Somehow, I’d always pictured him somewhere on the delicate clouds of heaven, painting happy fucking clouds with Bob Motherfucking Ross.

I have a zillion things to say and I’ve sat here, fingers at the ready and still, nothing comes out. Hope to be back to myself again tomorrow. Until then, pull up a vodka, sit down next to Your Aunt Becky and tell her what’s going on with YOU, Pranksters.

My friend Mitch sent this to me and I scoffed indignantly at the name of the picture: “The Best Picture on the Internet.”

Certainly, I said to myself, this cannot possibly be THE BEST PICTURE on the Internet. I mean, really. The Internet has porn and 3 Wolf shirts and who can forget (no matter how hard they try) my infamous Epic Soul Portrait? This couldn’t possibly be The BEST picture on the Internet.

You know what? I’ve thought about it for a week now.

It really, really is. This is the best picture on The Internet.

Pranksters, THIS is TRULY the best picture on the Internet. I challenge you to disprove me because I know that it is impossible.

This is possibly the best picture in the world.

I started out a post this morning about how I missed having BFF’s and I got about halfway through and realized how WHINY it sounded. So I scrapped it. Sometimes, I think, things are better left unsaid. Or, at least, they’re better left unblogged, until such point that I can not sound like a sniveling whiny assbag.

Which will occur at a quarter past never o’clock.

Instead, I thought that I would share with you, Pranksters, a second glorious snapshot into the formative years of Your Aunt Becky. Back in the day before I was Aunt Becky.

And mostly, I should add, it should give you a good inkling as to why I am the way I am. Or, at the very least, it should give you a nice chuckle.

For those of you who don’t know, my parents were hippies. Nerdly hippies, but hippies nonetheless. My older brother and I weren’t allowed to have guns of any sort and I wasn’t allowed to play with Barbies (there was something about “skewed body image in there). I imagine that he wasn’t allowed to play with Barbies either, but I never asked and I sorely doubt he’d have wanted to anyway.

Well, I loved princesses and makeup and dresses and diamonds and pink and sparkles.

My brother, well. Yeah.

So this is what happens when you ban things like that:

(I’m pretty sure they made me take off the tiara for the picture)

And then there was the time I was in a bar fight.

Or actually, I just insisted on dressing up my cat in baby clothes. That’s what you get when you dress up things with claws in baby clothes. (Hey, I never claimed to be smart.)

But let’s just go ahead and say it was “a bar brawl.” It sounds better that way.

So, this one time I was a Catholic School Girl. No really, I was.

And I have the ten-yard “fuck you stare to prove it.”

Look, I still have it:

That Hairy-Eyeball Death Stare has prevented SCADS of unwanted advice from well-meaning strangers over the years. Seriously, Pranksters (especially those of you with new babies) I suggest you develop one.

I’m pretty sure this is the second-best-picture on the planet.

See, I don’t know if I told you this story ever (I probably did because it’s awesome) but one time, when I was like twenty-three, my mother gifted my sister-in-law MATCHING sweatshirts that had cartoon cats on them. Cartoon cats lounging on stacks of books. It said, “Cats. Books. Life is good” or something like that.

Now, my sister-in-law and I aren’t like old cat people who wear cat sweatshirts. She buys $900 underwear and shops at Anthropologie and other boutique-y stores. Got love for cats, but neither of us wear shirts with, uh, cats on them. Or any such cartoon animals. So we got them and were like.

….

….

…

uh.

huh?

It was bizarre.

I hadn’t realized UNTIL TODAY that the Cats, Books, Life Is Good shirt wasn’t the FIRST time I’d been horrified by a Cuddly Animal Sweatshirt. Oh no. I must have been five in that picture. The look on my face says it all.

When I was born, my dad, brother and grandfather got into photography. And when I say to you, Pranksters, that someone in my family “got into something,” you might think, “oh, they probably bought a Polaroid camera and took some snapshots,” but you would be WRONG. There would be whole alters erected to your WRONGNESS.

Because the Sherricks, they do not get INTO things in a small way (see also: my orchids)(see also: https://mommywantsvodka.com). No, they get OBSESSED with them. Hobbies? We don’t need no stinkin’ HOBBIES.

I grew up with an actual working college-appropriate darkroom in my basement. We have every kind of camera lens, camera, tripod, camera bag, photo paper, film type, chemical, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

I’ve had a camera shoved into my face since the moment I emerged from the womb with “a face only a mother could love” my entire life documented endlessly for posterity. I cannot tell you how many pictures I’ve had taken. I could give Britney Spears a run for her money.

Which is why I look incredibly sullen in many of them.

Like, for example, this:

Because that? A BAG of JELLYBEANS HALLOWEEN COSTUME? That’s freaking awesome.

But the best picture I came across today was this.

Who the hell are those people (I can hear you through the computer, Pranksters)?

And THAT, Pranksters, is why I’m like this. Part eleventy-five.

Yesterday, I woke up and Billy Motherfucking Mays was all:

IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY, YOU DIRTY SLUT, SO GET YOUR LAZY BITCH-ASS UP AND GET READY TO FUCKING SPARKLE ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE.

When Billy Motherfucking Mays is the first voice in your head in the morning, you shut your whore mouth and you listen.

Gingerly, opened my eyes and thought about my plans for the day. I had an appointment with my neurologist who looks, incidentally, like he stepped off the set of a spaghetti Western somewhere (I’ve diagnosed him with GERD)(gastroesophogeal reflux disease)(he should really get that taken care of). Over by the neuro was the mall. At the mall were STORES. At the stores were PRESENTS. Presents for ME.

Today, I thought, was going to be a very good day indeed.

I sat up. Easy-peasy, I thought to myself. Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger!

Then, in an alarming fit of poor judgment, I stood up. Whoops! My bad. My legs felt like wobbly stumps, thanks to the migraine and Imitrex. Well, shit. Hard to take on the world without properly functioning legs.

I hummed “Life’s Been Good To Me So Far,” as I made my way to the bathroom. All right, I cheered. I got my fucking sea-legs.

When I looked in the mirror, this is what looked back;

Woah. That’s hot. I should probably become a model or something.

(BARBIZON, BE A MODEL, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

I tried to scrub the ugly off my face but it just wasn’t happening. The Ugly Cry has it’s aftermath.

I wobbled down and drank some coffee, giggling at all of the anti-VD Tweets (I have other holidays I feel similarly about) and tried to peck out a post. I’ve been writing in the mornings for so long that if I don’t, I feel like I’m missing an arm.

But I couldn’t.

I was wobbly in the head, too.

Billy Motherfucking Mays piped in:

“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND WRITE A GODDAMNED POST, YOU LAZY DRUG-SEEKING BAG OF WIND.”

But luckily, Bob Motherfucking Ross was right behind him:

“Happy Clouds, Aunt Becky. Focus on the Happy Clouds.”

I tried to see those happy fucking clouds and write my goddamed post at the same time and I just couldn’t do it.

Then it came to me. I needed to go where I’d never (willingly) gone before to do something I’d never (willingly) done before: look at laptops.

We all know that my technical knowledge begins and ends with I push a button and the Magical Elves in the Email Machine come alive! So the very notion going to a computer store for the express purpose of looking at computers for myself is as laughable as me painting my kitchen with my tongue.

Normally, I only go to Best Buy if ambushed:

Daver, My Dad, or My Brother: “Oh HEY there, Becky/Rebecca/Stumpy, let’s go to MCDONALDS!!”

Me: “OOOOOOOOH CHEESEBURGERS.”

(I get into the car like a rube)

Me: “HEY WAIT A MINUTE THERE’S NO CHEESEBUR…GAH, OH MY GOD THE BLUE AND THE YELLOW AND FUCKING SHITBALLS IT’S SO BRIGHT IN HERE. LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. HALP ME HALP ME HALP. MAKE IT GO AWAY.”

Daver, My Dad or My Brother: “You think you’d learn, but you never do.”

Then I hover, invading their personal space, until they get fed up and leave. Alternately, I insist that they buy me something exorbitantly expensive. Like a pony.

To actually want to go to Worst Best Buy is the equivalent to hell freezing over. But I need a lappy and I don’t have a lappy and every time I try and look for one online, this is what it looks like,

And then I get really annoyed because there are so many fucking NUMBERS and I don’t actually CARE about most of them so then I go and watch Dexter mutilate people and feel better until I realize that I still should figure out which laptop I am going to buy because, hi, this staying home all day bullshit is making me twitchy.

Also: I need to take the Internet away from Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg because it’s time for a GIRL to be in charge. I need to RUB MY VAGINA on the internet, Pranksters, but I have to be able to be MOBILE to dominate the world and shit.

I proceeded into Best Buy after perfecting my GET AWAY FROM ME GEEK SQUAD look in the mirror.

See, if you don’t watch out for them, they sneak up on you and the next thing you know, you have to hear a sermon on why you should buy their stupid anti-virus protection or whatever, but you’re just standing there, mentally rearranging their features kinda like Mr. Potato Head but geekier. So you have to be wary of them. Very wary.

I snuck to the back of the store where the keep the lappy’s hostage, ogling the desktops as I went past.

And there they were: row after row of laptops. Finally, I could stop obsessing about my inability to decide and just fucking decide already. This was too tedious, even for me, to obsess about.

I rolled my eyes at the tiny netbooks. I didn’t need no stinkin’ netbook. Child’s play.

And there it was. A light, a beacon of light, shone down and I saw exactly what I needed. A laptop that said, “hey world, I’m a fucking blogger. You’d better take me and my 17 inches of swinging death seriously or I am going to go all CPU (whatever that means) on your ass. I’ll punch you in the throat if you don’t take me and my oversized screen and too many memory chips and stuff fucking seriously because I am a blogger and this is an absurdly awesome computer.”

A laptop that was absurdly absurd. Too much computer. WAY too much computer.

Just like I like it, baby.

Just as soon as I sell a kidney, Imma get me a fucking big ass 17-inch MacBook Pro. So I can go all (insert a bunch of nerdly phrases that I don’t understand here) on the Internet’s Ass. I’LL SHOW ZUCKERBERG WHO’S BOSS.

Just as soon as, uh, I get it. And stuff.

SO TAKE THAT, ZUCKERBERG. In um, a, um, couple of months…and stuff, I’m going to take over the INTERNET.

#BOOYEAH

Dear Aunt Becky,

I used to be a semi-balanced person who would get upset at stupid things but liked people pretty well. You know, normal. But since having a kid I have become a very cranky person, Aunt Becky. I get irritated when people don’t agree with me, even though I know people are allowed to have their own ideas. I’m insecure and taking everything way too personally, especially about how I raise my child. I find myself not even wanting to talk or write to people because I know I’m going to get annoyed by whatever responses I get, and that sucks since I really like talking and writing. How can I find my mojo again and stop being so damn sensitive?

Sincerely,
Tired of Defending My Opinions

So, there are two things I do when I get all IMMA CUT YOU MOTHERFUCKER over some stupid-ass Facebook status update or something. Okay, wait, I can’t count because there are three.

1) I log off Facebook because it’s about the stupidest thing on the planet (coming from someone who writes about herself on The Internet, that’s saying a lot). It’s also the one thing that’s bound to piss me the hell off. I mean, wait, you raise fake sheep in a fake farm and you’re judging me for my parenting choices? Hilarious. That’s Facebook for you. ANYWAY.

Since I’m probably fuming about Facebook and Jimmy Fucking Wales and fucking Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook founder)(now that John C. Mayer and I have finally resolved our fake fight)(John C. Mayer is now crying tears of relief again)(P.S. that was an awesome Prank, Pranksters): I do a couple of laps around the house.

Why? Because I’m all EYE OF THE FUCKING TIGER.

2) I yell “BITCH GIT ME CHICKEN.” Why? There’s no chicken. I hate chicken. Mostly, I yell it because it’s fucking hilarious and how can you take anything seriously if you yell that?

Then, I start laughing, because, really, I was mad at someone who FARMS FAKE CROPS. Um. There are so many layers of wrong there. And WOAH, that’s a whole lot of taking myself too seriously.

(you can, of course, remove any adjectives and replace them with yours. I don’t know that you’re mad at The Facebook. I just assume so because I usually am. Or Jimmy Fucking Wales. I hate that rat bastard)

3) This may be the most important and best part, because once you’ve let out some of that tension (running) and realized you’re taking someone who takes a quiz to determine which Disney Princess Describes Her Best while telling you that shopping at Target makes you a Satan worshiper too seriously; you need something to relax you.

There’s only ONE MAN for that job.

No, not vodka.

Oh yeah, that’s right. Happy little clouds. And BOB ROSS. Bob Motherfucking ROSS. You shut your whore mouth when Bob Ross is painting a happy motherfucking tree.

Now, if there’s anything better than listening to THAT GUY talk, I don’t know what it is. I don’t WANT to know what it is. I love Bob Ross. I love Bob Ross until it hurts. Bob Ross and his awesome happy little birds and and dude, the guy is so cheerful you just don’t know what to do. Bob Ross is calm. Bob Ross is awesome.

Bob Ross and his happy mountains will make you feel better. Even if you are like me and you have the artistic abilities of a thumb-less chimp living underwater.

Bob Ross will love me anyway.

Bob Ross loves you, too. And Bob Ross would never judge your parenting skills.

Jimmy Wales, however…

No, seriously, though, Jimmy Wales probably doesn’t hate you.

Probably.

Also, if you’re really feeling super-irritable and grumpy all the time, it could be a sign of something more like postpartum depression, which even Bob Ross doesn’t think is funny. So you should mention that to your doctor. Being irritable all the time isn’t totally normal unless you’re listening to John C. Mayer Justin Beaver.

Also also: you may never want to take my advice except for the part about talking to your doctor.

Because I am not someone who should give advice on something like this considering my archenemies are Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg (who, Pranksters, we NEED TO TAKE THE INTERNET AWAY FROM…SOMEHOW. JUST. I don’t know how).

————-

So, other Pranksters who are smarter than me and presumably have a smarter, better way to handle this stuff, HOW do you handle it?