I think I may have come across an unpleasant truth about both myself and a handful of other mother's I know. I recently found out that Pat Catan's, a magical world of crafting supplies, home decor, candles, ribbons, baking and cooking accoutrements, and scrap booking, was having an INTENSE sale. It was advertised only through word-of-mouth and went against their corporate office's wishes. I was told to enter through the store's recent addition that houses painting and art supplies, walk straight to the back of the store and to the left I would find a spare room. No flashing signs, no flyers... just one employee manning the entrance like a bouncer manning a speak easy from the prohibition era. Upon entering I saw boxes and boxes lining the walls of everything from yarn, to holiday decorations to shopping carts full of rainbow colored spray paint.
The woman guarding the doorway didn't explain what to do, or the purpose of this room, but in the middle was a table covered in gigantic trash bag sized bags. I knew from my friend that the intent was to rid the store of as much clearance and over-stock as possible, so you grabbed a bag and just started cramming as much SH*T as was earthly possible into the plastic bag. Whatever your sticky fingers could stuff into the bag was yours at the register for FIVE dollars! The moment I heard about it, my palms started to sweat and my breathing became labored. I started unrealistically planning in my head countless holiday parties, crocheted hats, (I've never crocheted, but for five dollars I could learn) homemade floral arrangements, rainy day crafts with my children... I was feigning and it would seem the only place to get my fix was Pat's.
As I frantically grabbed as much as my arms could handle, flying from one box to the next, rifling through Christmas ornaments and Valentine's day heart shaped candy molds, I quickly realized I wasn't alone. A girl who announced she had heard about it via Facebook snatched up a giant box of while chocolate doves clearly meant to be used as wedding favors, and said if she couldn't use them for her wedding, she would, at the very least put them on her cereal in the morning with milk. We were a pathetic group of degenerate addicts, our choice of drug being the crack-cocaine of stay-at-home moms and crafty women alike; cheap foam letters and felt.
Even worse, were the mom's like myself, who had dragged their children along to witness the frenzy of a sale never seen by the likes of even the most advanced extreme coupon-er. I witnessed an apathetic teenage boy being forced to guard the cart while his mother fought tooth and nail to find the perfect Christmas wrapping paper, and my own children, caught up in the hysteria, left the store with faux snow embedded in their hair from when their own mother found a gigantic bag of it and tossed it into the bag, not realizing it had been previously opened, and as it soared over the car seat and my two year old, they experienced life as a snow globe figurine.
I was instructed by the crafting bouncer not to divulge any of the details I had seen that day, specifically referring to Facebook. It was so cloak and dagger I wondered if I had just partaken in the sale of the century or some kind of deviant drug deal. She told me to pay at customer service, so as I walked through the expanse of the store towards the service desk located at the other end, I kept furtively glancing at other customers, desperate to broadcast my secret...DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE MISSING?!?!
As promised my heaping bag of goodies was a mere five dollars and after I had paid I was so thrilled I didn't know whether I should get my heart palpitations examined or run to the bathroom with diarrhea. I practically skipped out of the store and immediately began texting my mom friends, who responded with much of the same crazed feigning I had displayed an hour before. "God bless your soul, I am on my way now!" "We are going to be in the area, I am going to talk my husband into going!!" "YAY!" We were hooked to cheap crafts, and nothing could help us. I reached this conclusion as I was also starting to experience the "come-down".
I became depressed I hadn't been able to fit more into my bag, and I angrily instructed my husband to go back and get more. I clearly understood the shame that would befall me to be seen in the back room twice in one day. This is when I decided we as mothers need to stand strong together and fight this addictive battle as one. With the guidance of crafting greats, David Tuttera and Martha Stewart, I say we start a support group. We can meet, and discuss openly in a safe environment how we don't sleep at night picturing the perfect mason jar, and how we can't seem to throw out a single wine cork.
Ladies, the unpleasant truth is, we are obsessed with colored pipe cleaners and delicate pastel shades of tissue paper. And Pat Catan's the other day enabled us. We behaved like monkey's in the zoo, throwing our feces at each other in the sheer excitement of discounted buttons. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and in this blog, I have done just that. Who is with me? Who will be the next to admit you drove 85 miles per hour, your children's faces still covered in that morning's breakfast to get there before the rest of the goofs took everything? Know that I am here for you and also know that if anyone needs Hanuka themed window clings, that I have four packs....
I have become the unwilling focal point in a vicious vendetta against both my sanity and my physical well-being by a filthy hoard of arachnid thugs. They've infiltrated my home, and have been seen scuttling around the dark corners and closets of the one place a person should feel safe. I've taken a stand against the terrorism and made small steps in eliminating the source of the criminal activity, but for every three I dispose of, six more crop up in their stead. Most recently I was attacked in my sleep, the epitome of dastardly, plotting against a foe in their time of utmost vulnerability. I woke this morning to a near gangrenous wound, caused by dirty fangs. The carnage was unimaginable. My husband told me it rather resembled a mosquito bite, but he has never fallen prey to such an evil enemy, what does he know? I took photos of the crime scene with my iPhone from all angles and sent them to various family members, none of which responded in the shock and horror I expected of them; alas! I am alone in this world.
The pain was excruciating. The pain young Bella endured as Edward turned her I assume is similar to what I felt, and I am still checking the mirror periodically for changes in complexion and hair radiance as well as any signs of glistening, sparkly skin. Still nothing as of yet. I made several frantic calls to health care facilities in the hopes that someone could help me. When my regular doctor wouldn't clear his entire schedule for me, I desperately decided to go to stat care.
When I arrived the receptionist was yelling at everyone to sign in on the computer mounted on the wall, and I was forced to limp behind a slow moving, possibly diabetic man using a walker. I wondered to myself why this place hadn't employed a triage nurse to separate the non-emergency patients (this man) from the immediate care patients (me). After having signed in using technology that was cutting edge in 1997, I was then asked to wait for what seemed like five hours for a foreign, impatient resident who would see me for five minutes. No wonder this countries health care system is spiraling out of control.
The nurse briskly called me back after I had apathetically perused seventeen issues of Seventeen Magazine, and I was asked a copious amount of questions regarding my menstrual cycle. Why is it, that because both my children were accidents they automatically assume every time I come in, it's regarding a pregnancy scare? Again with the disaster we call American health care.... I answered obligingly however, and soon we got to the point. I have always been one to smile even in the face of great calamity and tried making several (hilarious, if you ask me) jokes about my situation, none of which Nurse Ratchet even smirked at. Was she working for the arachnid gang? She inspected my wound with bored eyes, and told me the doctor would be right in.
As the minutes passed in silence whilst waiting for the doctor I contemplated what had led me down this road...Was it my mother's fear of all things spider, passed down to me? Was it truly a conspiracy to terrify me into fleeing my own home? What had made me their mark? My thoughts were interrupted by a young, attractive doctor who entered the room. For a fleeting second his bulging biceps made me forget my predicament as I mentally tried to remember the last time I had received a pedicure. I was poked and prodded under the glaring lights of the surgery lamps, the horrifying diagnoses was revealed! I would need a week long prescription for antibiotics to quell the poison coursing through my veins. Relieved to hear that there was an anti-venom available but I still had a problem on my hands.
The monsters who induced all this agony were still on the loose in my home. As I sit here writing this, my foot soaking in a very rare, very healing solution of salt and water, I can't help but feeling that thousands of tiny eyes are watching my every move. I've made the decision to be strong and courageous in the face of possible annihilation. I refuse to give up the good fight. I refuse to be yet another casualty in this little spoken of war. I will rise to the occasion, spider and centipede spray in hand and I will destroy anything that attempts to harm my family or myself. If you are reading this and you have more than two legs, know this, I am coming for you with a vengeance. This isn't over.
My youngest cousin Kacy is nearing her own graduation from my Alma mater in just a few days time and it has made me nostalgic for my own graduating class and all those I grew up with. My hometown is very close-knit and we all basically went to Promise Preschool together all the way up to our last days as seniors in high school. It is such a close-knit community, in fact, that if you came to Dalton in fourth grade, you were still the new kid eight years later. As we approach our seven year mark from Mr. Kaserman directing a miserable version of Pomp and Circumstance, I thought I would catch everyone up!
Even though I was on the ballet every single year, but was still never voted to become Prom Queen or selected as a member of the homecoming court, I went on to become a famous super model. I am sweet like grapefruit on never being chosen because in the past seven years, I've traveled the world in my private jet....(That means I'm bitter people...BITTER!) But I digress...I truly appreciate Facebook for allowing us all to stay updated on who has become fat, which, as you all know, is the sole purpose in getting together for a reunion. I still plan on attending though, when the time comes, but sadly I won't be a part of the planning committee. I was kicked off by a majority vote from student council for never showing up to any of the meetings. Which is a real shame, if I was allowed to plan it, it would be a glorious occasion full of chevron mason jars and twine bows. Has anyone seen my Pinterest boards?? If anyone is interested however, I hear the Junior High is vacant now. We can use the gym as a dance floor and grind twelve inches apart from each other to Lil Jon's Get Low. Plus nothing brings back memories like the nostalgic smell of asbestos. Some may even still have lingering memories of it, like lung cancer.
As far as discussing the achievements of my classmates, one in particular jumps out at me as a true accomplishment. No one that I know of became a drug dealer, and let's face it, if anyone would know, it would be me. I also see that many of us are now parents, and even if we didn't speak during our school years, nothing brings us together like being fat, tired and poor, the general result of having kids. No one has died yet, but we are all on the short slope towards being 30 now, so it's coming. No one became sports stars either...well maybe one or two, but being a division 27 school didn't give us much of a chance.
I still talk to many of my old classmates, and the .1% of black people in our class are still basically the only black people I know. You will all be happy to hear also, that unlike my egg from Home Ec I was supposed to take care of, my children are not rotting in my locker. They do however smell sometimes.... In other news, after extensive stalking via all social media websites, I see some of us have moved out of state, some have become teachers and nurses, financial planners, journalists, health care professionals, military members, parents and unemployed bums... ( the last one was me).
I am actually proud to say I'm a Dalton alumni, and I love bumping into old classmates. After seven years it's safe to say old grudges and cliques have seemed to melt away into the past. I've never seen anyone from my class that hasn't excelled in life and has become quite the adult...( is that a compliment coming from me?) And regardless of our differences then and now, we all seem to agree that someone who doesn't pronounce Dalton right needs to be immediately corrected, that Smithville sucks, and that our class was the best Dalton has yet to see. We paved the way for all other classes. We were always in trouble, and you know, I kinda like that. We had personality and character, and we were almost not allowed to go to Camp Wanakee... Here's to DHS class of '07, the past seven years, and to the next 43 where we will be asked to attend the graduation for the class of 2057. May there be as many chairs that day, as there were in 2007!
When I was younger I used to think my parents were so lame and backwards and that they were out of touch and literally didn't know anything. I however, of course, had all the answers because I was 21 and had a boyfriend. HA! My mom used to say some of the most aggravating things, and I hated when she would say them to me. My Mother's Day gift this year is to finally admit she knew what she was talking about. You were right, I was wrong, let me kiss the ground beneath your feet..."I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy!!" Forgive me, mommy, if I had listened I wouldn't have experienced half the heart ache I did.I want to share some of her more profound bits of wisdom, to either save some of you from tragedy, or to commiserate with me for also not listening to your mother.
- Looks don't matter, it's the inside that counts.- I was obsessed for a long time with looks. My own and everyone else's. I reasoned that as a student in beauty school, if I didn't focus on looks, then what would be the point of my future job? I have come to find that no matter how beautiful someone is on the outside, if their inside's are rotting, they usually don't amount to much as a person. Some of the most beautiful women I know are pretty, but what makes them gorgeous are their kind hearts. I, over the years have been betrayed deeply by women (and men) who are physically extremely attractive, and what good were their looks to me? A broken heart and hurt feelings. And as far as my obsession with my own looks, I ask you, what good is a perfect body, flowing hair and a flawless face to my children? Those features don't change their diapers, gentle hands perhaps with chipped polish do. Beautiful hair doesn't hold them tight at night, a messy pony tail allows for them to wrap their little arms around my neck with ease. So mom, you were right, looks don't matter.
- It is better to lower yourself and allow others to raise you up instead of putting yourself on a high horse for people to tear you down. (Pride goes before a fall)- There is nothing worse than bragging incessantly and moments later, life brings you back down. It never fails, the second I start to brag about my perfect, wonderful children they poop their pants, throw a fit or use a cuss word I swear they didn't learn from me! Countless times I have been excessively proud of my own accomplishments and I blab all over town about them, and next thing I know something mortifying or horrible happens to me and I have to quickly do damage control. People love to see you fail, especially if you've gone on and on about how you don't. My mom knew that. Humility will save you from future humiliation.
- Family first.- I used to love to go out and party. I didn't want to spend time with my parents and my little brother at all. But the people I danced with at the nightclub, snuck shots with underage in the bathroom, and even the boyfriend I had at the time are not even remotely a part of my life anymore. The people who have been there through thick and thin, the ones with whom I would want to be on a deserted island with are the ones who share my blood. My children will grow up making friends and starting relationships, but NO ONE will be there like mama. NO ONE. The girls who you referred to as "sisters!" grow up and start their own families. And you are left with who? Your relatives. Treat them nicely and spend time with them. They're all you have and will ever have.
- Drinking makes a fool of you.- This one used to bother me greatly. Why couldn't my mom be like the "cool" moms who drank with their kids, allowed their friends to come over and drink in their basement and were OK with their kid's tales of debauchery after a night out? What a square! Well it turns out she wasn't strict and making rules to ruin my life. She spoke from experience! It's hard to imagine your parents having a life other than the one you knew, but they did, and they drank, they smoked, they made bad decisions and everything they learned through those times, they want to impart onto you, minus the embarrassment and regret that actually living the mistakes leaves you with. Many a time I made myself look foolish drinking too much, and I would hate for my kids to think anything of me other than a secure, safe and steady hand to hold. I look back now on the mothers I knew, the ones who I thought were "sooooo cool", and I see something very sad. Their kids can't lean on them when they're already leaning.
- Don't buy anything unless you can pay in cash.- When I was 18 I stumbled upon the dark, dark world that is credit card debt. I stupidly paid for things with my magical little piece of plastic and dressed in a wardrobe far outside my means. I received the monthly bill and paid the minimum and then proceeded to buy more, and more and more. Before I knew it I was the best dressed broke person around. I maxed my cards out, paid the minimum and the interest just stacked on and on and on...It was misery. I fell asleep at night knowing the debt loomed over me. It never went away. One of the cards I just quit paying for all together. Then the calls started. 5 times a day. I started to hate the sound of my own phone. My mom was right, if you can't afford something, don't be an idiot. DON'T BUY IT!!! She helped me pay them off eventually, and the day I was free, I cut them up into tiny little pieces and never looked back.
- Write your thank you notes.- I can't stand ungrateful people and neither, for the most part, can anyone else. I used to loathe being made to sit and write them out, but now as the adult in the situation buying gifts for children with money that could've been used on a pedicure, it makes me feel much better receiving a handwritten note expressing their gratitude. The adults in my life spent their hard earned money on Polly Pockets and Barbies. Did they want to? Probably not really, they had bills to pay and things they wanted for themselves. Showing that you liked it and that it meant something to you, makes the purchase a little bit easier to swallow. Not to mention, if I'm being honest, the nicer the note, the nicer the gift was the next year. People like to be appreciated! If you don't say thank-you, it's very likely you won't ever get anything from that person again, and if you do, their heart's won't ever be in it again. Thank you notes are tedious and boring, but so is buying a gift for a kid with money you would rather use on yourself. Be considerate. My mom understood that if you love your children you want others to love them as well, and no one loves a spoiled brat. Thank you mom, for not letting me behave like one. (Pun intended there...)
- Pray.- Sometimes growing up, I used to feel like religion was being shoved down my throat, but now I see that nothing is possible without God. My mom taught me about Him and I plan to do the same with my children and hope that they know that when life gets dark, when you are at your lowest, in the rare situation mom can't dig you out of the hole you're in, that there is a heavenly parent who can and will.
Happy Mother's day mom! I can only hope to one day be as wise and looked up to by my children as you are with me. I love you, smart lady. Nothing is quite as good a gift as a know-it-all fessing up to their short comings, so enjoy it, because this is the first and the last time I plan on doing so. :) Love you!
I never wake in a foul mood. It's mommy's morning breath that shocks me. She comes into my room with this terrifying robe on, her hair is flying in ten different directions and she smothers my face with this atrocious dragon breath. It's horrifying. I don't know how to react because she seems to enjoy putting her face into mine, which, if you ask me, is a fairly invasive disregard for my personal space. She then carries me down the steps and I hear the other human that is smaller than the parent humans loudly shouting and mommy sighs...again, in my face. I don't know how to tell her she needs a mint or something.
We round the corner and that blonde, small human is naked and slinging dog food at us. I don't understand this guy. He seems to me to be somewhat of a sociopath. He loves to destroy everything in his path. And the worst part is, mommy is constantly encouraging him to touch me and when no one was looking I saw him pick his nose. She calls this second form of invasion "hugs". I am so far not a huge fan. Mommy sets me down and makes both I and that blonde monster some breakfast. Here's the thing though, that crazed dog food thrower gets pancakes, bacon and eggs whereas I am force-fed, yet again, some whitish powder water. It fills me up, yes, but one can only tolerate the mundane for so long. She used to feed me delicious liquid I saw her extract from her own body, but that stopped and I don't know why, however I notice it has hugely impacted the size of her chest. I need to speak to someone in management about this. Daddy is under the impression he's in charge, but from my observations it appears the female parent is the one who runs the show, so perhaps I am out of luck.
I finish my "baba" (I don't know what that means, mommy seems to speak nonsensically quite often. I wonder if it's a health issue connected to her morning breath?) As a show of my distaste I regurgitate half of it back up onto her robe. I don't know why is is surprised, or upset for that matter. This stuff is disgusting and anyways, her robe is covered in ketchup thanks to the short human she insists on referring to as my brother.
Next she takes me back to my room and dresses me and forcefully shoves the most ridiculous head piece onto my skull. Large humans seem so thrilled to see me wearing this contraption so I chose at this time, not to refuse it, but it makes no sense to me. They make me hot and impede me from nap time. Speaking of, I am suddenly becoming very tired....
ONE HOUR LATER:
I wake in a different room, but see that mommy still wears the robe. I wonder if that's her uniform and thats why she wears it so often? I see that daddy is here now. He walks towards me and I realize what he's going to do! I reach out my hands to stop him and he takes that instead as an invitation to come closer! I don't even realize when it happened but my face bursts into flames as he rubs his sandpaper cheeks onto mine! Why does the male parent have short, black spikes sprouting from all over his head? The small "brother" who is also male doesn't...There are so many things I just don't understand.
tedious hours pass with nothing worth mentioning. The brother continues his quest to rampage, mommy has yet to change from her uniform, "baba" after "baba" is eaten and to no avail, spit back up.. I find solace in my thumb which eerily reminds me of the bottle, but is also somehow attached to me. I wonder why mommy and daddy laugh as I try to tell them things...I am starting to question whether or not they understand me. They speak in a gibberish I don't recognize as any language. What is a "sissy" or a "diapy"?
The day goes on like this, but then I find there is something hot and disturbingly squishy in my pants!! It's happening again! I have no idea how or why, but approximately three to four times a day I am, without warning, struck with an agonizing and uncomfortable sensation. I scream in panic!! Mommy frustratingly makes reference to my digestion, as if that has anything to do with this. GET IT OFF ME!!!!!!!!!!! She mockingly laughs but she does cease the misery with some damp wipes and a new pair of pants. As fast it came the agony stops and I am again put at ease. I can't help but assume the white powder water I am made to ingest has something to do with these episodes. I don't even want to discuss the malodorous stench associated with the issues.
I am still shaken and decide it is again time for some shut eye, but instead mommy starts to prepare a bath for both I and my "brother". I enjoy bath time, however the small monster similarly enjoys splashing me in the face with water, and it is severely annoying to say the least. I am taken from the warm water and she dresses me and to my chagrin demands upon brushing my hair. I endure for the most part and am then laid down where a magical spinning ring of butterflies serenades me to sleep. Mommy calls it a mobile, I call it heaven sent. As she rubs my back and sings to me I decide on two things, one being that her voice is horrible, but that I like it, and that I also kind of like all three of the humans I live with. They seem to mean well and for some reason in their presence I am comfortable and safe. I drift to sleep and my last thought of the day is how nice it is to be in this bed with these blankets, surrounded by these crazy humans....zzzzzz
To my friends without kids:
I know we used to hang out all the time, and I know we both have demanding jobs that keep us busy, but I also come home to two kids, an exhausted wife and never-ending bills. Your jobs pays your bills too, I know, but the money I make has to be stretched to the limit to buy diapers, baby wipes, my wife's pedicures, fund her scrap booking obsession, pay all the bills, put food on the table, and for the record, did you know formula is 27 dollars a tub? While you have some leftover for a night out on the town, my leftover money goes to two college funds and maybe take-out from Olive Garden so my wife doesn't have to make dinner tonight. I miss you, and I wish I could meet you out for a wild night like we used to have, but after working all day, coming home and immediately helping to set the table, playing some hoops with my son on the toddler basketball hoop, changing my daughter's diaper, getting online to pay for the electricity, having a family dinner, doing the dishes while my wife bathes both kids and finally being able to lay on the couch, I pretty much just want to stay here till I pass out and start all over again tomorrow.
I also help my wife with middle-of-the-night feedings. My daughter is up every two hours and I take over the first half of the night, and if I'm not home, she has to do it all on her own. And if I come home drunk at 3 in the morning, and wake either my daughter or my wife, I basically will be missing two key genitalia the next day.... I'm not whipped dude, my wife is the glue that keeps us together, but I'm the grease that keeps the machine running. Without me here, production ceases to a halt and pandemonium ensues. I pay for everything and everyone here. It's a tough job that puts a lot of unspoken pressure on me. No one says what they're thinking, but if I don't do my part, we have to live in a box. But not only that, I am expected to help with child rearing, some of the housework and any and all "man's work", "honey do" lists. I am exhausted at days end and I literally don't have enough hours in the day to work AND be a decent father. But I am. I manage to pull it together for my kids.
I teach my son how to be a good man, and I show my daughter how she needs to be treated someday when the time comes, I'm thinking sometime in her 40's. My wife has the luxury of breaking down sometimes to cry out her worries and her stress, but I don't. I am expected to be strong. I am the rock, the provider, and the protector, and no one wants to see me cry. So when I ignore your texts, or don't get back to you right away, it's not because I've moved on with my life, separate from you, it's just that I have so many things on my mind, I sometimes forget.
My wife also is able to have "play-dates" during the day, but I can't invite my bachelor buddies over for the game. The kids are napping and my wife just cleaned for the five-hundredth time this week, so I guess I could meet you somewhere for lunch, but only if I have time during my work day, and I probably won't be able to pay attention much to what you're saying because while the kids nap, my wife uses that time to fill me on on every little accomplishment, heart ache and drama she and the kids have experienced that day, and I actually am interested to hear my son asked about me all morning. Not to mention, if I ignore her she sends a text containing 35 question marks, and proceeds to tell me she has no adult contact all day, and why am I such an a-hole?
I appreciate your friendship and I really do care about you, but this season of life, I am busy and under a lot of pressure to "perform" and when I do have free time I want to use it to show my son how to throw a football and listen to my daughter repeatedly giggle at me when I rub my beard on her face. Just know when your time comes, I'll be there to offer you bad advice and zero judgement.
Sincerely,
A hardworking, loving dad of two
I have created a list that will vastly improve your social media experience and image. Consider this a lesson in PR.
- If you are a civil, decent person you won't argue with anyone via your page. Instead you'll screen shot said unpleasant comment, privately text a friend and viciously discuss how stupid that person is.
- If you have something to say to someone, you won't say it to them, instead you'll post a passive-aggressive inspirational quote that directly applies to the person in question and hashtag the word truth. Sometimes it's acceptable to tag a friend who will excitedly agree. "Soooo true, OMG!"
- Never post real struggles because as far as social media is concerned you live a perfect life full of unicorns and rainbows.
- If you take a personality test only share the results that color you in a unique way. Or even better, retake the test ten times till it says you are a born leader full of wisdom and class. "You were Jesus in your past life!"
- Progress pictures of your fitness journey can and should be deeply photo-shopped and filtered.
- Never delete people whose lives are train wrecks. They must be carefully followed and discussed with your friends who have it together.
- Screen shot texts where you've said something especially clever because everyone should be privy to your comedic genius.
- Egg on and encourage your average children to do and say "the darndest things" so everyone thinks they're prodigies.
- Always post gourmet meals you've cooked and arrange the food perfectly for the picture. Don't ever photograph your plate after you've heaped another thirteen helpings on because...#portioncontrol.
- Annoy everyone with your political and religious beliefs. Before posting your thoughts make sure you include a warning that you'll be offending everyone, because that's polite. "Be warned this is gonna offend some of you, but if you voted for Obama, you're a moron." Finish with #sorrynotsorry, so while displaying online etiquette, you're also showing you can and will make an unashamed stand.
- If you post a selfie claim you did so out of boredom because vanity is only acceptable under extreme apathy.
- Share my blog. ;)
