Nervous Breakdown in Five, Four...

OK, so, I know, I've been posting a lot of personal shit lately. And, I know, you don't give a rats ass about it. And, I know I say I hate to post this shit, and yet I keep doing it over and over again. And, I know I'm going to lose my two readers if I keep this shit up, but, shit, I've got shit to say. I just want to say "shit" one more time. Shit.

I am seriously at the point where I'm starting to think "What the fuck else ya got, asshole world? What the fuck else? Huh? What?" I mean, if it's not one thing it's another, and I'm about to lose it. Whatever it is.

We won't even talk about the possible horrificness that is the next four years. I don't think I can stomach it. I might just have a stroke, heart attack, aneurysm, seizure, or any combination of the four. I'd probably rather be catatonic for the next four years, but I gots bills to pay. Not that I'll have any money to pay them since Obama is going to give all my money to the worthless, lazy fucks who don't work. And, I'm the selfish one who wants to keep my fucking money. Ugh! I said we weren't going to talk about this. Now, look what you've made me do. Enough.

Of course, there is the issue of Travis' dad having surgery tomorrow. I say Travis' dad like he isn't my dad. But he is. For all intents and purposes. Travis and I are not married, as much as I'd like to be right now because these assholes at work are making me take vacation instead of sick time to be out for Dad's surgery because he isn't technically family. I call bullshit. I'm sorry, but my idea of vacation is not sitting in a hospital all damn day worrying about someone you fucking love, like, a whole lot. I sure as hell am not going to come back to work rested and relaxed, if you catch my drift. So, not only am I six inches from an anxiety attack about Dad's surgery, but I'm pissed because I'm having to waste precious vacation time--time that I could be using during the Holidays to spend time with my family I never get to see because I'm fucking two hours away. But, noooo, I get to spend it sitting at a hospital worrying all fucking day, and giving myself an ulcer, instead. Sorry, Dad, Mom, Granny and Pawpaw, Grandma, Sissy, Bubby, etc., etc., I won't get to spend Christmas with you. Awesome.

And, then, there is my actual dad. He's got Crohn's Disease or something, and he won't let them stick that thing up his butt to do the colonoscopy, so now I'm terrified that MY dad will get colon cancer, and he won't even know, and he'll just die. At, like, 50. And, what the hell am I going to do then? Tell me. Please. Because I don't have a clue.

And, then, last night, Travis gets rear-ended after work. He's OK. But, let me just give you the transcript of the first few minutes of that ordeal:

Travis and Linz on the phone.

Linz: "Blah, blah, blah, dinner, blah, your parents, blah, Longhorn, blah, after class, blah, blah, last big meal before his surgery, blah, blah, blah."

Travis: "Yeah."

SMACK.

Travis: "I just got in a wreck. I gotta go."

Linz: "Shit. What happened? Was it your fault?"

Travis: "No, he rear-ended me. I gotta go."

Travis and Linz hang up.

Linz thinks/talks to herself: "At least he's in a truck, so he didn't get hurt. SHIT. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, FUCKING SHIT. HE'S IN THE MUSTANG. Oh, he is going to be so pissed! Oh, shit, he's gotta get a police report. Before he kills the guy."

Linz calls Travis.

Linz: "You have have have have to get a police report."

Travis: "OK, I gotta go."

Linz: "Get a police report even if there isn't much damage."

Travis: "OK, I gotta go."

Linz: "Get a police report!"

Travis hangs up.

So, I'm assuming Travis is killing the guy while I'm sitting here wondering myself into a coronary about what happened and if his car is OK (I'm not that shallow, I could just tell Travis was fine by how he sounded). The Mustang I'm talking about is a 1965. Yeah, that's what I said. 19 fucking 65. His baby. The car he's had for, like, ten years. Let's put that into perspective: I haven't even been driving for ten years. So, anyway, at least he didn't kill the guy. Travis said he looked like he was about to start bawling, and he thought he was about to get his ass handed to him, but Travis kept his cool. All I can say is he's a better man than me. I'da killed the sombitch.

So, anyway, when it rains it pours. And, I just don't think I can handle anymore this week. So, if you hate me and you want to cuss me out for all these ridiculous personal posts, please wait until next week. And, if Dad's surgery goes poorly, well, you better just forget it. I'll be unavailable.