My cat, the unsinkable Molly, has just had her first contact with pepper spray. Today, I got my ass beat for about eight hours and had my yearly contact with OC spray. Fun. So, I was still covered with it when I came home. She wouldn’t leave me alone (like fucking always) and got some of it in her eye. Her poor little eyeball has been red for hours. That’ll learn her.

I’m the first to admit I’m not a fan of football, unless said football involves the University of Michigan (GO BLUE!!!!! Hail, hail to Michigan!) or the University of Toledo (GO ROCKETS!!!). In fact, I’m not really a fan of any sports, the only exception being hockey (GO RED WINGS!!!1!!1!). That doesn’t stop me from partaking in a wee bit of gambling on the Super Bowl. So, I want to thank the Colts for losing and winning me 50 bucks.

Congrats New Orleans!

And, just because:

Also, who keeps going back to read my open litters to the Cusack, Comcast, and Massachusetts? I’m really hoping it’s the Cusack, Comcast, and the entire state of Massachusetts. And still, fuck you, Massachusetts.

The following takes place between…well, I really don’t know because I don’t own a watch and this isn’t fucking 24. I hate that show, by the by. How many times can Los Angeles be attacked by terrorists? And why is Jack Bauer flip-flopping between Valued Government Agent and Enemy Of The State every other hour? I seriously hate that show. It makes me want to hate Kiefer Sutherland. Then I go back to the time when he attacked the Christmas tree and I love him again. Anyway…

I was having a conversation with my sergeant on cold, lonely night. And since my life goal is to piss him off at least once every eight hour shift, I was well on my way, arguing law (which he shouldn’t be doing anyway now that I’ve been taking a shit load of law courses and I like to be that thorn in my boss’ side) and why it violates people’s civil rights every time a certain officer pulls a traffic stop and decides to run every occupant of the vehicle (especially if those occupants are minorities, but I digress) for wants and warrants (it totally does, by the way). Well, the sergeant isn’t one for listening to common sense so he just lets me go on for a while and finally begans to harp on me about the fact I’m not wearing a seatbelt. Full disclosure, the only time I don’t wear a seat belt is when I’m in a patrol vehicle. You wouldn’t either if you had to wear all the shit we do. Of course, I don’t cite people for not wearing a seatbelt because I’m not a hypocrite. And it’s their life they’re taking in their hands, so what do I care? So, sometime during this berating (and threat of writing me a ticket), the following takes place:

Me: I don’t need your insolence!

Sgt: What? Don’t make up words.

Me: The fuck? Insolence isn’t a made up word. It’s a real word. A real word used in the English language.

Sgt: (scoffs) No it isn’t.

Me: Are you retarded?

Sgt: Did you just call me retarded?

Me: No. I asked if you were retarded. Are you?

Sgt: It’s not a real word.

Me: The fuck it isn’t! Google it! ( I say this many times a night) Here! (after Googling it on my phone, I hand it over to him to read the definition)

Sgt: *crickets*

Me: Yeah. Who’s right? Me. Like ALWAYS! Punk.

It’s these little victories that bring joy to my life, by the way.

DISCLAIMER: The following is true. You don’t have to believe it, but this gal will swear to all this in a court of law. Also, please ignore the grammatical errors. I will fix then after I get some sleep and have time to re-read all this. Until then, good night and good luck.

So, I’ve been having my own little private Stephen King movie watching party while waiting for my damn McAfee scan to finish (it’s been running forever) and my laundry to finally dry (I think my poor dryer is about to go TU). I’ve also been feeling a million times better since I’ll be in training for the next two weeks and thus will not be at work, what what! So, I’ve decided to stop be an ass and post the haunted house upbringings of mine, something that I’ve promised Shannon since forever.

Anywho, I grew up in a nice two story house in West Toledo. The house was built at the turn of the century and still had the ancient ginormous furnace that looked like an octopus in the basement that was etched with all sorts of nifty dates, mainly the dates the furnace was serviced, but I thought it was still neat to see different people’s handwriting on the side of the furnace dating all the way back to 1902. I love getting a glimpse of the past; I still own the schoolbooks my great grandmother used way back in the 1890’s. I also believe people were freaking geniuses back then because the math shit is crazy! But, I digress. I lived in the house with my brother, mum, and dad on Douglas Rd from the time I was a wee lass of 5 until I was about 16.

I’m usually hesitant to tell this story because I’m usually met with skepticism.  I understand it, and I’ll even entertain ideas those people might have but the moment they start to tell me I’m insane and there’s no such things as ghosts and I’m totally wrong about everything, I get angry because those people didn’t grow up with me. They didn’t live in the modest house in West Toledo. Just because those people have never had an encounter with anything supernatural doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’ve never been abducted by aliens but I believe they exist. I’m hesitant to believe they actually want to come here because they can’t be very impressed with us. I know I’m not. Anyway.

What’s up with Steve from The Jerry Springer Show trying to make me send my gold through the mail in return for cash? Does he need money that badly? I thought he was still with the Chicago police department. Weird.

And why are there so many Girls Gone Wild commercials. Didn’t that douchebag go to jail or something?

I’ve been trying to write the post I’ve promised for like a week now, but I can’t. Thanks to Comcast for getting my internet unfucked. ‘Preciate it. And since I know sarcasm doesn’t translate well to print, I’m letting you know that was sarcasm, Comcast. You can fuck off and die. Really, you can.

Anyway.

So, I work for insane people. Really insane people. So, it’s really no wonder nothing is being done about the insanity that is my next door neighbor. Thing is, at work we’re supposed to get a bigger clothing allowance. Now, when I say ‘we’ I do really mean every single person in my department. Supervisors included. However, since our supervisors hate us, they’re dragging their feet giving us the full amount we’re alloted. Our worthless ass of a patrol captain is trying to add all sorts of riders to this, like making us pay for rain gear issued to us last year. Rain gear that we’re only allowed to wear between October through April because our bosses are morons who hate us. Well, guess what, Captain Fuckface, you can have that fucking piece of shit back. Captain Fuckface also wants us to buy our own PPE, which stands for personal protective equipment. Now, the department is responsible for our PPE because that’s what our union contract states. However instead of trying to speak to our union stewards in a professional manner, Captain Fuckface flips the fuck out and starts yelling and screaming, pounding his fists on the table, and basically acting like a child. And this was only 10 minutes into the meeting. Seriously. Then, the next day, he suddenly decides to sit at the chapel across from our parking lot to run radar. Just when my shift is getting ready to go home. And he’s only running radar on the cars coming out of our parking lot. Yeah, that’s not vindictive.

But there are people who side with our supervisors. One of those happens to be my psychotic (and possible future murderer) neighbor. Napoleon has sent my batshit crazy neighbor out on a mission to find out what the rest of us semi-normal officers are planning behind their (the supervisors backs). It’s a little something I’d like to call La Résistance. Only Crazy Guy isn’t a very good spy, so luckily none of our secrets will land in the wrong hands. I have no doubt if they found out everything we were planning, they’d line us up in front of a brick wall, probably the side of the police station, and shoot us. Ha, I’m only kidding. Not really. No, I am. Not.

So, not only do I have to deal with insanity at work, I have to deal with it at home. And Crazy Guy isn’t the only insane one living in my row of townhouses. The people next to Crazy Guy are newlywed, from Montana, and have Bush stickers all over their brand new gas guzzling SUV’s. I mean, come on. The dude hasn’t been in office for a year. Get over it. And why are these people memorializing George Bush? The dude looked like a retarded monkey and is responsible for the mess we’re in now. They also have a charming “Drill, Baby, Drill” bumper sticker, which doesn’t surprise knowing what they own, but c’mon. Really. It just makes them look like an idiot because that whole Alaskan drilling thing was over a year ago. And, yeah, why worry about ruining the planet when these assholes can keep driving their Suburbans.

Okay, look, maybe I’m just letting shit bug me too much. It’s possible. I’m being pumped so full of hormones because I can’t afford more surgery. The first surgery didn’t fix anything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to pay the bills resulting from it. Maybe if I just paid everything on my credit card and then did a chargeback? Well, it would work if my bills weren’t more than my credit limit. Fun. But let’s not fix this nation’s healthcare or anything. I shouldn’t have to go broke because I’m sick. I shouldn’t go broke when I have insurance. Isn’t that what I pay premiums for? So I don’t have mounting medical bills?

I’m also trying to eat better and cut out all fast food, but nothing I eat seems to taste good and all I want is fast food. And soda. I would do just about anything for a freaking burger and a Coke. So that’s not helping my mood, or my train of thought. I’ve sat down to my computer seven times today, fully intending to write a bit of fanfic, write a bit of my novel, and bust out that post I’ve been promising. I’ve done none of those things and I feel like a dick.

Fucking. A.

Also, Chris Matthews? Really? You “forgot he was black for an hour“? Well, I forgot George Bush wasn’t functionally retarded for about eight years, so there you go.

So, sorry for this post. It’s really just a bunch of bitching, but that’s the mood I’m in.

I don’t know if it means I’m totally awesome for having that song pop into my head as soon as I type “mood I’m in” or if I’m totally lame. I’m going to go with awesome.

Honestly, people, you have no idea how badly I want out of this job and out of this state. It’s sucking the life out of me. I’m surrounded by morons and there is really nothing I enjoy doing in Washington. Ah, I long for the days back home where I was surrounded by awesome history stuffs and awesome people. Shining star in all this? Road trip in September! Woot!

I’m having technical issues.

Phuck WordPress. And Comcast

I’m beginning to wonder if Comcast is upset with me for ranting about their 250GB internet cap. My internet’s been shoddy ever since. Bugger. It really sucks trying to type this shit from my phone. Fuck Comcast. I also might be going through internet withdrawal.

I can’t say I’ve never scoured the dictionary as a wee one for dirty words and giggled over the definitions (and I can’t deny I still do so when I’m bored at work, but I mainly try and look up the longest, most amazing words in the dictionary so I can use them in sentences while probably pronouncing them wrong and using them totally out of context, but whatever. Dirty words are just a back up, and are still funny), but really now. California, why?

Let’s totally go Fahrenheit 451 and just start burning any and all books with anything that might dement fragile little minds. Is dement even a word? I guess it isn’t, but it should be. It seems very fitting. I’m making it a word from now on. Dement-verb- to cause madness, insanity; to make one demented. Add that shit, Webster. And pay me my money, bitches. Wait, do I get royalties? If not, I should.

Obviously the Tylenol PM has hit so it’s time for me to pass out for roughly one hour before I’m awaken because that’s just how I do. I’ll shift positions, because obviously I can’t seem to do it when I’m asleep like normal humans, go back to sleep, this time for about 45 mins and the cycle will repeat, over and over, ad nauseam. Stop fucking telling me nauseam is spelled wrong, WordPress. It ain’t. Bite me. And now, I have “Ain’t ain’t a word ’cause it ain’t in the dictionary” floating around in my head. I used to say that all the time when I was a kid. Of course, I’m a liar because it is in the dictionary. But it still ain’t a word.

Enjoy.

P.S. I just realized John Cusack isn’t very photogenic, but mad sexy on the big screen. Don’t get me wrong; I’d still let him touch me inappropriately. Because he’s the GD SEX.

I cannot wait for Jersey Shore next season. And if they do not have the same crew back, just count me out.

If anyone cares, I’m totally Team JWoww and Snooki! Also, Sammi is a huge, melodramatic bytch and Ronnie is as queer as a three dollar bill.

So, I had my haunted house living experiences all written out and ready to post and then POOF! that phucker disappeared. What sort of phuckery is going on with WordPress? Stop being bitches.

Of course, it could be I hit the wrong button and the fuckery was all my fault, but I’d rather blame WordPress.