Fact or Fiction

November 4th, 2007.

A lot of people have made the argument that my site is fiction. The reason they believe this is because, and I’m quoting them directly here, “There is no way so many interesting things can happen to one person.”

I find this utterly hilarious.

The reason this is so funny to me is because I don’t find my life particularly interesting at all. In fact, I would go so far as to describe it as utterly uneventful and quite boring. You would too, if you were actually living my life.

See, what a lot of you don’t understand is that where I lack in genuine literary talent, I make up for in an astounding ability to babble for hours about absolutely nothing. Don’t believe me? Then I hereby challenge you to try a little experiment. Take any article I’ve ever written and sum up what actually happened in a single sentence. If you go searching for the meat in my stories, you’ll probably end up finding a bunch of bare bones.

Take this update, for example. Summed up, it would simply read: I saw a deer.

This website is nothing more than 250+ posts of pure fucking fluff. If anything, that’s proof that it’s real.

With that said, I did have a fairly eventful week this week, which is why I haven’t updated. On the other hand, the only reason I’m calling it ‘eventful’ is because a typical day of mine consists of me shuffling from mindless activity to mindless activity. I hike and I knit and then it’s snack time. Then I fiddle around with wires, read a book and take a nap. After that, it’s a rousing game of horse shoes followed by a bubble bath and bedtime. To be honest, it’s kind of like living in an old folk’s home. I’m a senior fucking citizen in my 30’s.

The rest of this update will be nothing more than idle bitching about my crappy fucking week. So if you want to quit reading now, I wouldn’t blame you in the least. If you do continue reading, just know that I am not legally responsible for any inexplicable urges you may get to shoot yourself if the face out of boredom.

My week opened with a pile of puke. My dog awoke suddenly from her nap and started horking up her breakfast like I was paying her to do it. When finished, she looked at me with sad, miserable eyes and I couldn’t even be upset with her…despite my white carpet. So I called her over to me and she laid her big, goofy head in my lap. I scratched her behind her ears and tried to soothe her. This worked for about 5 minutes before she leapt out of my arms and started running for the front door. Unfortunately, the front door just happened to be closed and my poor pup couldn’t control her body any longer. I wish I could explain to you what happened to her ass at that point in time, but I highly doubt God Himself is that verbose. However, the phrase ‘Swamp water shooting out of a garden house’ does spring to mind.

So much for white carpet.

Cue the trip to the vet and the two hour wait in a room full of barking, out of control dogs and the prayers that if my dog unleashes hell out of her asshole again, she at least aims for the douchebag screaming into his cell phone as if he’s the most important fucking douchebag in the whole wide world. Please o’ please, kind sir, do speak up. It is impossible for me to truly grasp the magnitude of your brilliance and popularity until my ears start bleeding.

Anyway,the vet gave me some pills and told me to ‘wait and see.’ I curtly explained to him that if my dog died while I was ‘waiting and seeing,’ he would die next. He laughed nervously, vainly trying to determine whether or not I was kidding. After an uncomfortable silence, he pointed out that my previously lethargic dog seemed to be perking up a little. He suggested that I should go ahead and take her to agility class since it wasn’t likely that she was contagious. I fretted a little, wondering aloud if maybe I shouldn’t force her to stay home and rest. He said, “Well, if she starts getting tired, you can always cut the class short.” He made a good point, so a couple of hours later, we were on our way to agility.

So we were driving along, bouncing our heads in time with the radio, without a care in the world. Then, all of the sudden, I was in someone’s front yard. So pronounced is my guilt complex that the very first thought that entered my mind was, “HOLY SHIT! WHAT DID I DO NOW?”

I immediately checked over my dog to make sure she was unhurt. She seemed fine, just scared as hell. Someone tapped on my window.

“Are you OK?”

I attempted to open my door, but for some reason, it didn’t budge. So I replied, “No. I can’t get out.”

The gentleman, who I assumed owned the yard my vehicle was currently parked in, helped me pry open my door. I hopped out and called to my dog. She looked at me as if to say, “Are you fucking crazy? No, I’ll just sit right here, thank you very much.”

I blinked my eyes and asked the gentleman, “What happened?”

He motioned over to another car that had pulled halfway out of the driveway next door. Her rear bumper was in shambles. Gradually, the situation became clear.

The woman in the other vehicle was attempting to pull out of her driveway. Because it was such a busy street, she had punched her accelerator in the hopes that she could maneuver quickly into traffic. The only problem was she didn’t notice my vehicle DIRECTLY BEHIND HER. When she broadsided me, she spun me 360 degrees where I hopped a curb and took out a mailbox, a pole and two trashcans before finally landing in a front yard.

You all know what that means, don’t you? The accident wasn’t my fault. I mentally high fived myself because I’m gay like that.

The woman in the other car got out and was walking around, so I opted to call my husband rather than talk to her. As I was explaining my location to my husband, I noticed the woman was fiddling with something in her back seat. After a few moments, she pulled a sobbing 4 year old child out of her car.

I hung up on my husband and ran over to the woman. “Oh my, is that baby alright?” I asked.

The woman, who was sobbing along with her kid, nodded meekly.

“Has anyone called for help?” I asked.

The gentleman who helped me out of my car answered. “The Chief of police lives right across the street. He’s got people coming.”

My husband and the police showed up on the scene almost simultaneously. The police tended to the woman and the kid while my husband helped me coax my dog out of my car. Finally, she jumped out and I checked her over more thoroughly. Once again, she seemed fine, just a little shaken up.

A police officer came over and asked me to fill out a statement. I noticed that the woman in the other vehicle was still crying hysterically, so I asked, “Are they OK?”

“Yeah. They’re fine. Are you OK?”

“I’m OK. I’d like to get my dog to the vet, though. Just in case.”

“Fair enough. We’ll try to make this quick.”

So I tried to write my statement, but to be completely honest, I was having trouble concentrating being that the other chick was still howling up a fucking storm. It was getting ridiculous. I mean, even her kid had stopped crying at this point. So what the hell was her fucking problem?

OK, to be fair to her, it was a pretty scary accident…especially for me. While the other woman’s car had barely made it out of the driveway, my car had been spun into oncoming traffic at a swift 40 miles per hour on an extremely busy street. Should another car have been in the opposite lane at that precise moment in time, I probably would have been hit head on and died. I was keenly aware of this fact in the moments following the accident.

Still, I had my dog with me who depends on me to be her leader. So even though I was a bit shaken up myself, I put on a brave front because I knew if I fell apart, she would become 10 times more rattled than she already was being that she takes her cue from me. So someone, anyone, please tell me why this woman who broadsided me couldn’t suck it up and put on a brave face for her fucking kid?

I am so fucking sick and tired of women having meltdowns in front of their children. Kids depend on their parents to be strong, confident, and self assured. Children look to their parents for protection and guidance. A parent should be a calming presence in a child’s life, not a goddamn pile of sobbing jelly. A traffic accident is a traumatizing enough situation for a child. Watching Mother have a breakdown directly afterwards does nothing but instigate said trauma.

I was at the park a couple of weeks ago and these two women showed up with about 5 little kids. The kids ran off towards the swings and slides and the women sat on a bench close by, obviously in the middle of a very private conversation. Suddenly, one of the women started crying. The little kids, scared and worried, tentatively crept back over to find out what was wrong. The woman who wasn’t crying attempted to shoo them away, but the kids merely backed up and watched from a distance. They looked at each other with frightened, almost pained, expressions on their little faces.

I wanted to slap the shit out of that crying woman.

Hey, I understand that terrible shit happens. But that doesn’t excuse your responsibility towards your kids. If you want to have a breakdown, have a fucking breakdown. Bawl into a fucking towel until your eyes pop out of your fucking head, for all I care. Just make sure you’ve tended to your children first, so they don’t have to sit there and witness it.

If you are so emotionally weak that you lack the ability to put on a brave face for your children, then you shouldn’t have children. No excuses. Unless someone has died, I don’t want to see any more of you puling little bitches bawling in front of your fucking kids. And even if someone has died, I still want you to pull it together as best as humanly possible. If I can do it for my dog, you can do it for your kid. I repeat: NO EXCUSES.

Anyway, there’s more to this story including me pinching a nerve in my neck causing me to end up in a hospital with a crazy fucking nurse who purposely slapped the shit out of me with a neck brace and a very heated argument with an insurance agent that included me screaming, “I don’t give a flying fuck what happens to my car! Set the fucking car on fire! Piss on the ashes! I don’t fucking car! I’m worried about my dog! My dog is worth more than that goddamn car!” But I’m tired of writing this garbage just now. The funny thing about the ‘eventful’ moments in my life is that, in print, they always end up seeming pretty damn dull.

Like I said before, my best stories are the ones about absolutely nothing.

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