head.

Today is one of those days.

Last night was yet another successful night in Germany, filled with friends and endless wine and conversation. I arrived back at my house when the sun was rising, pink and hopeful, surrounded by dismal rain clouds and the air cool. Arriving home at 6am is telling of a good night, one that causes my head to pound and leaving my mouth dry and unquenched by iced coffee. I begged for more than the three hours of sleep I was allotted, but the racing in my head and the draft paragraphs that circled my brain would not allow for more. I was to be up and writing, even if fuzzy and not coherent.

And so here I am. Writing in a haze of yesterday’s, or is it todays? wine, exhausted and forgetful of where the alphabet lies beneath my fingers.

I ended this version of wine fest at a friend’s house, at 3am, with more wine and a carton of cigarettes and a playlist on youtube that begged to be sang. We did our normal rendition of We Are the World and other various country songs that we know where written only for us. We swayed and we belted out lyrics and we smoked and we drank as the rest of the world slept. I still, to this day, have no idea why alcohol makes us want to sing We Are the World, but we have long given up on evaluating our absurd wine induced behavior. We Are the World and that’s all there is to it. End of story.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, and I missed her too, even though we live twenty minutes apart.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” I offered, which was no excuse for not seeing such a good friend.

“I’ve been busy too,” she countered, which was true and not true, and we both sat there in agreeance that we were both at fault and both lazy with no good excuse.

“I heard you had a bad week recently, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” I told her this meaning it. I had heard she had dealt with the anniversary of a friend’s death this month and with her, I didn’t have to tell her that my death month had left me so mentally exhausted that it left no real sympathy for the pain of others.

“You had a bad month too.” She was kind like that, always letting me off the hook. I had a bad month, but really, not the one I had wanted to have. I dealt with very little pain and memories this month. I had somehow decided to let August this year slip by without setting something on fire and without causing an awkward scene involving the ashes of my father. I am too confused and angry this fourth year to give in to the deep seeded pain I can feel hidden behind my rib cage.

“I heard you had another anniversary of your friend’s death and I’m sorry. It never gets easier and there’s nothing I can say to try and change it.”

“He died and I miss him.” She pulled up a picture of him and her and they were smiling, half embracing, her wearing a tye-died dress and light hair and him with a bright shirt and complimentary tan. They looked happy and I hated looking at him because he was just a ghost in a picture that would be worn and tattered one day. I had too many of the same photos that I never took out or touched anymore.

“You saw him die. You were there. You can’t change that.” I was drunk and I do my best death talking when I’m brilliant via wine. She nodded and looked sad and stared at the wall and then at the TV and then back at me.

We had been watching Top Gun at three in the morning. Top Gun. The adult onesies and Tom Cruise arrogance never gets old. And, let’s be honest, 3am is the best time of day to be heartbroken over Maverick. I assure you of this.

Years ago, two I think but I can’t be sure right now, my friend watched her friend base jump off the Alps in front of her. They were thrill seekers. Adventurists. They lived to feel tears down their faces and wind ripping through their clothes at speeds meant only for highway driving as they swan dived off cliffs that in beauty alone took your breath away. They were adrenaline junkies and the sound of a parachute dropping was as normal to them as a cork popping is to me.

His parachute didn’t open that trip, or it did but failed miserably, and my friend, along with her other friends, watched him take his last jump.

She never went next.

“I still can’t believe he’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you are still dealing with your Dad…” She lingered and I didn’t need her apology. I was neither dealing or not dealing. Such is my passive aggressive attempt at healing.

And so this is where the lesson begins, the reason I decided to blog about this, because I don’t blog about serious topics and I don’t blog about things that keep me up at night. Too dramatic, too personal, too uneasy to dismiss.

“You are forgetting that he lived. You are only remembering that he died. And you were there, so you have every right to remember that, but you are forgetting the things he’d want you to remember. No one that dies jumping off a cliff wants you to remember that. They want you to remember that you jumped with them and not that this was their last but that you jumped together all the time.”

She looked as though I reminded her of something she had forgotten and seemed less sad but not convinced that remembering life was going to help.

I thought of the sign that hangs in my house.

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but the moments that take our breath away.
CHris’ father gave that sign to me after my father died. And of all the quotes I can remember, which isn’t many, this one is true.

“He died doing something he loved. And I am sure he is fine with how he went out. If you think about all the ways to die, most people choose in their sleep. That is fucking boring. He jumped and felt the wind and it was the last thing he felt. You should be happy for him. We all die, he just did it doing something he loved. We should all be so lucky.”

I told her how I wanted to die in a plane crash. I’ve told Chris this, but the conversation usually ends there because Mr. H does not do morbid and he does not like my casual chats about the bad stuff. I realized I’ve probably never told my mother my preferred end of existence, but I remembered I had told my sister. Statistically, it could be likely with all my travel, and I’d want my sister to be ok with that. She is, after all, the keeper of all of my bad stuff.

“A plane crash? That’s awful.” She didn’t quite understand so I continued, happy she was drunk enough to entertain my ramblings and not be scared of my preferences.

“Yes, a plane crash,” I continued. “Because if you think about it, I’ve already done what I came here to do. I’ve traveled and I’ve seen the world and I’ve terrorized a whole new slew of people and I am happy. I have what I want and I would be fine with a plane crash, but I’d prefer the plane to burst like a firework. I want an explosion worthy of the life I lived and I want my exit to be as memorable as my existence. I would be on the way back from a new country or on my way to a new adventure. I would go doing something I truly loved and I would hope people would know that I was happy and that I would leave being content with no regrets. And so yes, a plane crash. I think for me, that seems fitting.”

She didn’t have anything to add and somehow I seemed to make sense. It was the wine, surely, but I felt good that someone understood.

I do not attempt to sit around and teach lessons on this blog. I would never pretend I know more than the next person and I don’t take my own advice so I would never push my thoughts on the random on others. But in this case, with less than three hours sleep and fueled by alcohol induced wisdom, I will push.

Losing anyone is the hardest thing anyone will probably ever encounter. It leaves an emptiness that time or love will never fill. It’s confusing and it’s maddening and it’s make yourself throw up awful in a way that never truly stops, it only dulls. But if there is one thing I’ve learned in loss, it’s this.

No one wants you to remember they have left. They want you to remember they lived. And if they did so in a glorious fashion that leaves you telling stories filled with roaring laughter and salty tears, then all is not lost. It is just different. And so choosing to remember life and not loss is just that, a choice. But it is the right one, and it is the one that will leave you smiling and it is the one that will help you defeat regret.

Because life lived to its fullest is the very best last chapter.

Monday’s music top 5

Here are five songs that I’m listening to tonight while I write up in the office. It’s kind of a rainy mix, so don’t shine your dancing shoes tonight. I’m in a sleepy mood and sorry, but I can not do funny this week to save my life. Not sure what’s up but I’m hoping to pull through by the end of the week.

Until then, enjoy.

Because that Battlefield 3 preview is so fascinating with this haunting song in the background.

Because this song is pretty stirring and I like this performance. Especially the fancy white lights.

Because you can never have too many great versions of the song One.

Primarily because I like the picture on youtube. I distract easily.

Because it’s just beautiful. And relaxing. ANd I am a sucker for a good violin.

Sunday, sunday

Seriously. I’ve tried blogging three different times and had to delete them all because each post sucked. So tonight, I give up. I’ll just add some images to give you an idea about how I spent my Sunday.

Kicked off the day with my juice.

Read this on the porch.

Spent the morning in the sun with Mox.

Loves sunbathing as much as I do.

Tricked myself into drinking water by making it look like this.

Pretty water goes down easier.

Spent two hours walking through here.

Cooked this.

Yes, I said I cooked.

And now I’m lying in bed, reading and writing.

Sundays are my favorite.

TGIF

Wooo. The weekend is finally here. This week seems like an especially long week, though I’ve done almost nothing to earn any relaxation. Well, I did mow the lawn last night, but I consider that more therapy than yardwork. I can work out some real aggression on that lawn…

Anyway. Back to my laziness.

My narcolepsy is getting out of control. Three times this week I’ve fallen asleep by 9pm and only one of those times can be blamed on day drinking wine again. Ok, so I don’t fall asleep mid conversation or while sitting up, but I’m taking napping to a new extreme. If napping were an Olympic sport, Gold Winner, right here?

Sidenote. When can we change the Olympic rankings? White gold is a better option than gold and obviously platinum is the winner. I want the new ranking to be 3. Pewter because it kind of looks dirty and third place mine as well be last place. 2. White gold, because that’s what girls get when their fiance doesn’t spring on platinum, so technically you’re kind of good enough, ALMOST, which is exactly what second place is and then 1. Platinum because you deserve a metal that most people can’t afford if you are NUMERO UNO in something INTHEWORLD.

Just my random thoughts on the outdated Olympic rewards system.
Now. Back to my random Friday. I’ve encountered three other things, outside of my outrageous narcolepsy, that are equally out of control and set me off with ease…but I’m easily set off, so I guess it’s not saying much. Let’s review them, though.
1. Teenagers. Honestly, they are all a bad lot. They are awkward and ugly and wear things that I should only be seeing on American Idol and each one thinks that only their world is ending. Between the braces and zit and uncontrollable boners and girls crying in bathrooms and the perfected looks of indifference, I just want to walk up to a group of them and be like, “Sweetheart, your world is not fucking over. Enjoy handjobs and wine coolers and smoking behind the movie theater while you can. Life becomes bullshit in about 10 years, full of responsibility you will never want, so enjoy your life filled with skateboards and Twilight movies and FYI, that look of indifference and pained angst only looks good on Rob Pattinson and you are no Rob Pattison.”

2. Foodcourts. This is where I found all the teenagers today. I should have stayed away. Foodcourts are awful. They smell like grease and they are no good if you don’t want to run into people and in this case, the one on base is filled with teenagers and white trash. Nothing good ever comes out of foodcourts. Case in point, I walked out with 760 calories swallowed right down that hatch and I can already feel my thighs expanding, so kudos to me for another brilliant lunch choice.

3. Hot water. I don’t actually hate hot water today and hot water can’t actually be out of control because it’s actually pretty controlled, being hot and all, but I hate the person that leaves the water handle thing pushed all the way to the scald the skin off your hand side because I never look and I always turn it on and shove my hands under and fuck me, I melted my hands today. So what I’m getting at is improper bathroom etiquette is out of control. Yet another reason I don’t believe in hand washing. This is 100% true. I feel like wiping your hands on your pants is enough. Germs will not kill you but I’m pretty sure boiling water can. I think.

I’d love to write more of my thoughts down for you but I’m off to drink a bevvie in the sun. I had a killer day at work and mama wants a cocktail.

Happy weekend, playas.

The start to my new career….

Yes, I have started drafting my first children’s book,
“Santa Claus Isn’t Real, and other disappointments in Life”
So far, all I have is the cover, which took about 15 minutes to draft during lunch.

First draft. Autographed upon request.

Also, I think the young boy’s name in the book will be Alister because that is a god awful name, even worse than say, Timmy, and any kid named Alister deserves to have his hopes and dreams dashed. Also, yes, Alister is portly and has a very southern, I’m from money, douche hair-do. But he’s not southern. I’m not quite sure what he is yet, outside of being a pain in the ass that believes in Santa. We’ll ruin his life tomorrow when I draft the scene where his mother, Sally, tells him Santa and her tits aren’t real. That should really bring depth to his character, or so I hope. Here’s to wishing!

So. As you can see, it’s been another productive day in Germany filled with good ideas by moi. Now. I am going home for a night of relaxation and I think I will draw out this storyboard tonight. Will update you with new pages soon hahaha.

And I do hope you are all keeping equally busy. 😉

Believing in magic…

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”

Pixie cuts, symmetrical dressing and Mad Men for the Fall.

Are you KIDDING ME??? I feel like all of my dreams are coming true. Banana Republic is featuring a Mad Men wardrobe and all the models are wearing LIPSTICK. And big hair, which in case you haven’t seen enough of that ridiculous hair I had in my sister’s wedding, you might see more of it, though self-styled (eh) this fall. http://bananarepublic.gap.com/browse/division.do?cid=5002&mlink=5001,3626906,1&clink=3626906 Just in time for my new fall look…. Which is really overdue considering I had yet another conversation this weekend about wanting a pixie haircut. Like this, in case there’s any confusion still, even though I’ve been talking about this for at least five years.

Yes, I KNOW this hair requires a look. I KNOW.


So yes. I know this look requires effort. I’ve been told this a million times. Years ago when I was all dreamy about it, my Mr. H said, “Ehh, you have to have the face for it.”

To which I said, “Ummmm, so you’re telling me my face is either ugly or fat. Because that’s what THAT MEANS.”

To which he said, “That’s not at all what I said. I meant…you just have to have the face for it.”

Which actually does mean you must have a fairy face, like Tinkerbell, really, OR you have to be slim in the face, which ok, so I’m not Twiggy but I don’t have fat face syndrome.

But then THIS YEAR, the reason has changed. I tested out this conversation in front of Jenny, who is in town, because it’s fun to use friends in conversations when they have no idea what the back story is and no idea what they’re up against and no idea who they’re supposed to be defending. So this is us in Switzerland.

“I want a pixie cut again. And Jenny, you can just chop it all off in scissors so then I HAVE to go get it done, you know, to clean it up after it’s all gone.

“Yes, let’s find a salon,” she exclaimed, like any good friend would do.

“Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” That was the sound my husband was making while we drank by the water, almost ruining the setting but I was breathing deep and pretending to be diplomatic.

“I don’t know what that means,” I said, though I did. So I carried on. “Chris thinks, Jenny, that I don’t have the face for it.”

“I didn’t say that,” he started, but I had already interrupted.

“Yes, why yes you did. In 2008 you said I don’t have the face for it. So if you’d like to take that back and explain better, here is your chance.” I waited. He squirmed, because now there was two of us and when in numbers, we are dangerous.

“Well, look.” He looked me over, mostly I think to see if the four beers I had was making me agreeable to criticism or belligerent, and in fairness, there’s a fine line, so I made sure my facial expressions were neutral.

“Carry on,” I baited. “Well ok FINE, but you must have a wardrobe, Heather. A lOOK.” He emphasized LOOK as though the word were Chinese, which again, in all fairness, if you looked at me on any given day, you’d wonder what I was thinking when I dressed myself. I’m not colorblind or an angry lesbian or homeless, but you some days can never be too sure. He continued. And he struggled for words, which was fun because I was just WAITNG.

“You dress kind of asymmetrical. Kind of loose.” Like a hooker, I wondered, but I knew he meant something else.

“You mean homeless, lazy and frumpy.” “Well, loose.” Loose is a term made for newly child-birthed vaginas or teeth on small children. Yes, I don’t wear tight clothing but we all knew that wasn’t the meaning. He meant my interpretation of what’s appropriate to wear when you pick your clothing off the floor every morning without the light on.

“Loose and asymmetrical,” giggled Jenny, who is always very diplomatic. “I like that.”

I did not so much like it. But hurrah for me, the Mad Men collection is here, I’m due for more lipstick and once I start dressing like a shape or a hooker, I’ll be good to go….right???

I like to tell myself so.

Ask Heather: The wanking edition

I feel like I’m due for an inappropriate post. Are we ready to see if I can get myself blacklisted from the internet? Let’s give it a try….

So today’s post goes out to all the grabby boys in the world. To the 12-18 year olds that maybe aren’t having sex yet. To those that try to set world records. To those with no shame. This one is for you.

Dear H,
I came home the other day and walked in on my husband jerking off in the kitchen. I was horrified. We have sex enough, so I feel betrayed. I’m also disgusted that he was in the kitchen. What am I supposed to say or do?

Well, for starters, I’ll just let you know straight away that there’s nothing you can do. Nothing. Telling a guy to stop getting grabby with himself is like taking water away from a fish. He might just fucking up and die on you. Or, he’ll just go do it in the garage or the shower or when you’re sleeping. Guys need only a few things in life: sports, beer, other guys, their mothers, frozen pizza and the ability to jerk off every time they see something/think of something/hear something/smell something that makes them hard. Or horny. Or bored. Or makes them feel nothing at all but it seemed like a good idea.

It has to be understood that there is a huge difference between girls rubbing one out and guys giving it to themselves. I’ll be fair and just use myself as an example. Reasons I’ve violated myself:
1. I am out of control turned on by god knows what but it needs to be handled.
2. I’m bored on a Sunday and too lazy to go do something like running so why not.
3. I’m drunk.

Those are the only reasons I usually put in any effort.

Guys, though?

Reasons guys wank off:
1. The sun is shining
2. Angelina/Scarlett/Cameron/whoever was just on the screen/in their head/on a magazine they saw/in a movie they saw ten years ago
3. It’s Tuesday
4. They’re bored.
5. They had a good day/bad day/got a raise/was fired/it’s their birthday/today is any day listed on the calendar
6. It’s raining/snowing
7. Football isn’t on
8. You didn’t have sex with them.
9. You did have sex with them.
10. They can’t control themselves

There are a million reasons guys jerk off, many making sense, most not making any sense. I mean really. I’ve had a number of friends tell me they’ve done this in the bathroom at work. Unless you’re getting phone sex during lunch or your boss is really hot, or you can watch porn at your desk, I’m not sure what the reason would be that you have to give it to yourself during your 9-5. In this case, I’d say you’re behaving like an animal.

In the kitchen? I’d say that’s pretty mild. One of my friends that I discussed this with said, “Shit, I jerked off in the bathroom at the golf course this morning right before I teed up, just because.” Furthermore, I’ve known a few guys that can’t keep their hands off themselves in the car. LIke on the way to the store or work, not like road trip in the car. To me, that seems fucking dangerous. I know when I get all, OhmygodI’malmostdone, I lose all self-control and I’m sure I close my eyes and freak out and all of those things do not go well in a car. Just guessing. I wouldn’t worry about the kitchen too much. To be honest, he’s probably sprayed his unborn children all over your fucking house, garage and car. If I were you, I would not invest in a blacklight. I’d just pretend you don’t care, get some ammonia out, go to town cleaning and try to forget about the fact that you wonder if he shot it all over your stove or counters. Worse things in the world have happened.

And it doesn’t matter that you are sleeping with him. Congratulations, you don’t suck at being a wife. Good for you. Seriously, though, you could screw him every day and twice on Saturdays and he would still do it. I have one friend that keeps a tally and he tells me his best day is 9 times but he’s disappointed because he’s really shooting for more like 13. 13 times? Do you fucking work??? Jesus. Like I said, though…They NEED it. No guy in life has ever been satisfied by the amount of sex he’s getting. He’s too busy being crazy about how much more sex he could be having. Ask them, they’ll tell you. They’re all a bunch of selfish, vagina hungry, aggressive crazies.

And I do mean crazy. When I consulted a few of my closest, dirtiest male friends about this, I got more feedback than I bargained for and they all answered relatively the same way.
I asked, Boys, where is the weirdest place you’ve jerked off AND/OR what is the weirdest thing you’ve used? Below, I will list the answers.

Oh good god. You didn’t know THEY USED THINGS? Of course they do. At the very least, half the time they use their weak hand (called “The Stranger”), or sit on their good hand (“Old Familiar”) to make it go to sleep. It’s like screwing a new girl. (slightly weird, because not the same at all as getting a new jage experience but who knows)

For girls, you have two options: toys and your hands. End of story. If there is a girl that’s gone to more extremes, I’d love to hear about it, but I think we’re pretty simple. (Right now I am actually trying hard to think of a time where I could have been rubbing myself up against something on purpose but nope, not really coming up with anything)

Guys, though? Guys are sick fucks. No way around it. I am now going to prove it to you.

Items that are NOT vaginas/hands that men I know have jerked off with:
In between two couch cushions (I would love to walk in on that one)
Panties that do not belong to them or their wife
A glass of water (I am lost on this one)
A holiday pie (as a result of that movie, no doubt)
A vacuum attachment, while the vacuum was on (that fucking seems dangerous)
Empty banana peel heated up in the microwave (Are you fucking serious?)
A cardboard toilet paper roll with shampoo in it (how the fuck thick are you???)
A fake jage made out of latex, fashioned to look like Jenna Jameson or some other adult actress, referred to as “The Professional”
Cantaloupe
In saran wrap
With a scarf (who knows at this point)
In a jar of bockworst where the middle sausage is removed (I’m honestly going to throw up)

Actually, that last one threw even me over the edge. I’m not going to list more. And there are a million more. So, moral of this story is, if you caught your husband wanking off in the kitchen, WITH HIS HAND, consider yourself lucky and quit your bitching.

Herpes, German midgets and Jenny’s in town!

Today I woke up like it was Christmas. Jenny, one of my oldest and greatest friends from DC, has finally come to Germany and I was so excited to see her. Without having to wait for my alarm, I was up and ready to do a quick once over on the house again and then head to work so I could be to the airport on time.

This is the part where I roll over in bed, hit the Mr. and tell him to HURRY UP, WE CANNOT BE LATE TODAY.

Fifteen more minutes, he says, which is fair, considering we typically don’t wake up until 0715 every day.

Fine, I say. Off to check email, make coffee and feed the dogs I go.
Fifteen minutes I am back, on the bed, shrieking, get up, get up, GET UP PLEEEEASE DO NOT MAKE ME LATE TODAY. He finally decides to open his eyes, I think to do as I ask. But no.

“Did you split your lip in your sleep last night or do you have herpes?” This is what he thinks is fun to ask me at 6am.

“Herpes. Definitely herpes. NOW PLEASE GET UP.” I check my stupid lip. It is bleeding because I split it in my sleep because I DO NOT DRINK WATER, not because I’m getting the herp via random cock sucking. God.

Anyhoo. That was the start of my morning.

The day has really picked up, though.

This afternoon, I picked up Jenny at the airport and briefed her all things German and updated her on my house and my life as a pseudo European.

“Germany smells like sausages,” she offered.

Why yes, yes it does.

“Moxie smells like lobster,” she also, offered, after kissing her and clapping her hands, excited about how “interesting” Moxie looks. THis is all odd to me because the Mr. just told me two nights ago that Moxie smells distinctly like lobster poo, which I took offense too, even more so than when he calls her Dumpster Baby. But if two of them say it, Moxie is going to need another bath.

Anyway, after leaving Jenny to come back to work, I almost hit a pack of cyclists and was angry about their pack getting in my way until the sun moved and OHMYGOD it was a pack of German midget cyclists. There is no way that combination even exists but I started shrieking with my window open and clapping and kind of slammed on my brakes because I was so in awe at how all the bikers were so small and therefore their little outfits were also so small.

In an hour, I’ll head home and we’re going to make steaks. We’re also going to maybe share a bottle of the Schwarz as a Welcome to Germany dinner outing, though I doubt it’ll make Jenny appreciate Germany so much as wish death upon it. It being the country.

So, because I don’t have a million hours to form rational thoughts or type lengthy thoughts about nothing, that is the summary of my day.

Becoming a Children’s Book Writer…

Newsflash, world. Today is a good day. I’ve spent all day in bed. I’m playing around on the internet and drinking soda with ice and I feel like today, I’m really back to my normal self. I am 100% sure of it, due to the first two topics that popped into my head today when I thought about what I could blog about.

My first thought was, What inappropriate children’s books could I write in my spare time and what would the titles be? This started because 1. I really love that book, Go the FUCK to Sleep. I know, I know, I’ve already written about it before but I have friends tell me about the books they are forced to read to children about things only people hooked up to life support could appreciate. Like fucking milk or ducks or talking bears that wear clothing, which is just fucking stupid because the world doesn’t even MAKE BEAR CLOTHING.

Actually, I’m not sure if that bear clothing part is true or not. I’ve seen bears at the circus wearing little hats and tutus but those are people clothing, not made for bears, right?

This bear is not at the circus, but at a hockey game but THIS IS THE SHIT I AM TALKING ABOUT.

How do I know so much about children’s books, being sans kinder? Well, besides the fact that I’m well versed in life generally, I’ve done my fair share of babysitting. Babysitting was my last resort before prostitution to get by in DC and in all honestly, the only reason I ever did it over say, sucking dick on the side was because 1. rich people buy some pretty awesome groceries 2. bathing children and putting them to bed does not require brain surgeon type skills and 3. most kids go to bed before 8 and that means three quiet hours of watching HBO shows that I don’t have at my house. Oh, and I used to charge $20/hour because LOOK AT ME, I am an almost 30 year old that will watch your child and no, I will not invite my boyfriend over to screw him on your couch and no, I will not steal your pills and no, I will not drink your booze. Vision of watch your child responsible, yep, that was ME. But anyway, back to the books. Here are a few titles I’m considering moving forward with in my new career of Inappropriate Children’s Book Writer.


Why DON’T I THINK OF THIS SHIT FIRST? Really, this is a brilliant idea.

TITLES OF BOOKS I’M GOING TO WRITE AND SELL TO MY EQUALLY INAPPROPRIATE FRIENDS SO THEY CAN READ THEM TO THEIR CHILDREN UNTIL THEY GROW TO BE ABLE TO UNDERSTAND ENGLISH (whatever the fuck age that may be)

1. I Hope You Don’t Grow Up to Be A Disappointment
2. Your Brother isn’t at College, He’s At Rehab
3. Santa isn’t Real, and other Disppointments in Life
4. The Tooth Fairy is Your Mother
5. The Easter Bunny Isn’t Real but Neither Are your Mother’s Tits
6. You Get Reduced Lunch Because We Spend Our Money On Drugs
7. You Weren’t An Accident. You Are the Result of Binge Drinking
8. I’d Sell You on the Black Market if I Knew Where to Find It.
9. Good Children Grow Up to Be Famous and Pay Off Parental Debt
10. Don’t Grow Up to be a Douche Bag
11. Don’t Blame Your Father When You Become A Stripper
12. Your stutter/lisp/cowlick/googly eye/weird laugh/gap in your tooth/tick Embarasses Mommy in Public
13. I Ruined My Vagina for THIS?
14. I Blame Your Father
15. Your Grandparents are Evil. End of Story.
16. Daddy Left Mommy for Uncle Bobby and a Life of Glitter

Haaaaaa. I am getting such a kick out of my titles. What fun. Actually, now that I write these out, I feel like they might make better teeshirts, though the, “Santa Isn’t Real and Other Disappointments in Life” seems like a really strong book title. I’m pretty good at drawing, too, when I want to be so maybe I’ll even illustrate.

Oh, and the other topic I thought of will have to wait until tomorrow, now. I didn’t realize I had so much to say about children’s books.