I know we all have our fair share of evil co-workers that grate on our last damn nerve. I am no exception.

I should preface this with the fact that a) I don’t really care if people need to pass gas as long as I don’t have to smell it – whether it’s from your face or your ass and b) I tend to really dig old people ’cause they’ve got lots of fun shit to talk about.

With that said, I am about thisclose to taking a spork to the back of Mr. S’ head. He is in his 80s. You can hear him shuffling along a mile away. At first, this was endearing because, hello, old people are cute!

Not this one.

This one? He likes to gum his fucking dentures. It’s like he’s sucking on a damn lollipop and I swear to goodness if I have to hear that wet slobbery sound one more time I’m going to go postal.

Even more disgusting is his constant burping. The man passes more gas through his face than a cow through its ass.

If they were dry burps, I could handle it so much better. But, no, these are wet and disgusting and start as his toes, gaining momentum, until they force their way through his damn mouth. I shit you not when I say he looks like this:

and sounds like this:

You know.. if a visual image made a sound without technological assistance.

This happens so often it’s gotten to the point where I will immediately put my headphones on when I hear his trademark shuffle down the hall.

The worst? When he forgot to wear his Depends and had shitty accidents for the building janitors to clean up. Not once, but TWICE.

I’m not sure what’s gotten into me as of late, but I haven’t been feeling quite like myself.

My work situation is stressing me out to the max. I can not even begin to explain how much I dislike being here. To add insult to injury, my supervisor hardly trusts the air I breathe, let alone the time sheets I turn in.  There’s no real reason for her to be so mistrusting, other than she worked as a lawyer back in the day.

Let me tell you guys something – I DO NOT STEAL. Fibbing on a timesheet? That’s stealing. And it irks me to the extreme that the person who signs my timesheets would think such a thing of me.

There is a history of problems that I could get into, but I shall refrain. I’m partly to blame for some of the issues from the past… I’ve been working my ass off to rectify the issue – but I fear that the damage has simply been done.

I haven’t been sleeping well lately because at night I think about the 60 million things going wrong.

So, add the work stuff to the car drama and my consequential money drama, I’ve been tossing and turning and freaking the fuck out.

The car, by the way, had to go back to the shop this morning. It started making HORRIBLE noises this Saturday and I have yet to figure out where it’s coming from. I can’t exactly see what part of the under belly is knocking so hard against the car – all I know is that it quickens as I speed up. And it’s fucking obnoxious.

Moreover, the rear left emergency break hose? They didn’t connect it properly so it’s been rubbing against my tire, which is terribly exciting, I might add. The insurance rep at the collision center looked at me REALLY wide eyed when I showed him exactly where one of the 3 issues was.

Apparently, he’s not accustom to chicks looking under their own vehicles.

Fuck that nonsense.. I much prefer being an informed consumer.

Anyhoodle – I’ve been trying to come up with witty banter for the blog but it’s just not happening right now.

I want to be SUPER DUPER excited about Chicago, but the money issues are making that exceedingly difficult. It’s like a gray overcast keeping me from seeing the sunshine.

You’re an asshole.

And that’s putting it nicely.

I get that you can’t quit the drinking. I get that you’re a bit of a dickhead, mostly because of said drinking.

But I’d really like my old dad back. You know, the one that took Cedric and me to the record shops all over town. The one that surprised us with trips to theme parks.

The one that smiled all the time.

The one that felt something other than desolation and isolation.

I could go into a myriad of things that you’ve done that are just beyond unacceptable.. like when you bought mom a Benz while she was out of town, as a “birthday present” only to turn around and make her pay for it, despite that she was quite all right with her Honda.

Or that time you beat her up and had to spend the night in jail. You know, none of us really healed from all of that. Some of us (read: me) still harbor ridiculous amounts of anger towards you over the whole thing. Mainly because your entire outlook on it is, “well, I’M the one with the police record now!” Yeah. No shit Sherlock. Don’t go beating the fuck out of your spouse in a drunken rage and this shit wouldn’t happen.

I think my favorite example of your cowardice was that time I was in my last year at college and you grabbed all your shit (and some that wasn’t) and dipped without even telling mom at all. Again, she was on a business trip across the country and apparently your M.O. was to fuck shit up while she was away. You know, I still can’t understand why she had to find out from the mother fucking TV Repairman that you had finally screwed up the balls to leave.

Nevermind that you’d been saying you were leaving for the past decade.

At this point, I wasn’t exactly shocked that you left, but I was fucking annoyed by the lame way you did it.

I should, in fact, not really give a damn about any of this… and to a large extent, I’ve learned to let your bullshit slide right off my back. I won’t even get into the crap that you did to me with the verbal abuse at every turn.

Nope.

I won’t.

Because that shit? It’s in the past. And while I’d love to harp on it all some more, the fact of the matter is that we no longer communicate.

Well, not unless I’ve called you OR you’re drunk. That’s usually when you’ve somehow come to the idea that calling your daughter is a Good Idea. I find it ironic, really. And perhaps a little shameful as well… seeing as how even those calls are few and far between.

I haven’t spoken to you in months because I haven’t bothered picking up the phone.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Happy Father’s Day, you big jerk.

Your jaded daughter,
Deutlich

Meet Henry, he’s a kitten we’re watching while his mom is in Germany. He’s all kinds of mischievous and a little too smart for his own good. If he’s doing something he knows he’s not supposed to, or if you simply walk within 50 feet of him, he’ll flop over and start purring. He does this because he knows we humans are WEAK and will not only forgive him but pet him too. Fucker.

Everything intrigues him. Or scares him. Whatever. Same difference.

He loves when I take photos of him.

Except, not really.
(Notice my array of OLD ass CDs? Yeah, those suckers need replacement. Hence their strategic placement in front of my TV. Uhm. . . it makes sense to me.

Henry really liked playing with the package I got from Kristen. Actually, he hasn’t quite realized that it’s his paws underneath it that make it move.

He also likes playing under my bed.

Speaking of the package, I GOT STUFF IN THE MAIL!!!! And it is awesome. I won a little contest over at This Is the Story of a Girl…a Complicated Girl. I especially enjoy the card that reads, “as a matter of fact I am the f*** Queen!” Notice, they did not indicate enough stars for the -ing ending. Ha! HA! HA!

So, while on the topic of contests, I shall announce zee winners of my first ever Pay It Forward contest. I know. I know. The suspense! THE SUSPENSE! Or something..

Just a note, there will be one more PIF coming up shortly so if you aren’t one of the 3 finalists, don’t fret! Cuz, yeah. And I promise the next one will be much less “involved” and way more randomly picked.

First of all, the entries were far more fabulous than I could’ve ever imagined. Thank you all for the laughs AND for entering. You guys are awesome.

Without further adieu:

#1 – Liz from What Liz Said with “Yea, mom… I need money for more books. I’ve been studying really hard.” This had me laughing loudly for a good five minutes because I was guilty as fuck of calling mom for money while in college and using it on everything BUT what I told her. So. Yeah.

#2 – Random Musings of My Life with “Look honey, we chose the right kind of friends” because, hello! Who doesn’t like an orgy? Which, you know, may not have been what she was insinuating but fuckit, that’s where my head went and why she’s a winner.

#3 – Peter DeWolf with “Ewwww. I am disgusted. DIS-GUSTED. You people sicken me. Who in the fuck brought Malibu Rum???” Need I say more? I think not.

Please email me at deutlich.blog@gmail.com with your mailing addresses. Since I’d like to add stuff I find in Cleveland and Chicago (and I don’t go for another 2 weeks), I can guarantee those packages won’t get there super soon but I promise it won’t be in 2 months either.

Honorable mentions go to:
Froggy for “Camp David, August 19, 1993.

(Big Bill C’s first birthday in office.)”
I can actually see this.

DMB for “Wait….this isn’t TANG!”
I’m not even going to tell you why this had me chuckling. I’m sure you can figure it out. Just remember I’m about as mature as a 13 year old.

Jack for “Sorry guys, I’m a little short on cups.”
Oy! Could you imagine?! Gross because the inside of that thing is squishy LUBE-CITY, but funny as hell.

Two posts in one day? Say what?!

Sorry to any of you who aren’t diggin’ it.. but at least blogland is pretty “dead” these days so I’m [hopefully] not clogging up your Readers.

Anyhoodle.

Remember that guy I mentioned? The one I went on the date with?

Well, he’s awesome.

Maybe too awesome. So awesome, in fact, that I do NOT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE IT.

Y’see, I’m used to assholes. So much so, that when someone is nice it takes me a really, really long time to get used to it. And to trust that it’s real. I mean, really, really, reeaaallly long time.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

My heart is a fickle place and gets bruised so easily that I’ve yet to learn how to really deal with it. Remember that STUPID letter I sent Brian? Yeah.. that? Blew up in my face.

I mean.

Blew. Up.

And me being the over-worrier that I am, have yet to shake myself of the hurt feelings over it all. I’m a grown ass woman with a whole lot to offer and I’ve let some douche nozzle deplete my self confidence. To add insult to injury, I’m just not feeling all that great about myself in general these days.

Between the horrendous time I’m having at my job; my less than stellar money management skills and my body image issues, I just feel like a fucking flake.

It’s disturbing.

So, the guy (you know what? Let’s just call him Guy) knows about the majority of this because a) he reads my blog and b) we spoke quite a bit prior to actually meeting one another.

In true form, none of this really bothers him. He’s even willing to pay for shit when we go out. And really? That’s super sweet!

But I can’t do it.

I just. Can’t. Do. It.

There is something ridiculously wrong about relying on ANYone else to pay for ANYthing. My financial troubles are my own, they are due to years and years of neglect and acting like an idiot. I should never have even said anything, but the fact of the matter is that I’m brutally honest.

What it boils down to is simple, I’m not trying to act like some chick who doesn’t need anything from anyone, but I can’t allow other people to take care of me if I can’t do it myself.

It bothers the fuck out of me.

And what little self-worth I seem to be scraping up these days is completely obliterated when other people have to pay for the beers or the dinner or the gas.

It sickens me to the core.