But I’m home alone (and for the most part I do enjoy some solitude every now and again) but I can’t shake the feeling that when I walk outside one of the mean neighbors is going to egg me in the face or laugh at my clothes or be generally unpleasant or maybe even kill me.
I dunno. So here is a threat, neighbors: I have trained my Selma to bite you where the sun no longer shineth. Roll that one on up in your joint along with your cheep weed and smoke it.
I am so very, very not in the mood to be messed with by you today. And if the occasion presents itself, I will take my “not attractive whatsoever” (because Lord help me that is STILL bothering me) tree trunk soccer thighs and knee you in your respective beer guts.
I made the mistake of facebook creeping my neighbor today. His status was about how ugly the girls next door were.
FIRST of all, for a girl whose self-esteem has always teetered on the edge of non-existence, you probably shouldn’t say things like that. Not that you would know anything about my self-esteem, as you have made no effort to be friendly whatsoever.
People who post mean things online about others really bother me. Even though I don’t know this guy, even though I have friends and family who are so good to me and remind me on a daily basis of how many things I have going for me, making sweeping statements about me being not attractive whatsoever still hurt. Because those kinds of statements stick with you forever.
I have thought of a million things I could say in retaliation, but instead I am choosing to focus on the parts of myself that I love, and in a way I feel sorry for this guy. Because I am a damn good human being, and I take care of my friends, and he did not even give me a chance to be one to him. So this cyber bullying is stopping with right here, it could go on and if I was in a different mood it probably would have, but I am choosing the high road.
The grapes were just sitting there, pressed up against the cookie sheet in the basin I’d washed earlier that day. Nothing was wrong with the bag they were in, nothing was wrong with the way they were sitting there.
And I thought, “that’s now how Mom would’ve washed them.”
After that I was sad, just because the grapes weren’t sitting like they used to sit at home. Who cares how grapes get washed. Who cares?
Maybe someone who misses things being the way they were.
Unknown (via thingssheloves)