Today was Easter, so I hope all of those who celebrate it had a good one.
Here in maison de merde, we’re borderline atheist so we didn’t celebrate. First order of business: pork. Why can’t I eat pork? What is it about pork that makes me break out in hives and usually puke ’til the pigs fly? I still don’t understand it. I avoid it when possible, and when I absolutely must have bacon, I pop two benadryl. This is fucked up. I mean, it’s not an issue because we didn’t have an Easter ham and I can’t eat yet anyhow, but it’s something that bugs me.
Yup. This little blockage is holdin’ strong like a klingon. I’m quite dehydrated, so I’ll be getting myself some liquid crack at asscrack tomorrow. IV fluids feel soooo good when I’m this depleted. I’m almost looking forward to it. If only I could do it at home!
It’s code red here in the mental health department. Not for me, but for manchild. After much disbelief and challenge, I finally believed him when he told me he hasn’t done an oil change on his truck since we lived in South Carolina. Okay, so I still can’t believe it. He’s so fucking anal about vehicle maintenance, and reprimands anyone who doesn’t get oil changes at regular intervals. He’s a motorhead. He’d cut of his foot before he’d go almost two years without changing the oil in his
piece of shit truck. Or so I thought.
He needs counseling more than I do, so I told him we can make it happen if he wants to see someone on the outside. The longer he’s in this hole, the harder it is to climb out. It breaks my tiny black heart, because I feel I’m responsible for it. Some of it certainly is because of me and I can’t deny it, but most of it is his lack of ability to cope and adapt. It sounds like something he can solve through talk therapy, but what do I know?