Do I Read YOUR Blog?

To my dear cousin over at http://www.raisinaruckus.typepad.com/ Fuck yeh, I read your blog.  Every day of my life.  Every single day, I get up and immediately race to the computer to read your blog.  I love your blog because it is the antithesis of my blog.  I'm on an undecipherable rant, and you're praising the day for picking up poop.

I'm bitching at my husband bragging about getting shit done over here - BIG shit - you know like painting and building and deconstructing shit and you've got a fucking sheep in your kitchen.  I saw a puppy with hip-displasia last night and informed my 7 year old that it will likely be put to sleep.  FOREVER.  Because, THAT is the way the world works.  You, on the other hand,  bring the fucking lamb into your kitchen, teach it to shit on a pad and call your photographer to race over to take an updated family photo that includes your newest addition.

I'm having an anxiety attack on a daily basis, trying to figure out how to juggle being a SUPER mom and a career woman while you're over there doing counted cross-stitch or some other fancy shmancy needlecraft - and also you're bragging about it while you're doing it - - - "I've completed 21 squares!"  Well zippy for you!  I SOLD all my craft shit on eBay about 6 years ago - EVERY single last unfinished project I ever started and saved for a rainy day. Well, Noah called and said it was going to RAIN - ALOT, so I gathered them all up and sold them ALL.  They are ALL gone.  And with their departure, I came to realize that I SUCK at crafts.  SUCK.  (Speaking of which, I do have $400 worth of jewelry making gear over here - ya know, cuz I wanted a fucking pink bangle or something one day). 

You think it's cute and funny when your kids bounce the ball in your house.  As a matter of fact, you do not even have a ball bouncing rule in your house.  What.the.fuck kind of shit is that?  I have a rule about bouncing balls in my house.  It's real fucking simple:  DON'T.  Or you will die.  See.  It's easy.  You bounce a ball within 15' of me, I pop that fucker with a nail gun.  Ball is gone, problem is solved - QUIT CRYING - Jesus.  It's a ball.  And I TOLD you NOT to bounce it. 

You write about walking around town or in stores, smiling at people, waving and saying hello.  I, on the other hand, am the one walking through the store, staring back at you with *that look* - you know, the "What.the.fuck are you looking at?" look.  That's me.  And also, because I'm polite, I even once rammed an old lady with my shopping buggy because she was in my way and her ass was fat and I needed to get by her.  But don't worry, I was happy after I rammed her.  As a matter of fact - I continued humming "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" as I was finally able to pass her fat ass.  That's how I roll!  You, however, would have likely stopped and spoken to the old fatty in a nice and respectful tone, offered to complete her shopping for her and then had her over to dinner that night. 

I don't know how you do it.  I really don't.  But your continual happiness and joy over life is really killing my ability to write shitty stuff in my blog.  The fucking pressure to compete with you is unreal.  Every day, I sit down to write something in my blog, and I'm all like, "No.  That's mean.  No.  That's not nice.  No.  People will think I'm ungrateful."  I cannot fucking deal with it.  I'm my OWN person and I will NOT succumb to your peer pressure of eternal fucking bliss in a world that is so, well, easy to poke fun at. 

So from here on out - we gotta take sides - you be the good cousin, I'll be the bad cousin.  That means you wear the halo and I get the horns.  But because I know you better than some of your other so-called followers, you can carry the pitchfork, you'll need it to shovel that sheep shit out of your kitchen anyway!!