Today I learned that “unfriending” someone on Facebook is the Ultimate Form of Insult, and by “learned” I mean that someone did it to me and by “insult” I mean “Really? B-b-but… I thought we were (sniff) f-f-f-friends? (sniff).” It totally hurt my feelings and made me feel all stabby and hateful, because being stabby and hateful is my first reaction to feeling sad.*
So I guess it’s no surprise that the stabby-hateful thing took over and for a while there all I could do was imagine this new UNFRIEND**stripped naked, with tender parts covered in something sticky and delicious, abandoned in an open area where many animals with big, sharp teeth (and a strong taste for sticky, delicious things) reside.
Eventually it passed, but just because I’m no longer imagining myself feeding this UNFRIEND’s still-attached privates to hungry, fangy wild things – don’t misunderstand. I definitely still wish the UNFRIEND a terrible pain, but I’ve managed to get my strong (STRONG STRONG) desire to feed said person to large mammals with sharp teeth under some semblance of control, so I’m calling that a success.***
Now I’m just sort of Whatever-you’re-a-DICK, and that’s pretty familiar territory for me so I can concentrate again on other things like the new Twitter account I’ve started for The Creepy Dude in the Next Cubicle and trying to keep pants on my kid (WHO DOES NOT LIKE THEM NO HE DOES NOT) and getting my house ready for Thanksgiving (which, already: FAIL) and trying not to cry when I look out my back door at the Yard O’Mud that was supposed to be a Beautiful, Luscious, Thick Carpet of Green by now.
I’m also actively avoiding my office’s Thanksgiving Potluck, because, AS PREDICTED, I signed up to bring something and then completely forgot all about that shit and the Holiday Sweater Lady is PISSED, Y’ALL. She’s been hunting for me and my broccoli casserole ALL MORNING but somehow I’ve managed to evade capture — at least, so far. I DID manage to catch a glimpse of today’s sweater, though, and let me tell you, people, it’s FUCKING ART. This is a Texas Turkey, no doubt about it, with cowboy boots that have bells for spurs and a big cowboy hat that actually extends BEYOND the shoulder of the thing and both the boots AND the hat are made of SUEDE, Y’ALL. SUEDE. And the damn thing’s holding a SHOTGUN in its hands, which — turkeys have hands? THIS BADASS MOTHERFUCKER DOES. Holiday Sweater Lady means THE BIDNESS today, no lie.
You can see why I’m running scared.****
So I’m sorry this post isn’t longer but I’ve got problems, people, REAL PROBLEMS. I think I might be in – SHIT SHE’S COMING I THINK SHE HEARD ME*****
*Or scared. Or uncertain. Or embarrassed. Or lost. Or amused. Or claustrophobic. Or happy. Or in between things.
**I don’t like this term UNFRIEND. It makes me want to call divorce UNMARRYING. Or murder UNLIVING. And something about that is just UNRIGHT.
***I should get some kind of award or something. The Best At Not Feeding Horrible People to Wild Animals award. Does that award exist? Because it should. It totally should.
****And by “running” I mean hiding under my desk, and by scared, I mean “PLEASE DON’T HURT ME WITH YOUR WILD TURKEY EYES AND HOLIDAY SWEATER SHOTGUN”
*****(hiding under desk) (holding breath) I’m scared. And feeling stabby again. If anything happens to me, somebody be sure to get my People-Who-Should-Be-Investigated-in-the-Event-of-my-Death List into the right hands, m’kay? I’M COUNTING ON YOU GUYSStumble it!