Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Put me on the Oregon Trail. I’m ready for dysentery.

Anyone who's around my age remembers that game Oregon Trail that they pretended was educational, but really just gave me nightmares about shitting myself to death, being murdered by Native Americans or getting bitten by a snake while peeing in a hole and dying immediately. I remember that you died, always. No one lived past the age of 13. Honestly, to me it didn't seem all bad. You went out on top right? With an immaculate vagina and great boobs. I mean I can't be mad about that. 

So am I the only one in the world who’s kinda pissed that our life expectancy has gone from like 50, 60 if you’re lucky, to these fucking mummies that are living to be like 110? Thank you science but I don’t want to live to be so old that when I sneeze dust flies out of my vagina and asshole. I don’t want to become an artifact. I don’t want to wear diapers because I have to, I only want to wear them because I’m tired and drank a lot and don’t want to risk another public urination fine. I want the only reason why I would ever shit my pants in public to be because I made the bad decision to eat Mexican food, Indian food and chase that with a mocha latte from Starbucks and now I’m sprinting through the streets drenched in sweat praying that people will think I fell in some mud because 30 year olds don’t shit their pants. It’s just not something that happens. (Fact: This probably happens all the time but we’re too ashamed to admit it. I vow to you that if I ever shit my pants in public I will tell you. No one should be alone in their shame.)

Honestly when you’re in your 20’s being in your 40’s sounds SOOOOOOO far away. I mean, with my daily alcohol intake, strictly fast food diet, caffeine addiction, and monogamous relationship with prescription pills, I laughed when people talked about my 30th birthday. Aw, that’s sweet that you think I’ll live to be 30. What a cutie baby.

Somehow, again I’m blaming science and fantastic genetics, I’m here. I am 30 fucking years worn down. A friend recently described turning 29, yes I know fuck her youth, as being 25 with shipping and handling. If that’s true, then 30 is being 28 and getting your ass shipped overseas, twice, to the countries that don’t have air conditioning and maybe you ended up in a gutter in the Bronx. Seriously. I’m fucking exhausted. The thought of doing this for 30-50 more years makes me barf in my mouth. I need a permanent nap. Someone turn on my Netflix to a documentary.

When you’re young you think who the fuck cares how many credit cards I have and how much debt I’m in? Is the government going to go after my dog when I’m dead? (Sidenote to the FEDs: I wouldn’t if I were you. He’s an angry little bastard.) I’ve always known I wasn’t procreating, so it’s not like my poor children would be stuck paying for my Chanel shit and wishing they’d never been born. But what if I’m one of the mummies? I don’t want to be shitting in a hole outside a Wal-Mart smoking the last part of people’s cigarettes because I outlived my savings. That’s fucking terrible. Push me into traffic. Seriously. I’m good.  

Now I have to think about 401K’s and retirement plans and all that other adult shit. Oh I’m not allowed to have nice things because I might need the expensive adult diapers in 30 years? Cool. Never mind that, I’ll take dumps into my Chanel purse. Because I have CLASS. I don’t want a husband. They seem like a lot of work and might have a lot of feelings and “opinions” to suffocate my hopes and dreams. But god damn. Maybe I should get one so at least I only have to pay for half of my estrogen cream so my vagina doesn’t shrivel up like a raisin. I DON’T THINK I CAN HANDLE VAGINA AND ASSHOLE DUST ON MY OWN FOR GOD’S SAKE.

I think maybe modern medicine and science need to calm down a little. Maybe start putting weird shit back into our food to even out the world a little bit. I’ll do my part. I’ll continue to drink more alcohol than a human should, and consider French fries a vegetable, and I promise to take my prescription pills like vitamins. And I definitely won’t take vitamins. Nope. Sorry too busy. Email me.

If you’d like to start contributing to my Go Fund Me page for my diapers, vagina cream, and cat food for when I’m mummified, that would be awesome. Or I’ll go on one of those Russian websites and get a husband. I’m sure he’ll only hit me on Tuesdays, below the face but above the waist. That’s what a gentleman does.

Also, side rant, no I will not contribute to your Go Fund Me page for your fucking rabbit that can’t poop correctly and needs the special pellets so he can shit freely. Are you fucking serious? How about Go Fuck Yourself? I’ll contribute to that. But seriously, I’ll post links to my page soon. If you drink one less bottle of wine per week we can have me diapered and creamed in no time.