Facebook Friday/Crap You Mighta Missed: Ghosts like boobies, and The Hallmark Channel Sucks balls.

I started this last week, so you should all know the drill. This is a lame-ass post about some lame-ass crap that you may have missed if you are a lame-ass who isn't on FB or are a lame-ass who IS on FB but doesn't pay attention to my lame-ass.

The following is just some crap that happened in my mega-exciting life this week:

-There was an estate sale in my cul-de-sac last week, and I had a VERY difficult time fighting the urge to dress up like an old lady and go rub my butt all over everything, possibly even toot on some of it, and just see what happened with that, AKA how long will it take me to get kicked out. But if there's one thing you should know about me it's that I'm lazy, so instead of doing it I just looked out the window and daydreamed about doing it. Most people (including the one that I am married to) probably think I made the right choice. Those of you who think I made the wrong choice, are enablers. And enablers are the kinda people that my parol officer says I should stay away from.

-I had some pain in the muscle of my inner hip/thigh area, so I got the bright idea to put some Biofreeze on it (which is like an amped up version of Icy Hot) and then go sit on the couch, wearing big honkin' loose pajama pants, legs all akimbo, and the Biofreeze ended up getting all up in my in-between and pretty much mentally scaring me for life. Now every time I pass an old person in the market and get a whiff of their Ben-Gay I'll probably clutch my nethers and run. Kinda like a Nam flashback but with less guns and rice paddies and more vagina fire.

-I was home alone and thought that someone was trying to murder me. Again. But it was only a cop looking for someone who was probably trying to murder me. Or maybe he was checking on the neighbor's house alarm going off. Or maybe I didn't ask him what he was actually doing, since once I realized it wasn't someone trying to murder me, I didn't really care anymore. Unless I am directly involved, I don't want to be in any way involved. That's just my way. 

-I had cramps from hell this week and realized that the combination of Trader Joe's Chocolate covered orange slices, a heating pad, Midol, and a Brady Bunch marathon, can work WONDERS! At least until you get super excited that part one of the Hawaiian Tiki Trilogy has begun, and then after that episode is over, the muthaflippin' Hallmark Channel decides to go straight into re-runs of Frasier.

Dear Hallmark Bastards, Every Bradyphile knows that the first installment in the Tiki Trilogy is just a necessary set up for the 2nd and 3rd installments which are THE INSTALLMENTS OF AWESOMENESS and involve the Peter/Tarantula incident as well as the Vincent Price is Gonna Kick Your Ass in the Cave, incident. To deprive a viewer who is holding a heating pad on her shedding uterus, the closure of seeing the final two episodes, is to dance with the devil. You are dead to me. 
xoxo,
Patti

-I re-posted this ecard I made a long time ago, because it has become an interwebbian sensation. It has gone totally viral. It's like a mega-whore carousing Vegas with a bad case of The Herp in full herp-bloom. But in this case the mega-whore got her head chopped off and nobody could identity her, because the quote from this card has been sluttin' all over the net, but without my face. Or link. Or credit to me in any way, shape, or form. Why? Sometimes the only creativity people have is to steal the creativity of others. We call those people, assholes. 

A few Facebook Statuses You May Have Missed:

I had my first lady boner for a car. I know dudes get hardies for automobiles all the time, but until now, I have never cared. I saw a new Aston Martin Sedan that had leather seats so buttery I wanted to talk with a Paula Deen accent and lick them. And at $207,895 it was amazingly affordable*



* If I go on a bank robbing spree or start selling the Magical Rainman/Gambling Unicorns that I'm breeding on my Ranchicorn.

Ya know how dudes yell trash talk at the tv when they're watching sports?That's what I do when I watch House Hunters and some bitchy woman looking at million dollar houses is complaining about the size of a tub or the color of the floor tiles. And if I'm watching an episode in a tropical location, I'm a bazillion times worse. The kitchen is a bit small? The. Back. Yard. Is. A. Private. Beach. Where. Magical. Mermaids. Frolic. And. Dolphins. Do. Air. Flips. Nothing makes me wanna spork a ho in the ovary like house hunters

My alarm didn't go off this morning. Possibly due to the fact that I didn't set it last night. But I'm still not quite ready to accept responsibility for this total and complete eff up, so for now I'm going with this: One of our house ghosts turned off my alarm so that i would oversleep cuz that particular ghost is a perv and he likes to touch my junk when I'm out like a light. One of the other ghosts told me about it once with brain wave, ESP communications, but I believed it because that particular ghost that told me that is a nun. Well, she WAS a nun. I mean, she's dead as a doornail now. So I doubt she's doing much nunning. And one time my brain waves said to her "If you're a nun, how come the big man hasn't beamed you up yet? You stayed a virgin your whole life for him and you don't even get to frolic on the gold streets with a fancy unicorn?" and she said it's because he left her in my house to protect me from the boob-touching ghost. I mean, Booooooooooooob touching ghost. That sounds more ghosty. Anyways, I told her it ain't no big thang, cuz guess what? You can't feel ghost hands rub your booooooooooobs, so it's no skin off my nips. Then she brain-waved the big guy and he beamed her up, so now it's just me, the booooooooob toucher, the naked albino, and the bad breath bearded dude. 

So to summarize...my alarm didn't go off. It wasn't my fault. A ghost did it. Good morning!

I'm watching the episode of The Brady Bunch where Alice goes on a vacation and her cousin Emma comes to take over. First off, I'm pretty sure that was the first and only vacation that Alice got, like, ever. Second, I bet she went to one of those Hedonism resorts. Third, can't Carol freaking take care of her own house and kids for one damn week? I mean, the kids are all big. What the hell would she have to do? Lazy bitch. Fourth, Emma is a drill sergeant and she makes them do calisthenics every day. Fifth, who the hell even says "calisthenics?" Sixth, the person who played Alice also played her cousin, which makes it look like they are super inbred cousin/sisters or something creepola like that. Seventh, She wears some kind of bow tie and jumper situation and it was totally Marsha's duty, as the hot and fashionable one, to give her a makeover. But my guess is that would gone horribly awry. Remember when marsha gave Molly that makeover and she ended up hotter than Marsha? Emma probably woulda ended up hotter than Alice and stolen Sam the Butcher and then it woulda been a girl fight all up in there. Except I'm pretty sure that Emma was a lesbian. Maybe her and Carol woulda made out? Eighth, The pants that Cindy is wearing at the end of this episode are bullshit and they are giving me seizures. I thought I'd have 10 of these, but my uterus hurts and my sister's dog is growling at me cuz I told you guys about the butt stamp situation, and I need chocolate, so I'm out.

I actually woke up on time this morning, but I am still cramping like a mofo and The Boy had no clean jeans, so I had to do Laundry even before I had any coffee. So I'm sorta thinking that this day isn't off to the greatest of starts. I texted Chocolate Thunder to inform him that I wasn't gonna work out today due to the fact that "my mofo uterus is shedding like a pissed off snake" and he said that might be too much information. Personally, I don't think it's even close to being ENOUGH information, so I will probably write him a poem about it later, cuz sometimes when I am menstrual and feeling blah I also feel really poetic. Kinda like a Bukowski/Shel Silverstein sorta combo, which may sound strange, but hey, it's also kinda strange when one of your organs peels off and falls outta your lady tunnel once a month. It's kinda like your body is re-enacting that elevator/hallway scene in The Shining. Don't push my buttons, yo. You don't want this elevator landing on your floor.

P.S. Send chocolate and muscle relaxers.

So in car pool I had a conversation with The Boy and his friend about which one of us was the most ghetto. Believe me when I tell you that it was a fascinating conversation. After The Friend and I argued about it for awhile, and I did some rapping about why I was the most ghetto, I was feeling good about my win. Then when The Boy said "I'm not really sure what it means to be ghetto" he pretty much fell outta the running. And then there were two. Then when The Friend told The Boy "It's kinda like Goth but with more rapping" I was sure I had this thing won, and I said so. Then The Friend said, "I may not know the exact definition of ghetto, but I do know it's not you." To which I replied "Whatchu talkin' 'bout?" To which he replied "You need to realize that you're all nice and pink and happy and fun and unicorny. THAT'S YOU. You are unicorn. And unicorns are not ghetto.

There. Is. Something. In. The. Wall. Behind. My. Bathroom. Mirror. It is morse coding me. I don't know much about morse code, but using what I can remember from Hogan's Heroes, it's saying "I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP AND EAT YOUR EYEBALLS THEN MY WHOLE FAMILY WILL LIVE IN YOUR FACE HOLES!

So last week I mentioned that there is a book coming out next month, in which I have a story. Well, that book is called I Just Want To Pee Alone, and I would like to start sharing a few of my fellow Motherbloggin' Authors that will be in the book with me, so you can check out their stuff and get familiar with their awesomosity before the book comes out and I force you to buy it. Sooooooo...

This is a blog by my friend Rachael over at Rachriot. It's called "Eye Carumba" and it's full of awesome and topped off with a sprinkling of Ice Castles and a few or Robbie Benson's hairs.
Read the hell out of it HERE.

This is a blog by my friend Jen over at People I Want to Punch in the Throat. It's called "For My Secret Valentine" and it's about her non-lesbian love for Tina Fey. It makes me totally not feel so bad about my blogs/love letters to Norman Reedus and Mike Wolfe.
Read the hell out if it HERE.

Facebook Friday - AKA Amazing crap you may have missed.

I know it sounds effed up and wrong you guys, but it's totally true: I have lots of blog readers who don't read Facebook. I also have lots of Facebook readers who don't read this blog. The latter is way easier for me to understand. On Facebook everything is condensed and quick. I mean, sure, I AM one of the most long-winded Facebook status writers OF ALL TIME (an official title that I just now gave to myself, and that myself accepted from myself with a fist bump and an air hump with myself), but still, compared to a blog post, the statuses are pretty short. My Facebook page is basically a condensed version of my blog. It's also the reason that I went from posting an average of three blogs per week, to maybe one. I find that I tell lots of my stories on Facebook the minute that they happen, and then when I sit down to write a blog, I'm all  like "Yeah, told that one already," so I end up playing with my split ends and looking at miniature goats wearing clothes, instead of actually writing anything. 

Lately I've received lots of emails and seen lots of Facebook posts from people who missed something somewhere and don't know WTF is going on. Let's face it, if you follow my writings, there is a lot to keep up with. And if you only read my blog OR my Facebook and not both, you are totally gonna get lost at some point. Some peoples blogs and/or Facebook pages are like little short films, where you can read them now and then and everything stands on it's own, and you don't need any background information. My stuff is like an endless mini-series, where if you miss one part you're gonna be totally lost. Case in point: "Babycado Orchard," "NotPatti Ford," and "Timeburger." Those are all things I often reference that some people have no freaking idea what I'm talking about, yet others recall every amazing detail. Actually, The Hub said that he thinks that instead of a mini-series, my stuff is like a serial drama,  like "Lost." But hopefully with more comedy, and less dead people and smoke monster.

Anyways, due to all of that lostness, I have decided to try doing a Facebook Friday post every week on this blog. This will be a way for me to share little stories and/or photos that you may have missed whether you are on Facebook or not.  And today is Friday, so here we go.

Things you may have missed:

-A website called Circle of Moms had a Top 25 Funniest Mom Bloggers contest, and I landed 2nd place. I think that #2 is perfect because I LOVE going number two. Anybody can go number one. Most people do it multiple times a day. Number two is harder to accomplish. Number one doesn't give you a spring in your step or make you look skinny. Nope. Number two is the place for me. 

-I was asked to submit a story for an anthology book, and it was accepted. It is a book of stories by some really funny mom bloggers, and I am honored to be included. It is expected to be published in March. I will pimp the heck out of it on here as soon as it goes on sale, and I will also give away a couple of copies. Stay tuned!

-My friend's house burned down last week. We have been friends since we were 11-years-old. She and her children lost everything, but thankfully were not home at the time. I told her story to my Facebook readers (and also confessed to drinking too much soda when I spent the night in 6th grade, peeing on their couch, and blaming it on the dog), and in just a few days we raised $4106.65 because my Facebook peeps are AMAZING! I'd like to give a special shout-out to my long-time reader, Bobby Gaskin, for donated a whopping $750.00. You, and everyone else, whether they donated, sent well-wishes,  prayers, or whatever, rock SUPER HARD and I am proud to have you all in my orbit.

- My friend over at a blog and Facebook page called Slice of Humble (Humble Writes Words), sent me a special gift. It was a Walking Dead t-shirt with my man Daryl on it. She bought herself one too, so we made this photo collage:

A few popular Facebook Statuses:

As I was sitting at my desk last night, doing a little writing, AKA sitting in front of my computer, staring out the window and thinking about how happy I would be if I had a baby fainting goat, I noticed something: The Cat was on the desk, trying to get all up in my biz, and she would sit down, move a little, sit down, move a little, etc... and I realized that the girl does this little dance all day long, which is in and of itself, not a big deal. But when you think about the fact that cats have up-tails and every time they sit down their little b-hole is basically marking that spot with a (hopefully invisible) butt stamp, things start to get gross real quick. Unfortunately, I couldn't stop myself from over-thinking this whole situation and using my mad mad mathy skillz to calculate that in the 2 1/2 years she has lived here, she has probably butt stamped at least 50% of the surfaces in our house. Then I started thinking about nudist colonies. Holy hell, you guys. Holy hell. Everything in those places needs to be burned. Butt Stamps: Until the post office starts accepting them as postage, they're not okay

I just thought I should let you all know that I not only have a butler, a driver, and a sock matcher-upper, but I also have a toast butterer. I only eat toast once or twice a month, tops, but he has to stand by the toaster at all times just in case I get in the mood and start felling all toasty-ish. I also make him wear a lion costume because it makes me feel brave to take toast from a lion.

I never get to have the TV remote. If The Hub is home, he has it. If The Boy is home, he has it. Lately I've noticed that when they are watching TV, they always have at least one hand it their pants. Why men do this, I don't know. But they do it. THEN they use that same hand to change channels with the remote. After observing this last night, I realized that the remote is basically ruined. I'm not super Sciencey or anything, but I'm pretty sure that there can come a point when something can get so submerged in the germs of something else, that it can technically BECOME that something else. Therefore I deduce that at this point the remote is basically just a wanger that magically changes channels, and I foresee a future where evolution just cuts out the middle man and makes men's wangers have channel changing capabilities. If I worked at Evolution Headquarters, this is how I'd roll.

I have had people ask me why I say some of the phrases that I say. When I was little I would, like most kids, get sayings and song lyrics mixed up. Here are a few of my favorites that I have always used:

-I thought the alphabet song went "H, I, J, K, Elemental P" because my  name started with "P" and therefore was the most important letter.

-I thought that the"I've Been Workin' on the Railroad" song said "All the ding dong day." I thought that ding dong was an expletive cuz my mom used to call my sister and I ding dongs a lot. So I often say things like "I ran errands all the ding dong day."

-I thought the saying "You scared the beeJesus out of me" was "You scared the BeeGee's out of me." Those BeeGee's were everywhere in the 70's and you either loved them or hated them. So I figured if you got scared badly enough, it might scare your love of them right outta your body. This would be something that the BeeGee's haters would do.

Last night I dreamed that my doctor told me that I had "Purse Cancer." I kept asking what the hell is Purse Cancer? But he just ignored my question and looked at me really sadly. I assumed it was vagina cancer cuz vaginas are the most purse-like part of the body that I could think of. Things get put in there. Sometimes questionable things. I imagine that some peoples vaginas are like old, overstuffed, purses. So then I went on a fundraising speaking tour to tell people about the dangers of Purse Cancer. Then, about halfway through my tour, I started to grow purses on my body. The first one was a Birkin on my side and I was actually like "Wow! This is pretty cool! A Built in purse! AND it's free! This is way better than vagina cancer!" Then I grew a corduroy fanny pack and I freaked out and the doctor said it couldn't be removed or I'd die. Then some other stuff happened that I can't remember much of, then The Cat woke me up cuz she is a turd.

So I just saw my sister post a FB status that thanked our mom for sending her chocolates. Dudes...her mom is the same mom as my mom, and unless my mailman ate mine, I did not get any chocolates. And my mom wonders why I never call her.

I had what I thought was a stray hair stuck to my face, which upon further inspection was discovered to be a hair growing OUT of my face. Just a lonely, blonde, 2 inch hair that outta nowhere started growing out of the middle of my cheek, for no other reason than to say "Hey, Patti! You are officially turning into a Sasquatch. Good luck with that!"

Another regular thing that I do on my Facebook page, is to tell little mini stories about animals. I sometimes see pictures of cute animals and immediately a name and story pops into my head. Seriously, it's like I am possessed by that animal and suddenly I am typing out a story. I don't even realize what I've written until I read it. After telling these stories for many months, people started sending me photos of animals and asking me to make up stories about them. Here are two from this week:

Greetings and salutations, my good people. My name is Harry Higgenbotham III. Miss Mom-Brain found me whilst perusing something called Googly Images. I am not quite sure what that is, as I abhor all modern technology. The only reason I am posting a salutation on this, the magical electronic book of the face, is because Miss Brain promised me a hefty amount of cheese if I did. She also threatened to keep my family in a shoebox in her closet and train them to perform the stage version of something called "Grease" if I refused to comply with her wishes. I am just a wee bit frightened. And now she is laughing because I used the word "wee." I dare say I fear for my safety. Please send help.

Hi ya'll! My name is Darla Doggenport! My favorite color is red and my favorite shape is hearts and my favorite pattern is a horizontal stripe. I know, I know. My momma always says "Darla Dogenport! You know horizontal stripes are the stripe of The Devil and will make your hips look as wide as the Crazy Catmanson's trailer home!" But I don't care! I'm old enough to make my own decisions, and I love stripes almost as much as I love One Direction! Oh my wow...I just said I love One Direction and just before that I was totally talking about how much I love stripes that go ONE particular DIRECTION! Oh good heavens, sometimes I just crack myself up! My momma says I shouldn't laugh at my own jokes because laughing at yourself is the laughter of the devil, but I just can't help myself. I'm just clever, ya'll! I bet Harry Styles would think I'm clever too! And I bet he likes clever girls. And his name is Harry and I'm hairy. Some things are just meant to be. My momma says that's called fate and that there ain't no such thing as fate, and talkin' about fate is for the devil. Sometimes my momma gets carried away with all that devil stuff. Don't tell her I said that, okay? That woman will whip me good, and probably make me eat dry food for a week. Ya know who eats dry food? The Crazy Catmanson's. And everyone knows the Crazy Catmanson's are crazy. Heck, it says so right there in their name. Friend me on Facebook, okay? I'm tryin' to get more friends that that Missy Mufferstein. Her favorite color is pink and her favorite shape is a star and her favorite pattern is polka dots. My momma says polka dots are for whores. And ya know what? I think she's right. Because I heard that Missy Mufferstein got caught licking her life size poster of Harry Styles. That bitch be crazy, ya'll. Don't tell my momma I said bitch. Pinky swear? Guess what? I don't even have a pinky! Sometimes I'm just all like "What did I just say?" I'm just silly, ya'll. I love you guys! BEST FRIENDS FOREVER! 

(This photo was sent to me by a reader named Erin Browne.)

That's it for this week! Hope you feel all caught up. Personally, I feel like I have a bad case of Deja-vu and an ice cream headache. 

It's Valentine's Day, and some b*tches be trippin' (This is my valentine to the men of the world - I feel your pain)

If you ask me, February is the definitely the worst month of the year. The only good thing about it is that it's short. It's only 28 days. Except for when it's 29. And I never fully understood what the hell that was all about. I just assume that the reason it's a short month is cuz the missing days just wanted to jump ship and get the hell out of February. They probably wanted to be part of a summer month. Or maybe even December. And who could blame them? If I was a day I'd much rather be in a sunny/beachy/beer drinking month or a month where everyone's drunk on eggnog and getting an ass-load of presents. And this whole leap year thing? I have no clue about that. I never really paid that much attention in school unless we were playing on those scooter thingies in PE, or learning about our blossoming bodies or cutting up frogs and turning them into marionettes. Yeah. That happened.

February sucks. And the reason it sucks is because of one stupid day. Remember that Osmond song about how that one shitty apple spoiled the whole bunch, girl? Well, Valentine's Day is the rotten-ass apple that makes all the other 27 or 28 or whatever the hell it is, days suck balls. It's guilt by association, you guys. 

Since I am technically a female, I will begin by telling you why February sucks, from a female's point of view. 

Wait. I can't do that. Why can't I do that? Because from a female's point of view, February does not suck. Okay, okay. Not ALL females feel this way. I -for one- think Valentine's Day sucks balls. But to many girls (key word being GIRLS), February is a magical month about love and romance and stuff like that. It is a month during which they find out how much their man truly loves them. And how do they find this out, you ask? They find this out by rating everything that happens -or does not happen- on February 14th. Every. Little. Thing.

And I have news for you men of the world: Oftentimes, you just can't win. February sucks for men. And no matter which way you look at it, this whole Valentine's Day is usually a lose/lose situation. 

Early in their dating life, a lot of men try to do what's expected of them. And what's expected of them is to be that guy who plans out the perfect Valentine's Day for his girl. This poor guy feels like he's got it in the bag. He's planned for weeks. Maybe even months. He bought her a lovely bracelet. He got a reservation at a romantic restaurant. Ya know, the kind where you have to wear dress-up clothes, eat snails, know which fork is for what, and chew with your mouth closed. He might surprise his girl with some sexy lingerie after dinner. And he probably bought the chocolates in the heart-shaped box. Maybe even a teddy bear. He definitely got long-stemmed roses that the flower shop jacked up to $150.00 for this most special of days. This dude also got the perfect card at Hallmark that totally expresses how he feels. This guy is confident that he has covered all of the bases. This guy went all out.

But guess what? This guy is screwed. And I don't mean that literally. He's screwed because he's probably not getting screwed. And there are oh so many reasons.

He might be screwed because he chose the wrong restaurant. Maybe a seafood place. And he forgot she's allergic to seafood. Or maybe the place is too fancy, and she didn't have anything to wear. So why the hell did he surprise her like that? If only he'd told her earlier, she could have gone shopping for an outfit! And this bracelet he got her? It's yellow gold. She likes white. All her other jewelry is white, so this won't match. Hasn't he ever noticed? Doesn't he ever even look at her??? And a box of chocolates? Really? Doesn't he remember that she gave up sugar so she could lose a few pounds! Does he not remember the time he said her butt looked fat in those pants?? Okay. Maybe he didn't actually SAY that, but when she asked him if her butt looked fat in those pants he took more than 2 seconds before he said "no" which is the same thing as saying "Girl, you look like a freakin' hippo!" And a teddy bear? Really? What is she? A third grader? What in the holy balls is she gonna do with a freakin' teddy bear? Put it on her Strawberry Shortcake comforter next to her Rainbow Brite doll and snuggle it while she looks dreamily at her Ricky Schroeder poster? What the hell IS he? Some kind of pedophile? And roses? Really? How original! She could have bought a new outfit to wear to the fancy-ass restaurant with all the money he spent on those dumb-ass roses! Did he ever think of that? And did he actually go INTO a flower shop or just buy them from one of those parking lot tents at the last minute? A hobo probably took a piss on those parking lot roses. And besides, she like tulips. NOT roses. Roses remind her of her dead granny and when she thinks of her dead granny her ulcer flares up. Doesn't he even care about her sadness and digestive health? And the card. All he did was sign his name? HIS FREAKIN' NAME??? Doesn't he have anything sweet to say to her? He couldn't write her a freakin' sentence about how much she means to him? Nothing? And lingerie? Oh. My. Freaking. God. LINGERIE? I hope this douche-hole doesn't think she doesn't know what THAT'S for! He bought that for himself! What the hell is she gonna do with fancy lingerie? He knows damn well she sleeps in a t-shirt and boxers! Why? Cuz it's comfortable, that's why! We all know he only bought her lingerie cuz he wants some sexy time. And he thinks she's gonna let him touch her in-between after all that other crap he messed up? He only signed his freaking name in the stupid-ass piece of crap Hallmark card he bought her that isn't even special because literally thousands of guys probably bought their girl the same freaking card! CAN'T HE WRITE SOMETHING TO HER FROM HIS COLD, DEAD, HEART????

I told you. This guy is screwed.

But what if he hadn't done anything? If he hadn't done anything, his girl would still be mega-pissed. But this time she'd be pissed because WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU GET ME A BRACELET OR SOME CHOCOLATES OR A TEDDY BEAR OR SOME LINGERIE OR TAKE ME TO A FANCY-ASS DINNER? DON'T YOU EVEN LOVE ME?

That guy is screwed too.

Listen, there's really nothing you can do about it. At least if you are unmarried and in a certain age-bracket, let's say, 16-30 or so, this is just what's probably gonna happen. At this age, lots of girls are immature and don't have a clue what they really want. We've all been there. When I was younger I dated guys who gave me nothing and planned nothing, and I got all kinds of pissed and broke up with them to date guys who gave me things and planned things. Then when those guys gave me things and planned things, they usually weren't the right things, and I felt all kinds of smothered because of all the attention they were giving me. FOR FRICK SAKE, I CAN'T EVEN BREATHE ANYMORE AND YOU CALL ME TOO MUCH AND YOU'RE ALWAYS ALL UP IN MY GRILL AND IF I HAVE TO SPEND ONE MORE CRAPPY MINUTE LOOKING AT YOUR FACE I'M GONNA VOMIT ON IT!

Guys. Can't. Win.

The best you can hope for is to find that needle in the haystack or to make it to the age where the girls turn into women and honestly don't care about that stuff anymore. What do WOMEN want? A good man. Someone to help around the house. Help with the kids. Pick up the dry-cleaning every now and then. Fold some damn laundry. Empty the dishwasher. Take our car in for a wash. Offer to pick up dinner so we don't have to cook. Give us a back or foot rub when we're stressed out. Listen to us when we talk. Like, actually LISTEN. Be interested in what we're up to. Rent a movie that we wanna see, even if everyone talks in an English accent and wears corsets and the entire movie takes place in a farmhouse.

If you do all of these things and your woman still whines about all that ridiculous Valentine's Day crap and compares what she got to what her friends all got and you dread February 14th like you dread the freaking Zombie Apocalypse? If that's the case, then it's time to stop dreading the Zombie Apocalypse and start praying for it. Cuz ain't nobody got time for no Hallmark Holidays when hordes of the undead are trying to eat their faces off. And if the Zombiepocalypse hits and your woman is STILL worrying about Valentine's Day? If that happens, you can seriously just wait until some Zombies are chasing you and then trip her. Nobody would judge you for that. Haven't you seen any Zombie movies? Every time a whiney person gets eaten, the audience cheers. And you can think of it as your valentine to the Zombies. Zombies need love too.

(Art by Kipling West)