Via Say Uncle, some guy in Australia is making disguises for politically incorrect breeds. Happily, we don’t have to shell out the money for such a disguise, since we can tell folks that Mrs. Wigglebottom is just a Boston Terrier with gigantism, but it’s fun to consider what kinds of breeds she could be disguised as.
The animal she most closely resembles, though, is a tiny hippopotamus. I don’t know if taking advantage of that resemblance is really going to make folks feel safer around her.
Y’all, when I look back on my life with my family, I feel like it’s marked by a lot of fucked up stupidity and misery punctuated by brief inexplicable bouts of happiness that kind of grow like tiny hearty wildflowers until someone notices them and yanks them out by the roots.
If times are tough, my family is pretty good about coming through for you.
But, folks, I’m tired of tough times. I don’t want tough times. I don’t want there to have to be some kind of disaster for them to come through for me.
I want to be happy with them. I want them to come through for me when the situation is good. I don’t want them to relieve my burdens. I want them to share my joy.
And the fact that they can’t do this for me, this thing that feels good and is easy and takes no effort and means so much, it just makes me despair.
Say Uncle says
The AR is better than the AK.
And I immediately think
"Is Arkansas better than Alaska? It’s closer, sure…"
—–
Y’all know that part in Beetlejuice where Wynona Rider’s character is all writing about how depressed she is and she sits down in all earnestness and writes “I am alone. I am utterly alone.” and it’s funny at the same time it kind of hits too close to home?
Well, there you go. That’s what I realized this evening.
I’m the girl whose door is always open. You don’t even have to fucking bother to ask. Just call to say that you’re dropping your kids off this day or that you’re really going to need me to dust before you arrive next week because of your allergies or that you’re going to need the car to take your friend to the airport.
Fine. I’m just the girl whose door is always open.
And I’ll stop believing that all the ways you count on me to just be here for you when you need me are some measure of the ways that I can count on you.
Never mind that you’re all I have in the fucking world and even you can’t spend three fucking hours one night listening to good music and just sitting next to me and being supportive of me and the things that are important to me.
God, I hate you fuckers.
I think I would rather never ask you to come to anything again than to look up from an especially brilliant moment to realize than I’m all alone and that y’all have ditched me without saying a word.
The ways you treat me make me feel like I must just suck so bad, because who would treat a woman worth anything like being with her when she was doing what she loved was a burden?
Tiny Cat Pants 