Dear Aunt Becky,

Hypothetically, let’s say you have an obese ‘friend’ (more than acquaintance, not BFF’s). You see something that you think would interest them because of their size, like a show or a blog. Do you tell them about it knowing they’ll make the connection to their size? Or just keep it to yourself?

*whistles* Oh Prankster, this question seems positively fraught with peril.

My dad gave me two pieces of advice (he’s given me WAY more than that):

1) “Put on some goddamned pants, Rebecca.”

3) Don’t ever talk shit about the in-laws, ask if someone is pregnant unless the baby is hanging out of their vagina, or bring up weight.

Recently, I got a PR pitch, something that rarely happens to me because I swear a lot (because swearing = awesome), so I was a little flattered. This company was offering me free plus-sized clothes.

Awkward.

I’m not plus-sized. I don’t know that you’d know what I weigh or what size I wear by reading my blog or anything, but this was a little…awkward. It didn’t hurt my feelings or anything. I mean, I’m more offended when someone expects me to jump up and down for a $5 box of chocolates, but if I’d gotten the pitch when I still losing the baby weight? I might not have liked it. No, scratch that, I’d have cried. I was really sensitive about it.

So, I don’t know that I can tell you what you should do since I don’t know you or her or your relationship to her, but I’ll tell you that I ignored my dad’s first rule (pants are bullshit, after all), but I do try and follow number two. Unless she’s asking you for referral, I think this is better left alone. Hurt feelings aren’t easily mended.

Pranksters? Advice?

Dear Aunt Becky,

The night I was born, my mother called my father at 1am in the morning saying “This baby will not go to sleep!” And I basically haven’t slept ever since.

Quite literally from the day I was born, I’ve been an insomniac. Actually, even worse than an insomniac, I’ve been a nocturnal insomniac. A term I’m 20% certain I made up, meaning I’m about 99% more likely to have luck falling asleep during the day than at night. No matter how exhausted I feel during the day, the sun goes down and suddenly I’m wide awake. I’m not sure if I’m a vampire or an opossum, but either way, it’s ANNOYING!

I’m 20 1/2 years old and this thing has been messing up my life my. whole. life. I would rather like to NOT go through the remainder of my life feeling like a zombie. As I have everyday of my life thus far. And sleeping pills are NOT the answer! So speaking to a fellow insomniac and fellow merry pranksters, are there any magic tricks I can try or voodoo people I can see? Because my internal clock really needs to be reset.

Sincerely,

Sleepless In A City Other Than Seattle

Oh Prankster, my Prankster, I’d love to churn out something flip and witty and coy about insomnia, but I can’t because I haven’t slept properly in weeks.

Like you, I’m nocturnal. I’ve spent thirty years trying to reverse this. Thirty years trying to fit into a world that doesn’t operate on my schedule. And you know what I’ve learned? I can’t.

I also go through cycles where sleep doesn’t come no matter what I do. Insomnia is a wily bastard. I have no doubt that someone like Heath Leger, who reportedly suffered insomnia, was just trying to get some freaking sleep.

As for curing your insomnia, I wish like hell I had anything of substance to offer you. I write (in my head) when I can’t sleep. I take sleep aids. I’ve tried a bedtime routine and chamomile tea and candles and visualization and meditation and relaxation and exercise and sex and melatonin there’s nothing that’s much helped me. I’m a shitty sleeper.

Tonight I’m certain I’ll be up with some catchy commercial jingle in my head because it’s not bad enough that I can’t sleep – I have to hear the Turn The (fucking) Tub Around song while I lay in bed watching the minutes tick by growing more and more irritated with each passing second.

Maybe I’ll catch you on IM sometime.

Pranksters? Any advice for Sleepless and Your Aunt Becky?

So, Pranksters, I have a Go Ask Aunt Becky question up over here and it’s about cosmetic surgery. As in: what would you tell your daughter if you were going to be getting a boob job? I haven’t been able to look at the comments because I’m terrified that I’m being shredded in them. Plastic surgery, it seems, is one of those things that people get very up in arms about.

And, as always, please feel free to pick up where I left off in the comments. I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say in response to all of these questions. Because, obviously.

Blah, blah, blah, BLOGGIES.

When I got this shirt, several things happened:

We had the “Storm of the Century” in Chicago.

I got nominated for a Bloggie*.

My sex appeal increased by 9 million.

Everyone I know* stopped wanting to hang out with me.

The last of which, I know, is only because they couldn’t bear to be in the company of such epic greatness without feeling sadly inferior. I mean, it’s a PURPLE UNICORN SHIRT. How can you not feel like you are somehow not good enough? Even I can’t tell where the shirt ends and the awesome begins!

So after I strapped on this beautiful purple unicorn shirt, I got an email from my friend Cecily asking if I wanted to talk to a psychic. I’m sure she sensed the shift in the Earth’s Gravitational Pull and knew I needed to hear what my destiny held. Of course I agreed. I’m a big fan of Miss Cleo and her infomercials.

I’d never talked to a psychic before so I was slightly nervous. What would this brilliant seer into my soul say?

Well, it turns out, Pranksters, this will BE MY YEAR. Without giving away too much (are psychic readings like birthday wishes?), I’m going to be a very busy girl. I’ll finally manage to sell my books. PUBLISHERS, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO CALL ME.

The psychic was eerily accurate about a bunch of details about my life and I don’t know if it’s the Epic Unicorn Shirt or what, but I’m feeling downright giddy about what the future holds and that’s not even because I drank five cups of coffee that I made with Redbull instead of water. Let’s get this book-selling-career-starting-unicorn-shirt-wearing-show-on-the-road!

Pranksters, we’ve got a world to take over and an internet to take back from Mark Zuckerberg and Jimmy Wales. I’m not going anywhere without you guys. And my purple unicorn shirt. Naturally.

P.S. Weather Channel, CALL ME. This is the worst map yet:

Ah, that’s better.

*You should, um, vote for me if you want, and, um, stuff. I’m up for Best Humor (I think they meant “funniest looking”) and Best Writing. And Band Back Together is up for Best Kept Secret.

**3 people

Dear Amelia,

When you were two, you were a tiny Muppet of a girl, all curls and whirls and bounce and fire.

When you were two, you danced when you were happy; clapping your hands and snorting and giggling.

When you were two, you could also kick the ass of anyone who needed it with your fists of fury. Your fury is legendary.

When you were two, Hello Kitty was your best friend. You called it “Hi Kitty.”

When you were two, your laughter sounded like the tinkling of a thousand bells.

When you were two, your mother tried to make you a heart cuppity-cake. It looked like testicles.

When you were two, your mother bought herself a present to celebrate your birth.

When you were two, your house was filled with balloons and laughter and love and light.

And for a moment, on the day that you were two, my heart took flight.

Happy Birthday, My Princess of the Bells, Amelia Grace.

Yesterday, everyone freaked out as the Great Storm of 2011, SnOMG made it’s way towards the Midwest. I was reminded of the Great Hamdemic of Aught Niner. I was one of the lucky ones felled by the Swine Flu (I actually ended up SUING it at the People’s Court. I won. No, seriously. I did.) (I owe my victory to I Eat My Kids Snacks.)

I remember laying around in a sick, feverish haze, watching Dexter – hating Lila – drinking buckets of Delsym when I saw on the Panic! section of the news, they’d interviewed a cat. A fucking CAT. A cat that had the swine flu.

Now, that brings up so many more questions than it could ever answer.

7) Where did that cat come from?

13) Was the cat actually a dog?

19) Did that news anchor go home and cry because she hadn’t gotten straight A’s in Journalism School to live her life interviewing animals?

23) Why would anyone care?

And now I have one more question:

31) Where was that cat during SnoPocalypse 2011?

All week, all I heard was “put on some fucking pants,” (my family) and “ZOMG STORM ZOMG” (the Internet) and I couldn’t help but wonder: was this going to be another HamDemic?

Yesterday, I sat, waiting for SnoGasm2011 to turn me into a Popsicle*, I felt kinda…unprepared. I mean, I had some candles somewhere (probably) and a flashlight without batteries somewhere else, and I even had some bottles of water. I went as far as to charge my phone as the sky remained bright and clear. SnoPocolypse 2011 seemed…a bit dull.

But Twitter hit a fever pitch. I’m not even sure anyone on The Twitter was actually in any areas affected by SnoTorious BIG.

Begrudgingly, I checked the weather.

Well, that looked mighty impressive. Especially since I live in the middle of the two arrows.

Why, those arrows made me want to get some cardboard and write THE END IS NIGH and run around my neighborhood screaming about the end of days. Or, at the very least, maybe find something to eat. Arrows make me hungry.

After I looked at the arrows, then sadly at my microwave, and back at the arrows again (microwaving is an awful lot of work!), I got that old familiar DING sound. Had I just won another 10000000$ from a Nigerian Relative? COULD IT REALLY BE? OH HAPPY DAY!

Frantically, I checked my email.

Oh. No. Not money. It was an email from the school district (BOO) telling me that school was being let out 45 minutes early (DOUBLE BOO) and canceled for the following day (TRIPLE BOO).

Apparently, those arrows did not make other people hungry.

It took many hours for the snow to begin. When it did, I checked the weather again.

Oh. So. Now we had 50 MPH winds, snow, ice storms, blizzards, and floods? Where were the plagues of locusts and cats and dogs living together in total anarchy?

But wait. The End of Days may have been upon us, but I was more concerned about one thing: that map had no arrows! It was just a map with blue stuff on it. This was not a map befitting the Storm of the Century. I mean, we had ThunderSnow!

I had to step in.

Well that was a little better. The arrows added a little something to it. But it was snowing AND thundering AND flooding. This map did not do SnotoriousBIG 2011 justice!

PHEW. This map is a little more impressive. When you add a skull-and-crossbones to anything, it’s WAY more hardcore. Plus, DANGER and NO with a line through it? This map is practically OSCAR-worthy.

It was missing something.

But…what?

PERFECT. It’s now a FESTIVE LET’S! PANIC! map befitting the end of the world in the Great Blizzaster of 2011. This map was getting pretty awesome!

It’s only missing one adorable thing. My fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles!

Why, that crazy fake cat gets into everything in a wily, yet adorable way!

Screw blogging. I’m going to make MAPS. Festive ones that SCARE people in a decidedly ADORABLE way.

79) What flavor would I be? That question will keep me up all night.

The Daver, 2004: “You should start a blog.”

Aunt Becky: “What the shit is a ‘blob?‘”

The Daver: “You know, an online weblog?”

Aunt Becky: “Is that for Dungeons and Dragons people? Because I do not play Dungeons and Dragons. I am offended that you would think I play Dungeons and Dragons, The Daver. Also: gravy.”

The Daver: “You’re offended by gravy?”

Aunt Becky: “Only the powdered kind.”

The Daver: “Ha, no. Blogs aren’t for Dungeons and Dragons. A blog is kinda an online journal.”

Aunt Becky: “So. Wait. You write a diary online?”

The Daver: “Kinda.”

Aunt Becky: “And then…other people read it?”

The Daver: “Yes. Some. Probably.”

Aunt Becky: “OMG. Bwahahahahahahahahaha! THAT’S SO RIDICULOUS.”

The Daver: “Gee. Thanks.”

Aunt Becky: “Who gives a flying shit what I think about ‘eating grilled cheese‘ or ‘driving through snow?‘ Why would anyone care?”

The Daver: *shrugs* “I’d read what you wrote.”

Aunt Becky: “Aw.”

(a couple days later)

Aunt Becky: “So I’ve decided to start a “blob” called “Mushroom Printing.” I shall write my first post about my idea for a tapeworm farm or my vagina. Can me and Pashmina write it together?”

The Daver: “Sure.”

(years go by)

The Daver, 2011: “How’s that Humble Pie taste, Tex? How’s that blog treating you?”

Aunt Becky: “Shutthefuckup.”

—————

How did you get started blogging, Pranksters?

—————

And, PRANKSTERS, holy FUCK, I got nominated for a Bloggie for Best Writing of a Weblog and Most Humorous Weblog.

Band Back Together got nominated for Best Kept Secret Weblog. This is HUGE.

Um. UMMMM. I got woken up to frantic fucking PHONE calls because it’s so awesome to have been nominated.

So, Pranksters *rubs toe into ground bashfully* would, um, you mind, um, voting for me? Please? PLEASE?

When the topic of internet anonymity came up yesterday, I knew that there was no one better to ask than The Daver. If I live in the computer, he’s the one who built it for me.

Now, I’ve never been anonymous. In fact, the first blog I wrote was read (at first) only by people who knew me by first, middle, and last name, which has helped dispel any feelings of anonymity.

I’m happy that I’m not anonymous. Truly. It’s kept me from putting stuff out in public that shouldn’t have been there anyway.

So, here’s what A Nerd has to say about being anonymous online:

If you have a bone to pick, or an itch to scratch, or have bottled it all up too long and you feel that writing it all out on your own (a third-party blog like Band Back Together or Mushroom Printing is the best way to go for this type of thing) weblog is the best way to just let it all out, I have a little piece of advice for you: don’t.

Aside from the myriad personal histories of folks who have been fired for writing on blogs (see: Dooce, Queen of Sky, or Troutgirl), the more important issue in my mind is that whomever you didn’t think would read your tirade…will.

And as Aunt Becky’s resident nerd, I’m beholden to share some of the most significant reasons why.

Let’s start with some geeky ones. So, you registered that fancy-schmancy domain name, right? Mommywantsvodka.com! Type that puppy in over at whois.net and guess what? You can see that it’s MY FAULT that Aunt Becky is online. Even if she didn’t blog under her own name, it wouldn’t be too much of a jump to take the “Registered By” name listed there, pop open Facebook, and find out that we were married.

Sure, some registrars will let you pay them to register under their name – registering a domain by proxy – but upon inquiry they are just as likely to share that name to someone who would take the time to ask.

Okay, so let’s say you don’t have a fancy-schmancy domain name, just a blog that you think no one reads. Except…if it’s on any of the major blogging sites (Blogger/Blogspot/Google, WordPress.com, Facebook, so on), then it’s very search-engine optimized (SEO) already.

So if your rant happens to mention anything obscure about the situation (things that have fairly few high-ranked pages on Google)(see also: the John C. Mayer Prank for more information on Google SEO), such as the horrible burned Marston Family Chicken, then when your mother-in-law -who the rant focused on – searches for ways to make it better, whoops! What’s this? It’s irrelevant that you don’t have your name on the site: how many people were over at M-I-L’s house yesterday? How many have the same interests and family size and location as you? Same first name?

Oh, and don’t think that if you post it just for a day and then take it down that it’s gone for good. See, Google keeps a copy of all the pages that it indexes — so if the page just disappears, Google hangs on to it for a good while, in case it went away accidentally. This is incredibly handy if you’re searching for something that happens to be on a site that crashed. Not so handy if you want the Internet’s elephant ears to forget.

There are others, too, involving looking at the Page Source to see breadcrumbs like the IP Address of the poster, or tracking who posted a comment via their IP address…but I’ll save those for a more geeky post. The important thing to remember, folks, is that it is a safe assumption that sooner or later, anything you write on the Internet will be read by whomever you’re writing about, or their friends, or their family, or someone that knows them at work, or their priest or their favorite hooker or the guy who makes them their sandwich at Subway.

Someone will read it.

And even though the feelings behind those rants fade over time, the magic of the digital world ensures that those words won’t. Are you ready for those words to be brought back to live when you least expect it? Ready to face the truth that yes, you did say those things, and in public, no less?

If so, and if you still thing it’s a good idea, then more power to you: this is free speech, after all.

But remember that just because the speech is free, doesn’t mean it is without consequence.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I WANT TO BE A FAMOUS BLOBBER LIKE AUNT BECKY!!* Well, actually no. I don’t.

I have a blog that exactly 9 people read (if they read it!) and it’s really for my creative outlet. My problem is my husband.  He doesn’t like when I put ANYTHING that’s not generic fluff on it.  I have a nasty habit of bottling things up, and when I can write about it, I can let it go. This happened recently and he was furious that I put our “business” “out there”.  An old friend’s wife read it, mangled it up and “told on me”. (He didn’t care about the issue that I wrote about though!! Dumb men).

So, how do I effectively blog without pissing off the people I need to write about?

Oh Prankster, it’s the age-old blobber issue: how much is too much? And I’m afraid that there’s no “right” answer, it’s all situational.

Here’s what I say about how much to share on your blog (and OH I am a bad person to ask this question):

1) Don’t put anything on the Internet you wouldn’t wear on a shirt.

B) Don’t lie.

3) It’s a small Internet after all.

4) People thrive on The Dramaz.

87) Own your words.

c) Whatever you write will probably be read by the person you’re writing about, especially if it’s a rant.

9) Facebook has made anonymity a hell of a lot harder.

28) And most stories, if you remove all of the identifying details and characteristics, well, they’re pretty dull. Plus, by that point, your story has lost most of it’s conviction because you’re all, “I’m mad because someone I can’t tell you about did something bad that I can’t mention because obviously.”

Bor-ING.

So.

The ethical quandary remains. How do you decide how much to share? What the hell is oversharing? WHY DOESN’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!?! *wrings hands*

This is the bottom line. What you share depends entirely upon how much shit you want to take. You have to imagine that every person you’re talking about is sitting there, reading your words, or looking for themselves in there, and interpreting words on a screen without the benefit of facial cues, THEN write from that perspective.

Writing on a blog gets especially complicated if your husband doesn’t appreciate the things you talk about. As far as that goes, you’re either going to have your way and write whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want it, and you’re going to make him upset or he’s going to make you upset because you’re censored. Or, perhaps, you can meet somewhere in the middle. That fuzzy, nebulous, undefinable grey area.

WHY WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!

I don’t tend to write about conflicts that I have in my personal life. Most people I know (read: three) have the ability to read my blog and I need dramaz like I need a jello mold salad (blech). If I do write about anyone, I try and stick to facts and my own feelings about them.

If you want to write about people, you have to assume they’re going to read it and get pissed the hell off. It’s a calculated cost/benefit analysis for you.

Will the personal cost of drama be greater than the benefit of letting it out?

That, my good Prankster, is entirely up to you.

P.S. You can always go password protected for the ranty posts. Also: my bitch-slap group blog Mushroom Printing will gladly welcome you.

Dear Aunt Becky,

A woman I work with has, in the past several weeks and in the course of discussing project-related details, referred to me directly as “my love” and then later said “I love you” while in the presence of a superior.

Now, I’m willing to brush these events aside because 1- she’s way married, and 2- seriously?

But here’s the thing: this is the one woman who, if given the chance, I would R-U-N-N O-F-T with without any reservations and never look back.

Please confirm I’m crazy to suspect her words are nothing more than, well, friendly words.

Your pal,

stupid.

Sorry Prankster, I love you and all, but I’d venture a guess that her words are just that: words. Some people are more comfortable using pet names than others and apparently, my love, this woman is one of those.

I apologize, darling, but I’m guessing she’s just very friendly. Unless she’s grabbing your balls while she does it. Then, hm, well, maybe. Or maybe she just likes testicles.

Love you!

AB

—————-

So, Pranksters, what say you? How would you answer these questions?

*BEHOLD MY FAMOUS BLOBBERNESS. I AM BLOBBER, HEAR ME ROAR! IT’S THE EYE OF THE BLOBBE…okay, yeah. But that made me snort. “Famous” my ass.

Dear Amelia,

One of the only things my mother – your grandmother – said to me that ever made any sense was this: “wow, you sure do have to learn everything the hard way, Rebecca.” I don’t think she was being unkind, considering I’d just dumped my cheating boyfriend, scrapped my lifelong dream of becoming a doctor, and pushed a squalling infant – your biggest brother – out of my vagina. I was twenty years old. That was before I then dropped my nursing career for an illustrious “career” as a blobber and popped out two more crotch parasites, so yeah, it’s safe to say that your grandmother was right on the money there.

And, I fear, it’s probably genetic.

Because the moment that doctor informed me that there was something wrong with your head, it reminded me of this: life is unexpected.

Had the pill not failed me, I never would have gotten knocked up with your biggest brother, which means I would be Dr. Aunt Becky (that’s Mommy to you) by now. In that one tiny moment, my life was forever altered.

That’s the way life works. It’s in those unexpected moments that we discover who we really are; who we are really supposed to be. Maybe it’s not what we planned or what we thought we’d be doing, but it’s beautiful and it’s ours. I don’t expect you to take my word for it. Go ahead, find out for yourself. You already have.

At a couple of days gestation, thanks to some wonky issues that no one understands entirely (folic acid deficiency plays a part), your neural tube didn’t properly fuse and that big skull of yours didn’t quite get put together the way a skull should. Then, your beautiful brain started to grow outside your skull cavity, necessitating some pretty heavy neurosurgery when you were a wee babe. That moment, at a couple of days gestation, forever altered everything.

Thanks to that one unexpected moment, a whole host of things happened. A cascade effect. The best of which is this: you now have a cadre of Auntie and Uncle Pranksters who will kick the ass of anyone who needs it for you (never, ever underestimate the power and love of The Pranksters). You’ve also helped put a face to your disorder, encephalocele, and you gave me the idea for Band Back Together.

Pretty good work for a two-year old.

I’m so proud of you, Amelia (or, as you like to call yourself “Nie-Nie”). Having a daughter was one of those lofty goals, like “having a discernible waistline” that I thought I could never achieve, and here you are. Even as I delivered you, I expected the doctor to tell me that you had a penis. I just couldn’t imagine I’d be so lucky as to have a daughter.

And yet here you are. My Miracle Mimi, the girl with the curls like a halo, she is here. Kicking ass, taking names, and probably going to murder me in my sleep over a pair of high heels.

I can hardly wait to see what you’ll do next. Unless it’s murder me. Which I really wish you wouldn’t do.

Happy Birthday, Sweet, Slightly Scary, Always Wonderfully Awesomely Ass-Kicking Baby Nie-Nie.

It’s you + me against the world, kiddo. So watch the fuck out, world.

Love Always,

Mommy

In an effort to distract from what it really is (torture), the school distract has obliquely named the concert in which we parents have to sit through 300 kids playing medleys of Lightly Row and Mississippi Hot Dog, “The Winter Strings.” Sounds a lot more whimsical that way.

My own son has been playing since he could toddle and listening to him is downright pleasant. I played cello for many years – toured even – and while I was never as good as he is, I was good. I could have been great. The concerts, though, let’s just say I invariably get stuck behind the kid who spends the entire concert taking a shit in his pants.

The concert itself was unremarkable, save for my son, who spent most of it scowling in my general direction (no small feat on a big stage). What had I done to evoke such ire? How had I offended thee? Had I punched a puppy? Kicked a kitten? Told him that I hated Facebook?

No.

Aunt Becky: “What are you wearing to the concert tonight?”

Ben: “These [pleated][greenish][ugly] pants and this [yellow] shirt and this [green] sweater-vest.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, so let’s go with these black cargo pants instead. The green pants don’t really go and they’re a liiiitle too small.”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Um.”

Ben: “THESE PANTS ARE BETTER.”

Aunt Becky: “You look like a mini-Alex P. Keaton.”

Ben: “Who?”

Aunt Becky: “Never mind.”

Ben: “I want to wear these pants.”

Aunt Becky: “Dude, the cargo pants are cooler. And black goes with yellow and green better than these do. Trust me, you look handsome!”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, in that outfit, you need a briefcase and a Wall Street Journal subscription.”

Ben (thinks): “That would be good.”

Aunt Becky: “NO CHILD OF MINE WILL GO OUT DRESSED LIKE THAT.”

Ben (flounces off): “Fine.”

So now my son is mad at me because I wouldn’t let him go out dressed like a tiny member of the Republican National Committee. I’m pretty sure his rebellion will be to wear Dockers and button-down shirts.

Kids these days. Back in MY day, we pierced our eyebrows and shaved our heads and we LIKED it.

Maybe the kid will forgive me when he sees that I’ve gotten him a new sweater-vest/ascot combo. Or maybe he’ll just use this as fodder to put me in a bad nursing home. That seems more likely.

This morning, once again, I woke up with my pillow soaked with tears, the sobs still fresh in my throat. I wiped my face off with my sleeve, as I sat up, trying to remember what dream I’d had, what had made me so bitterly sad that I’d wept in my sleep loudly enough to wake myself. Nothing. My memory banks came up with nothing.

I sighed as I changed my pillow case. Normally I dream about new and exciting ways to mock John C. Mayer, and although John C. Mayer could have been the reasons for my sobs (Hey, “Your Body is a Wonderland” is a terrible song), I don’t think it was.

This is the fifth time in as many days I’ve woken up with a wet pillow case. On the rare times I can fall asleep (a hearty fuck you goes out to insomnia), this is what I’m repaid with: night terrors.

Amelia’s appointment yesterday with the EI evaluators went as expected. She’s ahead in some areas, behind in others. It’s the medical equivalent of a push and it’s certainly not something that keeps me up at night, her inability to perform quadratic equations and properly discuss string theory aside.

I’ve managed to buy her a birthday present and pink cupcake mix for her birthday on Friday (still haven’t done anything for a big blowout bash), both of which should delight her. I’m thrilled that she’s going to be thrilled by this. Everyone should be so lucky as to have pink sparkles on their birthday cuppity-cakes.

And yet I’ve spent the last couple weeks talking through clenched teeth, the most minor of infractions setting me off, sending me into a blind panic. A dead weight has settled onto my chest there’s an omnipotent feeling of cosmic not-rightness. Everything feels wrong. Nothing is wrong, yet everything feels wrong.

My feelings make no sense to me.

I know what this is. It’s PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I hate to even write those words out because I see them and I know some assjacket is going to be all, “YER NOT A VET, YEW WHOR,” and then I’m going to feel worse because I’m already feeling guilty about feeling the way I do. I have the Girl That Lived and still I have PTSD? Certainly, I do not have a right to those feelings.

And yet I do. I’m as entitled to my feelings as the next assjacket.

Really, I liked it better when I pretended I had no feelings. I think sociopaths have that part down. Feelings are kinda bullshit. Unless we’re talking about my love of Bob Ross and Richard Simmons. Or any white guy with an Afro. White guys with Afros are most certainly NOT bullshit.