Bitchy Bitchy McBitchy Pants.
As May might say.
So I just read Oprah's Favorite Things list for 2015.
The worst thing about it? I actually want one of these. Not the damn pet Christmas ornaments, that's for sure. No. I want the Fujifilm Instax Share Smartphone Printer. I wouldn't turn down one of those $895.00 suitcases either.
Question: Does Oprah herself say things like, "Easy-breezy cooking"?
If so, I dislike her even more.
The chickens are molting. Yes. This is what they do. They lose feathers and get new ones. However, my hen Camellia is looking like a torturer from the Inquisition visits her every night and plucks an ever-growing number of feathers from her scrawny little body. I swear to you- if she keeps on this way she'll be a naked chicken in a week. I've never seen anything like this. And no, the other chickens aren't pecking at her. I have no idea what to do about this. None.
And of course she's not laying. Poor thing. I can't even bring myself to take a picture of her. It's too sad.
Maurice won't sleep with me. She bangs the window above my head once or twice a night and I get up and stumble over and let her in and then she disappears again. I haven't even seen her this morning. Has she disappeared because her true love, Mr. Moon is gone? And I'm the one who gives her Temptations!
I keep dropping stitches on my baby blanket and the yarn (thread) is so fine that I need a damn microscope to figure out my mistakes.
If it gets any muggier, I am going to wake up to find mushrooms growing between my toes.
Something is eating my baby collard greens. Not bugs. I would assume birds because the leaves are just being snipped like someone was going out there with manicure scissors. Perhaps the torturer from the Inquisition. After he's done plucking Camellia's feathers.
And of course I have to go to town and deal with a phone situation.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This means putting on a bra. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Branches just keep dropping. Crack, drop. One day an entire tree is going to drop right on top of me. I just know it. Now that would be a fine bit of irony, wouldn't it? The very things that bring me peace and joy being the instrument of my death.
I hope I don't suffer too long before I die and the cats eat me.
One more thing to bitch about- the local paper did a front-page write-up on the festival that Hank and his friend Taylor Biro have been putting on every year for five years through the blood and sweat of their own efforts and Taylor gets very little credit for her work in the article and Hank gets none.
I just saw this on Facebook
which at once makes me feel ashamed and EVEN BITCHIER!
Oh hell. Maybe I should just order this: