My dogs can be the ABSOLUTE BIGGEST MORONS! Do you know what tastes incredible? Weed and Feed. According to Jewels, who in minutes ate through a bag that we took out of the shed to get the lawn mower out. WEED AND FEED!
I have the emergency vet on speed dial, so I phoned them up and apparently they have call display, because do you know how they answered? Not with “Hello”, there was no “How are you”, because there might not be time for small talk with the life and death situations they hear about from me. They answered, “What did Abner do now?”
Abner… He’s lucky he’s cute, because I think that we’ve paid for at least one veterinarian’s full salary. Aside from the parasite he caught, and the weird episode of SEVERE colitis he had, he’s been in the hospital a million times for reasons due ENTIRELY to him being a moron.
Catapolting himself from the bed, to the nightstand, to the dresser to get children’s Motrin. Not once, not twice but THREE times. That caused his liver some severe damage, made better only by the veterinary induced vomiting, charcoal and some serious IV fluids.
Eatting an ENTIRE jar of diaper rash cream, well, that just made him sick.
When Jewels knocked over our DOG PROOF (haha, they underestimate the mastermind of a terrier) garbage, he ate a whole container of instant espresso that I had used for making a cake. He nearly gave himself a heart attack, it was like a Yorkie on speed. You could FEEL the size of his heart as it tried to pump out of his chest and race him down the street. In fact, it probably did a few laps at the speed of light and jumped back in his chest before we were able to take notice.
And suprisingly, husbands are just as idiotic as dogs.
“Rob, you can’t give dogs spare ribs, they can become shards as they’re chewed and rip open their insides as they’re digested. Give Abner one of his dog chews.”
Rob rolls his eyes (most likely, I was looking at Abner chewing on the sparerib Rob just gave him).
“Rob, seriously, rib bones are not for dogs.”
“The rib is as big as he is, there’s no way he can chew enough of it off to puncture him. Relax.”
“It will be on you if Abner dies then from having his intestines ripped open.”
Rob rolls his eyes again (most likely, I was ignoring him now) and goes to take away the rib from Abner to avoid further discussion. BUT, with the threat of losing his prize, Abner swallows it whole. And the one thing that Rob was right about in this dialogue was that the freakin’ bone was as big as Abbie. It shouldn’t have been biologically possible, but my dogs defy all odds. The vet thought that without surgery, it would most likely kill him as it contorted it’s way through his body. And if vomiting was induced, it would rip up his esophogus. But somehow, it went all the way through him just fine, with Abner looking up at me as if to say, “I don’t know what all the fuss was about. It’s just a bone. Dogs eat bones all the time.”
Ridiculous. And this was just this year.
But that’s Abner, and this phone call is about Jewels, who normally requires limited veterinary visits for her yearly check up, shots and the occasional binge on rocks. Yes, she is a rock eatter. But rocks are not poison, so her weird food fetish wasn’t as bothersome before.
I explain to the vet what’s happened, and there’s a pause. “You can bring her in, but by the time it will take you to get into the city and over here, with the amount she’s eatten, all that we will be able to do is put her out of her pain.”
Are you KIDDING me? Jewels’ ridiculousness is ultimately going to KILL her? No, this is NOT going to happen. I’ve put up with WAY too much crap from these beasts for them to die on me. I have the Weed and Feed bag in front of me and ask her to double check her info. It’s the C-I-L Bio-Weed and Feed. She’s been looking at the Scott’s brand (which we also have in our shed), so she pulls up her info online. Apparently, the bio brand is all natural, and although harmful when consumed, is not completely toxic. Jewels will have a severe stomach ache, and by this time, after thinking she was dead and gone, this is a complete relief. She came THIS CLOSE to death, and later that night I catch her with paws up on the kitchen counter trying to claw her way to bran muffins. A stomach ache serves her right!
24 hours pass, and she’s good, in the clear! Alive and well.
48 hours pass, and OH MY GOD! Her farts! I think that I’M going to be the one to die from stink overload. It was brutal. I’ve let her sleep in bed with me, in case she needs to go out in the night due to tummy issues, and now I cannot escape the stench. It’s permeated into every fiber of my being. I think I’m going to have to rewash all of our clothes on the upper level of our home that have been permanently stinkified. My bedding? It needs to be BURNED! I swear, even my hair smells like dog fart. I’d tell you to take a whiff to proof my point, but you would probably keel over and die.
So, as said, my dogs are the ABSOLUTE BIGGEST MORONS. Disgusting! If anyone’s interested in adopting two terriers, be my guest!
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Car Porn- Chaotic Momentum Post September 21, 2010
I know. I’ve already discussed the seriousness of Rob’s car addiction. And it truly seemed as though his obsession could not get any worse.
But, once again, Rob’s broken through the cross continental barriers I’d expected to restrict him, and made his dreams become a reality. He realized after my third refusal to his email pleas that he didn't actually need me to facilitate this transaction.
So, he bought a car. While in Afghanistan. Who DOES that?
The 2005 Mustang will be dropped off at our home any day now so that it can sit in our driveway collecting dust. Or, much more likely, a thick layer of snow. Why? BECAUSE, ROB’S ACROSS THE WORLD AND WILL NOT BE DRIVING IT.
So, why does he need a vehicle if he’s not even here? Why not wait until returning, and save on payments and vehicle insurance? Why even bother to look at car listings until he returns?
Excellent questions people. But, unfortunately, this is not an issue that has anything to do with rationalizing or reason ability. When it comes to cars, Rob has lost his mind completely and there’s just no arguing with him.
Sigh.
The other day, we were discussing the need to get an external hard drive to store all of the photos and videos we’ve accumulated over the last few years. Rob mentioned a particular type, but all I heard was a computer memory thingy. Apparently, all the guys overseas are using them to store their porn. They came prepared.
My husband? He would probably use up all of the memory space just with the photos of the cars he’s owned. You should see this file I found on our computer, titled “My Rigs”, it’s filled with hundreds of photos and videos of Rob’s previous vehicles. Insane.
Maybe he does use it as porn. Car porn. I mean, it’s not that unnatural, when you think about it. Sexy women and cars have been categorized together for as long as I’ve known. Men are constantly making comments about Ferrari’s and Lamborghini’s giving them boners. At least the men I know (looking pointedly at Ted and Keith). Would it be so strange to think of cars as porn?
Something to think about people.
You may want to pay attention the next time your husband watches Pimp My Ride, or takes a car magazine into the bathroom. You may be missing out on some funny business, and these things? They’re just good to know.
But, once again, Rob’s broken through the cross continental barriers I’d expected to restrict him, and made his dreams become a reality. He realized after my third refusal to his email pleas that he didn't actually need me to facilitate this transaction.
So, he bought a car. While in Afghanistan. Who DOES that?
The 2005 Mustang will be dropped off at our home any day now so that it can sit in our driveway collecting dust. Or, much more likely, a thick layer of snow. Why? BECAUSE, ROB’S ACROSS THE WORLD AND WILL NOT BE DRIVING IT.
So, why does he need a vehicle if he’s not even here? Why not wait until returning, and save on payments and vehicle insurance? Why even bother to look at car listings until he returns?
Excellent questions people. But, unfortunately, this is not an issue that has anything to do with rationalizing or reason ability. When it comes to cars, Rob has lost his mind completely and there’s just no arguing with him.
Sigh.
The other day, we were discussing the need to get an external hard drive to store all of the photos and videos we’ve accumulated over the last few years. Rob mentioned a particular type, but all I heard was a computer memory thingy. Apparently, all the guys overseas are using them to store their porn. They came prepared.
My husband? He would probably use up all of the memory space just with the photos of the cars he’s owned. You should see this file I found on our computer, titled “My Rigs”, it’s filled with hundreds of photos and videos of Rob’s previous vehicles. Insane.
Maybe he does use it as porn. Car porn. I mean, it’s not that unnatural, when you think about it. Sexy women and cars have been categorized together for as long as I’ve known. Men are constantly making comments about Ferrari’s and Lamborghini’s giving them boners. At least the men I know (looking pointedly at Ted and Keith). Would it be so strange to think of cars as porn?
Something to think about people.
You may want to pay attention the next time your husband watches Pimp My Ride, or takes a car magazine into the bathroom. You may be missing out on some funny business, and these things? They’re just good to know.
Pamprin is Surprisingly not for Men- Chaotic Momentum Post September 15, 2010
In the next paragraph, I’m going to make mention of something that no one likes to read about. And in the paragraph after that? I’m going to bring up another something that is usually a taboo subject. BUT- have a little faith, people. I will breeze by the topics so quickly your head will be spinning. Why must I include this information at all, you ask? You NEED the background information for this post to make any sense at all.
My apologies, but here it comes. Periods. All women get them and no one likes to hear about them. Especially us women. Bring up the subject of PMS and expect to get a swift kick to the groin. But, here it is anyway. The background information you require. I get brutal periods and horrible cramps. That’s it- the end.
One more thing to quickly bring up and be done with? Rob has just recovered, for the most part, from a serious infliction of food poisoning. Enough said.
Whew- now that the uglies are out of the way, let’s get on with the story.
With Rob away, our conversation time has become incredibly limited, so we try and make the most of it by only discussing the things that REALLY matter in life.
“Ugh. I feel like total and complete crap. I haven’t slept all week and to make everything worse, I have my period and think I just might die. Seriously. I may go out, lay down on the highway and wait for a truck to drive along and run me down and take away my pain. Uggghhhhh.”
Rob is amazing people, because if the situation were reversed? I would so call on the fact that I was just in the hospital for my own stomach issues, which were likely about a bazillion times more intense than some menstrual cramps.
He did not. Like I said, as he’s all amazing and everything. “I have some stuff here that would probably make you feel better. I’ll bring it home.”
“Hun, you shouldn’t be taking any illegal substances across the border. Seriously.”
What? It’s not like there’s a wide array of pharmaceuticals offered in Afghanistan that aren’t available here.
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“Well, my back’s been really, really bad again. And I’m still feeling like shit altogether, so I went to the Canex to get some Advil and something to relieve bloating. I saw a box that specifically said it works for backaches and bloating, so I picked it up.”
“Okay…”
“I didn’t notice it was for menstrual related cramps, backaches and bloating until I read the back after I was already back to my room. And also? That shit didn’t help me out at all. I still felt like crap and was out eight bucks.”
TIP: Pamprin products are not for men.
My apologies, but here it comes. Periods. All women get them and no one likes to hear about them. Especially us women. Bring up the subject of PMS and expect to get a swift kick to the groin. But, here it is anyway. The background information you require. I get brutal periods and horrible cramps. That’s it- the end.
One more thing to quickly bring up and be done with? Rob has just recovered, for the most part, from a serious infliction of food poisoning. Enough said.
Whew- now that the uglies are out of the way, let’s get on with the story.
With Rob away, our conversation time has become incredibly limited, so we try and make the most of it by only discussing the things that REALLY matter in life.
“Ugh. I feel like total and complete crap. I haven’t slept all week and to make everything worse, I have my period and think I just might die. Seriously. I may go out, lay down on the highway and wait for a truck to drive along and run me down and take away my pain. Uggghhhhh.”
Rob is amazing people, because if the situation were reversed? I would so call on the fact that I was just in the hospital for my own stomach issues, which were likely about a bazillion times more intense than some menstrual cramps.
He did not. Like I said, as he’s all amazing and everything. “I have some stuff here that would probably make you feel better. I’ll bring it home.”
“Hun, you shouldn’t be taking any illegal substances across the border. Seriously.”
What? It’s not like there’s a wide array of pharmaceuticals offered in Afghanistan that aren’t available here.
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“Well, my back’s been really, really bad again. And I’m still feeling like shit altogether, so I went to the Canex to get some Advil and something to relieve bloating. I saw a box that specifically said it works for backaches and bloating, so I picked it up.”
“Okay…”
“I didn’t notice it was for menstrual related cramps, backaches and bloating until I read the back after I was already back to my room. And also? That shit didn’t help me out at all. I still felt like crap and was out eight bucks.”
TIP: Pamprin products are not for men.
Daily Dose of Science- Chaotic Momentum Post September 12, 2010
The rain and gloom of doom will not let up.
I’m going to borrow an over used phrase of Payton’s and tell you that, “I hate.”
Let it be known that when you tell a toddler that they shouldn’t say something? They will gibber gabber the living hell out of it. “I hate this, Momma. I hate. I hate. I hate. I hate.”
But seriously? I hate the darkness and the past few months have consisted of far too many storm clouds for my liking. Our schedule has been kicked up a notch with all of our fall classes beginning, but I’m still struggling to fill up the rest of the days when it’s just too crappy to go outside.
And I know. We could put on rain boots and embrace the outdoors, but I am SO not that kind of girl. My children will be deprived, but they will be warm.
Warm and bored. Despite the insane amount of toys I’ve obsessively accumulated, we’re running out of things to do. An adult can only play princesses for so many hours without throwing themselves out a window aiming their internal organs at the jagged fence posts that could conveniently slam through one side of their body and exit out the other.
I am certain that this would be considerably less painful than participating in more pretend princess play, but it would probably still hurt just a smidge. So, alternatively, I grab my Busybook for Toddlers.
I need a book to outline imaginative play for me, because I just really can’t match the imagination of a three year old. Rob can, mostly because really, he’s just a ginormous child himself sometimes. I often watch him in awe, wondering how he manages to come up with such genius ideas that engage our little monkeys for hours. My brain just doesn’t work that way, I wish it did, but in lack of creativity, I have my resources.
The suggestion that I chose for today was to make ice using different colors of food coloring, for your children to play with in the bath. Easy, right?
You should know better than to agree with me when I frame a question like this. It’s SO simple, it just fails to mention a few cautionary tidbits. Like the fact that food coloring? Just a fancy way to describe a stong mother fucker of a dye (that just so happens to be edible).
The creation of the ice goes well. No issues. And once frozen, I empty the tray into two plastic bowls- blue for Ryker and red for Payton. I’m all scientific and educational in my plans to experiment mixing the colors in the bath water to make purple.
The only issue is that my carefully devised plan executes too quickly. Somehow, I managed to get the dye all over the tray, and when emptying it, I’m equally as successful at getting the dye all over my hands. The results of our project are demonstrated pretty effectively and we haven’t even begun our experiment.
I always did hate science class. I hate. I hate. I hate.
There’s more to the story here though, because the best part? Before getting a chance to wash up, I heroically run to Abner’s rescue as he’s being mauled by the Ryker man. I save him by pulling him out from under my son and scooping him up to the safety of my arms. And my hands. My colored hands.
The dye? Does not wash out. I’ve scrubbed the top ten layers of skin off of my hands and I still look like, well, I look like I was in the middle of a bad science experiement. And Abner? He just looks like he has an awfully tacky mother with awfully bad judgement to match.
But the whole bath tub party experience? Went over smashingly.
Red and blue make purple.
I’m going to borrow an over used phrase of Payton’s and tell you that, “I hate.”
Let it be known that when you tell a toddler that they shouldn’t say something? They will gibber gabber the living hell out of it. “I hate this, Momma. I hate. I hate. I hate. I hate.”
But seriously? I hate the darkness and the past few months have consisted of far too many storm clouds for my liking. Our schedule has been kicked up a notch with all of our fall classes beginning, but I’m still struggling to fill up the rest of the days when it’s just too crappy to go outside.
And I know. We could put on rain boots and embrace the outdoors, but I am SO not that kind of girl. My children will be deprived, but they will be warm.
Warm and bored. Despite the insane amount of toys I’ve obsessively accumulated, we’re running out of things to do. An adult can only play princesses for so many hours without throwing themselves out a window aiming their internal organs at the jagged fence posts that could conveniently slam through one side of their body and exit out the other.
I am certain that this would be considerably less painful than participating in more pretend princess play, but it would probably still hurt just a smidge. So, alternatively, I grab my Busybook for Toddlers.
I need a book to outline imaginative play for me, because I just really can’t match the imagination of a three year old. Rob can, mostly because really, he’s just a ginormous child himself sometimes. I often watch him in awe, wondering how he manages to come up with such genius ideas that engage our little monkeys for hours. My brain just doesn’t work that way, I wish it did, but in lack of creativity, I have my resources.
The suggestion that I chose for today was to make ice using different colors of food coloring, for your children to play with in the bath. Easy, right?
You should know better than to agree with me when I frame a question like this. It’s SO simple, it just fails to mention a few cautionary tidbits. Like the fact that food coloring? Just a fancy way to describe a stong mother fucker of a dye (that just so happens to be edible).
The creation of the ice goes well. No issues. And once frozen, I empty the tray into two plastic bowls- blue for Ryker and red for Payton. I’m all scientific and educational in my plans to experiment mixing the colors in the bath water to make purple.
The only issue is that my carefully devised plan executes too quickly. Somehow, I managed to get the dye all over the tray, and when emptying it, I’m equally as successful at getting the dye all over my hands. The results of our project are demonstrated pretty effectively and we haven’t even begun our experiment.
I always did hate science class. I hate. I hate. I hate.
There’s more to the story here though, because the best part? Before getting a chance to wash up, I heroically run to Abner’s rescue as he’s being mauled by the Ryker man. I save him by pulling him out from under my son and scooping him up to the safety of my arms. And my hands. My colored hands.
The dye? Does not wash out. I’ve scrubbed the top ten layers of skin off of my hands and I still look like, well, I look like I was in the middle of a bad science experiement. And Abner? He just looks like he has an awfully tacky mother with awfully bad judgement to match.
But the whole bath tub party experience? Went over smashingly.
Red and blue make purple.
Death by Water Gun- Chaotic Momentum Post August 31, 2010
In case there’s anyone who isn’t aware, it’s August.
But last night? The temperture dropped below freezing. Seriously people.
When I woke up this morning, at five am THANK YOU RYKER, there was a thin layer of frost covering the grass. Which meant that I wasn’t exactly packing up our beach gear to head out to the lake. This is entirely disappointing.
We haven’t had nearly enough beach days and I was so pumped to show off my post child bikini body. Search for the sarcasm there people, but in all honesty, I really do feel ripped off when it comes to days in the sun. As our notorious Alberta winter quickly approaches, I feel that we haven’t had nearly enough warm days to make up for all of the nastiness to come.
Stupid global warming.
Looking out my front window, I can see the first pieces of yellow leaves starting to fall from the trees. And across the street, what’s that? There is a man walking to get his mail in a PARKA and beside him, three little kids in their bathing suits chasing each other with water guns. Not a scene you see everyday. Kids? They’re fucking brave when it comes to having a good time.
The You Can Die From A Water Gun Story, as told by Auntie Sandra (the names in this story have been replaced to save two teenage boys some serious embarrassment)
When Willy and Dick were little boys, there was nothing that they loved more in the world than to strip down to their nothings and play outside. Especially at Grandma and Grampa’s house, where they’d have their pool, huge buckets of water and two Super Soakers to race around with.
If you’ve ever played with a Super Soaker, you’d know the pump ones can be difficult to fill up. And once they’re full? They are heavy as hell.
This is where the buckets come in. The boys could put the ends of their guns in the bucket and pump away until their water containers were full again.
It. Was. Awesome.
Except for the one time where Willy almost died.
Grandma and Grandpa were watching their grandsons’ cute little bums racing around the yard pummeling each other with streams of water. They would then escape to their separate corners of the yard to reload.
But Willy didn’t do so well on the follow through. He put his gun in the bucket, and as he pulled the handle of the pump up for the fill, he slammed his penis in between the pump handle and gun handle. He did this with all of the strength a little boy has.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
The kill-me-now-if-I’m-not-already-dead-excruciating-pain!
I am probably not giving the description of his injury justice to the severity he felt, as I do not have a penis. I obviously cannot accurately relate- which I am thankful for. But from everything I’ve been told in the past? I’m assuming that this would hurt like a son of a bitch.
And if this wasn’t bad enough for the little guy?
From the shock of the sudden explosion of excruciation, he dropped his gun. His gun which was filled with water and weighed more than he did. His gun that was locking his penis in between the two handles like a torturous vice.
With this move, his eyeballs nearly shot out of his head. Not knowing what to do, but aware that he needed help, he ran. Dragging the Super Soaker behind him, in between his legs, by his penis.
“GRANDMA! GRABDPA! HELP! I AM DYING!”
No shit.
They rescue him and apparently the damage does not look to be too severe or permanent. And yes, I know, it most definitely felt otherwise.
They were sitting seriously on the back deck with Super Soakers strewn carelessly to the ground when Auntie Sandra walked into the back yard.
Most likely discussing the possibility of future complications.
Auntie Sandra is unaware of the circumstances, smiles at the boys, and asks, “Who’s in for a water fight?”
Willy looks up at his aunt with the widest of eyes, and says, “Auntie Sandra, NO! You. Can. Die.”
But last night? The temperture dropped below freezing. Seriously people.
When I woke up this morning, at five am THANK YOU RYKER, there was a thin layer of frost covering the grass. Which meant that I wasn’t exactly packing up our beach gear to head out to the lake. This is entirely disappointing.
We haven’t had nearly enough beach days and I was so pumped to show off my post child bikini body. Search for the sarcasm there people, but in all honesty, I really do feel ripped off when it comes to days in the sun. As our notorious Alberta winter quickly approaches, I feel that we haven’t had nearly enough warm days to make up for all of the nastiness to come.
Stupid global warming.
Looking out my front window, I can see the first pieces of yellow leaves starting to fall from the trees. And across the street, what’s that? There is a man walking to get his mail in a PARKA and beside him, three little kids in their bathing suits chasing each other with water guns. Not a scene you see everyday. Kids? They’re fucking brave when it comes to having a good time.
The You Can Die From A Water Gun Story, as told by Auntie Sandra (the names in this story have been replaced to save two teenage boys some serious embarrassment)
When Willy and Dick were little boys, there was nothing that they loved more in the world than to strip down to their nothings and play outside. Especially at Grandma and Grampa’s house, where they’d have their pool, huge buckets of water and two Super Soakers to race around with.
If you’ve ever played with a Super Soaker, you’d know the pump ones can be difficult to fill up. And once they’re full? They are heavy as hell.
This is where the buckets come in. The boys could put the ends of their guns in the bucket and pump away until their water containers were full again.
It. Was. Awesome.
Except for the one time where Willy almost died.
Grandma and Grandpa were watching their grandsons’ cute little bums racing around the yard pummeling each other with streams of water. They would then escape to their separate corners of the yard to reload.
But Willy didn’t do so well on the follow through. He put his gun in the bucket, and as he pulled the handle of the pump up for the fill, he slammed his penis in between the pump handle and gun handle. He did this with all of the strength a little boy has.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
The kill-me-now-if-I’m-not-already-dead-excruciating-pain!
I am probably not giving the description of his injury justice to the severity he felt, as I do not have a penis. I obviously cannot accurately relate- which I am thankful for. But from everything I’ve been told in the past? I’m assuming that this would hurt like a son of a bitch.
And if this wasn’t bad enough for the little guy?
From the shock of the sudden explosion of excruciation, he dropped his gun. His gun which was filled with water and weighed more than he did. His gun that was locking his penis in between the two handles like a torturous vice.
With this move, his eyeballs nearly shot out of his head. Not knowing what to do, but aware that he needed help, he ran. Dragging the Super Soaker behind him, in between his legs, by his penis.
“GRANDMA! GRABDPA! HELP! I AM DYING!”
No shit.
They rescue him and apparently the damage does not look to be too severe or permanent. And yes, I know, it most definitely felt otherwise.
They were sitting seriously on the back deck with Super Soakers strewn carelessly to the ground when Auntie Sandra walked into the back yard.
Most likely discussing the possibility of future complications.
Auntie Sandra is unaware of the circumstances, smiles at the boys, and asks, “Who’s in for a water fight?”
Willy looks up at his aunt with the widest of eyes, and says, “Auntie Sandra, NO! You. Can. Die.”
Canine Psychological Exploration- Chaotic Momentum Detour Post August 30, 2010
Abner... I feel obligated to worry, my love. I worry when your extreme anxiety leads you to ferociously chew at your paws when we leave you, but this mutilation takes things to a much more serious level. Self injury is linked to a variety of mental disorders, all of which I am certain you are afflicted with...
Is this your way of communicating the pain you feel inside?
Or are you expressing your anger and feelings of lost masculinity because everyone insists on calling you a she... I promise, we all know how manly you are.
Regardless of your reasons, I feel I should be more attentive to your emotional state. With all of the toys in the house, I doubt there's any coincidence that you chose an exact replica of yourself to destroy.
May you find your peace within, sweet boy, as we lay Barbie's pet yorkie to rest.
Is this your way of communicating the pain you feel inside?
Or are you expressing your anger and feelings of lost masculinity because everyone insists on calling you a she... I promise, we all know how manly you are.
Regardless of your reasons, I feel I should be more attentive to your emotional state. With all of the toys in the house, I doubt there's any coincidence that you chose an exact replica of yourself to destroy.
May you find your peace within, sweet boy, as we lay Barbie's pet yorkie to rest.
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