Dodge a bullet proof your vodka abuse your daughter and she grows up to be a slut just like you called her when she was 12. Tell her she’s a stupid, ugly ass and she proves ya right by marrying Mr. Wrong. It becomes her.  To make up for not bein loved, she has a buncha babies, who live to hate her.

Teens can be combative and my dog is transgendered. He’s actually a pussy born in the wrong body and thinks he can wake us at three am to take him out. No, no, I’m the alpha, male, omega, who will tell your little furry ass when you can poop and it ain’t at three, that’s me.

Thank You God for getting middle-school son to the bus on time considering the wind chill is -18. Thank you for my bathrobe and warm car. I know it all comes from You. I love You, just not life. I didn’t order dis mood, and it wasn’t gettin any better. Suicide is close enough to taste.  My Tourette’s was outta hand, I was swearing in front of the kids way more than usual and felt like an unraveling spool of anxiety. Every morning fulla dread and hate.  Only God could get me up.

I broke down, cracked into tears and called my shrink.  He said, “Add Zoloft,” to the ten pills I already take. I actually felt better for a few days and then started pooping my pants. I’d say, “No shit,” but it is. Yep, there’s always room for a side effect of NSAID’s and camouflage Good Night disposable training pants. Adult diapers cost too much and they were outta the ‘girl’ kind.  But we all know I’m a 12 year old boy trapped in a moms body, give me Godzilla not Taylor Swift.  I rock my army pull ups and don’t wake anyone to go. As a matter of fact, I sleep through it. You heard me, I’m shiting the bed. This is great!

I don’t have to kill myself now cause if I keep pissing poo, I’ll disappear. My homeless addict sleeps in my car and when I try to take the kids to school, the battery’s dead. I pay the tow guy what I woulda made at work. Who knows what’s under my bathrobe? I’m a soldier in a shit storm.

Next day my daughter shovels the drive. Basking I back over the shovel. Ching! Did ya hear that? It was my paycheck. Like magic. One jump, one shovel, one mom doesn’t get paid, but who needs money? Billy Gates is drinkin feces and I had a good night sittin in a gold mine!



I’m comin outta the closet in my robe. If you were in it, I’d tell you to get out. If you got back in, you’d understand true love. My robe is best clothing I own. It’s warmer than my coat, but unless you’re Hugh Hefner, you’re unstable if you wear one in public. It’s an unfair stigma.

The only thing crazy about shoppin in my robe is Patagonia costs $150. My son’s sugar girl bought him one a those and it’s like wearing my bed. Nice, but too rich for my cold blood. I wanna start a movement where it’s ok to wear robes in public, but at my age, any movement should be private. There’s a reason Jesus wore one and I’m thinkin of goin to Seminary.

It’s magically warm-licious, but isn’t magic. However, the feats I’m expected to pull off would wiggle Samantha’s nose to Michael Jackson’s. Today I have to pick up three kids, in three different places at the same time. Then make dinner before serving and driving to rehearsal.

I can do a few of those things, some of them, even most, but would have to do use witch craft to get them all done and I’m not magic. I spent alotta motherhood tryin to be, but finally succumbed to mere mortal-ness and organizers whose schedules take precedence over participant deliverers.

I’m fully convinced whatever business you’re in, you end up hatin whoever pays your salary. Actors hate fans, teachers hate students, cops hate thugs, bar tenders-drunks cashiers-customers, mechanics-drivers and school bus drivers-moms who can’t make it on time. If this robe were magic I wouldn’t be in front of him at a stop sign, wavin my arm out the window, beggin him to wait so my boy doesn’t have to cross the street. And he wouldn’t pull away or have the power in his big toe to send me careening thru town at 6 am in my enchanting, but sorely un-magical bathrobe.

Next year if I rake in an extra hundred dollars, I’ll have to sell sex for school and bus fees. This isn’t going to be pretty or  a best seller. I’ll have to run specials like Blow One Get One, 75 percent off and use promo codes. Truth is, I was never very good at oral sex, I gag, cry and my nose runs. I wasn’t meant to shove anything other than food down my throat. I can’t breath and not in the way you can verbalize. I mean, arms flailing as he’s shoving your face down til ya see stars, pass out and wake with sperm up your nose. Then he’s pissed you snorted instead a swallowed.

In Fourth grade they told me I couldn’t play the Oboe cuz my lips weren’t shaped right. I think that’s why I can’t play dick. Blow jobs don’t work with my mouth, but for school and bus fees, I’ll try.  I can’t sell my ass cuz it’s flat, broke and tired. I need a job where I can lie down or at least kneel. I applied for the NASA Bed Rest Study, but they don’t accept mentally ill smokers. Maybe I can just cut out the middle man and service the driver. He’s a dick, but unlike the Oboe, I blew more than one of them before.

Sixteen wants a $350 Oculus Rift Gear VR Innovator Edition for Christmas. He doesn’t even believe in Jesus, Santa or me. He stole my money, punched the wall and lets face it, hates me. I may have special needs, but my intellect and financial abilities are in tact. Here’s a Cheech and Chong shirt dude, we both know they’re your real saviors and make the virtual reality.

I’m glad all the cool moms hate Elf On The Shelf cause every negative post reminds me to move him. That horribly upsetting Elf may be why none of em can pee alone.  They really gotta go cuz they been drinkin booze from sippy cups. OMG KEEP CALM AND STOP SENDING GAME REQUESTS! SWAT surrounded my house while I was at church last week and an Elf riles you?

Here’s an open sentence to wives: You don’t believe it, but without your husband, your tolerance for elves would suddenly sky rocket. You might not even notice him. It’s funny how wives, creeped out by elves, have Hef’s magazines stacked under their towels. The porn on the shelf doesn’t move by itself, but your husband believes it’s magical.

(c) cercandodicapirlo 2014


You can judge, but couldn’t serve time in my Uggs.  My felon sends his sister semi senta mental mementos from prison and she sneaks in tobacky. That’s not only wacky, it’s a felony. Teenass texts his ex a pic with four piles of pills on  Kleenex (he found my meds under my bed). The caption: “It seems you’re not taking this seriously.” The next Kleenex is empty and reads, “Cya in hell.” Is it Valentine’s Day already? She sends it to me at work.

I drive fifty in a thirty, am met by cops, the fire department and paramedics putting him in an ambulance. Kneeling in my hallway counting my pills under a cop. Ten hours later, still processing attempted suicide, we leave the er. For two days I listen, eavesdrop, spy and finally realize he faked it to get her back. It worked, but then he fucked and dumped her within an hour. Afterward she overdosed for real and his dad took him shopping for a new phone. My sons are the ex husband I can’t divorce. I’ll take getting hit by a train for a thousand. How selfish of me to not want more. But WAIT! There’s more! If you order now you also get

My felon delivered from prison, eta 10-1. If I’m not here they can’t leave him. Do I needa sign for it? Gonna buy him a pack a smokes as a welcome home. “Come in here dear boy, have a Newport!” Actually, smoke outside.

Big plans, gonna take him for dinner, back off, simmer down, love and search him. My job is to collect data and urine. Lie in bed while you lie to me. Life’s too short for someone else. Mine’s been long enough. You get the whole not wanting to live thing? Well, it’s not ‘a thing’ and this isn’t life. It’s workin at a gas station, tryin to find out if my heroin addict died, od’ed, got mugged or arrested. One night my daughter was on the party bus, the next day she texted she was dying.

I got off, sped to her house, but no one answered my pounds. I ran home to discover Teenass and some girl had broken in. His dad, ‘wasn’t gonna miss the Black Hawk’s game for this.’ Super Ex has 200,000 views on youtube and doesn’t even know he was taped. All the stoned kids comment they wish their dad would teach em to chillum too. My daughter ends up in the hospital and my suicide couldn’t possibly scar my kids more than my life already has. You’re welcome to it.

Reached out for help to pay for school lunch. If you’re too close to the limit, they demand proof. Our printer doesn’t work unless you sit on it. It eked streaked inked pay stubs.  Most people apparently underreport, never answer and are immediately cut off.  They’re fakin poor.  You never know what to believe.  I gotta bootleg LifeProof case from eBay, your heroin dealer’s not a real friend, just on Facebook,   Eighteen’s High Life really was beer, but don’t let his Arizona Tea can fool ya, it’s fulla  weed and we’re authentically poor. Got the heating assistance to prove it.

It took a month for my felon to relapse, now there’s a warrant. Why is it so awful to not wanna stay here? What am I looking forward to? I’m already retired, retarded and tired. My tendencies offend your sense abilities cuz I’m insensitive. Which part of mentally ill don’t you get? Crude lewd attitude? My felon thinks it’s harder to steal than work.

If I have to tell em to brush their teeth one more time I’m gonna practice dentistry and yank. Just cause you can take a selfie truly doesn’t mean you should. You’re so brave. Or drunk. Or was that a mug shot? “Take it down,” said the fish, I do not wish to fail. In your life you collect milk cartons for Pinterest Igloos and post important political views, over here my felon’s calling his sister a thot (thirsty ho out there) and tellin her it’d be easy to scape her cuz she’s paralyzed. Happy Thanksgiving!

My status is, ‘I’m Christian,’ and my brother posts about the, ‘anniversary of his beloved’s natal day.’ That’s, ‘birthday,’ for those who aren’t gaggin yet. Then Shae dies and I’m left. My grumpy soul serves chicken soup to eighty people. After dinner Pastor Rod asks us to write down what we need to let go of in order to feel hope. I drop, “My sons addiction,” in the box. At night I hold on to my youngest’s hand and feel it.

(c) cercendodicapirlo 2014


I used to imagine menopause and fear emptiness, never being able to carry a baby again longing for the kick and miracle growing inside. Teenagers cured that, but I’m fraught with menopausal symptoms. Or am I? Menopause mimics so many things. How can you tell where shit happens and menopause begins? Sure I lost my libido, but I have two ex husbands. That’s enough dick for a lifetime.

I didn’t lose my hair, it just grows on my boobs. Sleep disorders? Didn’t that start with pregnancy? No one ever tells you once you conceive you’ll never sleep again. Same with fatigue. Yeh, I know there’s some out there full of zest and I used to think my newborns kept me up all night. Fast forward 15 years when new baby smell turns into teen poo.

At a dude six foot two coming home at 3:00 am, makes me want to turn back my biological clock and lock the front door, but then they kick it in, ring the bell or sleep in my car.  Either way, I’ve lost that new car smell forever. So, am I fatigued because I’m menopausal or a bitch cause I haven’t slept for 34 years?

While searching for something I’d hidden and couldn’t remember where, I found tampons and realized I’m not empty. I maintain fairly regular moods and when they swing, you better duck. I’m not bleeding, but you may be.

What doesn’t cause depression? Having a baby, infertility, teenagers, marriage, divorce, getting your period, losing your job? It’s like dog poop in my living room. Good luck not steppin in it. It’s a tough shit life and we’re ripping up the carpet. The only thing I’m sure doesn’t cause it is chocolate, but you know what that means.

Am I gaining cause I’m menopausal or shoppin cause I’m depressed? I’m shoppin cause I can’t button my jeans and that’s depressing. I have digestive problems, eat everything I see and need a napkin. Is my tongue on fire because I’m a hot mess or was that Thai Chicken? Indigestion or heart palpitations? Who cares? Leave me alone. Irritability isn’t just hormonal, it’s my personality. Yeh, I suffer from panic disorder, have you seen my tits?!

Menopause is just another way of sayin you never have to go to the doctor again. All that ails can be explained and I forgot what I was gonna say. It’s not difficulty concentrating as much as I don’t give a shit. My memory lapsed and I didn’t renew. Am I dizzy or just forgot how many Zanex I took? It’s all a blur…I can’t find my glasses.

(c)  2014


He brought me over and over to a place I couldn’t stand. Is it possible to have nothing left at the end? Back stabbed so often you grazed my heart.  Hope dashed, back slashed. She’s a thief who says I’m goin to hell and has scripture tatooed on her fake tits. Maybe I am, yours can’t take the heat.  Put your head in the oven, Imma draft. You’re melting witch, and your little heart too.

Selfish suits you fancy.  I got nothin more for you. I laugh at your bike helmet face. Your squished up head with too much brain. It’s not as smart as my ass, but it smothered your heart. You ended up an ugly dick.

I’ll could call the feds and the bank, tell whoever I can you’re fake and not care how you retaliate.  Whatever it takes, you’re a cowturd. You said you married me cuz the sex was powerful, I musta missed that. Go power fuck yourself. I never expected peace at the end of war, but rest easy free of you.


I told a girl who might have cancer I wish I had it and wow did it piss her off.  I’ve once again been accused of playing the victim.  I’m so mother fucking tired of playing the victim, I’m just going to become one.  Professionally.  I’m gonna get a fucking victim job.  So shut the fuck up.

How I feel about my life is how I’m allowed to.  Whether you have cancer, are a survivor or lost a kid, I still feel how I feel.  You aren’t me, you have a sister, mom, husband some money or a best selling book, which coincidentally you started writing a year after my very similar blog came out.  You’re ‘Erma with the f bomb’ antidotes and I’ll take cancer. You think I smoke for the joy?

I’m heartbroken when the world loses someone who’s loved, made a difference or is wanted, I’m none of those.  I’m a crabby, bitchy, anxiety ridden, traumatized, bipolar, manic, sleep deprived, abused, molested, raped, tortured, pissed off, recently turned pro victim mom, with a broken neck who’s treated like shit by her kids.  FUCK YOU and the Lymphoma you rode in on.

I love this girl, but she can kiss my potential tumor.  I’m allowed to feel like shit whether or not she approves. Life seems like a bad movie where everyone gets out, but me. I keep waking up with a good idea of how to die. I take lots of meds, but still wanna suck Glock.  I fight suicidal depression every single mother fucking second, it’s exhausting and I gotta do the laundry, dishes and get up at 6 am everyday, except Saturdays when it’s 4. Got it?

Life’s a never ending chore. I’m tired, don’t wanna get up, rarely shower and don’t wanna make dinner. Every day is the same and yes, I fucking get it. It could be sooooooooooooo  much worse, it has been. I know I’m eternally blessed, but if I get cancer, I won’t go bald fightin the good fight or pukin from Chemo. I guarantee I’ll enjoy my disease and live like there’s no tomorrow, cause thankfully, there won’t be. I’ll pack up my kids and spend every dime. It’ll be like, “Hey Victim! You just got diagnosed! What are you going to do next?” Disney World!

I don’t like life and after what I wrote, can you imagine being around me? I wanna die and my poor kids have to live with me. I wish I could donate mine. like a kidney, stop looking for a sturdy beam, Googling poison, fantasizing about blowing my face off, inhaling carbon monoxide in my garage or even shooting heroin if I could just be sure it was enough.

This life isn’t precious to me, glad yours is. I don’t live for my kids, I’m forced to stay because of them.  Life sucked the life and love outta me. You can judge me all you want, but don’t fucking tell me or allude to me on Facebook so your friends can comment how “she needs to learn how others feel.” What you feel doesn’t cure me or change my mind. It also doesn’t increase my sensitivity. I really hope you get well cause that’s what you want. I want out.


Hello. I’m hot off the press, but it could be a flash, word.  Don’t beat around the bush or dead horses, I’m just beat. Once upon a time I was a doctor’s wife, now I’m a single mom of seven, six of whom still speak to me, but that can change. I fantasize about other worlds, lives and moms. Not that I want to be them, I just want to live in a Disney sitcom, minus the laugh track and pop songs.

I’ve had 2 failed marriages, yell and swear a lot, have social anxiety, sensory issues, am in a constant state of terror with PTSD, Misophonia and explosive rage (Misophonia precludes laugh tracks and pop songs).  Most people are afraid of me. My bark is bad, but I don’t bite, at least I haven’t for a really long time. But when I do, I break the skin. I’m a product of molestation, rape, kidnapping, torture and child abuse. It’s not Disney, but could easily be the Life Time Movie Channel.

In my Disney world my kids worst addiction is iPads, my status is about annoying game requests, everybody’s sober and nicotine and Cocoa Pebbles freely flow. In reality I’m suicidally depressed and admire a beautiful starry sky while simultaneously praying for death. I hear my friend might have cancer and think, “Lucky,” have a large mass in my throat and am not going to the doctor. There’s no way in hell I’d chemo to stay here. I sleep with my Blu in my mouth.

My oldest son’s a felon. Not the murdering, raping kind, but felon none-the-less. He’s a repeat offender who refused to believe a cop could have dreads. He climbed in a Caprice and sold drugs on video. He got a lot of time on paper, which means parole and since he’s never met a rule he didn’t break, he keeps reoffending. He’s released and reincarcerated. Not to be confused with reincarnated because he so isn’t.  He’s also a heroin addict and just one of the facts nuts, bolts, screws, Hitchcock birds, killer bees and gist of my not Disney life. It’s not even Disney X D. It’s more Disney LSD in HD rated X to see.

A dear, young, family friend, Amy, died last Friday. It’s a small, small hood. A lovely guard from the prison and her mother attended the funeral. I didn’t expect to see her and was happy to meet her mom. “Your son works in the prison? “

“No, he lives there,” you should’ve seen her step back as if it’s contagious. “Well somebody has to or your daughter wouldn’t have a job. It’s not Ebola, just Dumola and he’s down with it.”

He’s actually far from stupid, tested college level in middle school, but makes poor choices and truthfully, so do I. I just try not to involve law enforcement and illegal activity in my bad ideas. Except for the pot and paraphernalia hidden in my boot, but that doesn’t reflect my lifestyle, just a spontaneous search and seize of one of my teens.

Problem is now I don’t know how or where to dispose of it. I was going to bring it on vacation and throw it away some where nobody knows my name. I was always intrigued OJ’s black suitcase was never found. I should be able to dump some weed, a pipe and grinder…By the way, did you know some genius is making $40 bucks a pop on an instrument that crushes pot? You know, like we used to with our fingers? Kids pay for it now, maybe Dumola is spreading.  Anyway, it’s in my Ugg and I have to get rid of it before my felon is released and my home searched at the whim of his parole officer.

My son loved Amy, but couldn’t find his ‘get out of jail free card’, l so I promised to represent (that’s ghettoese for ‘showing acknowledgement to one’s background, home, social group, or original place of residence’). I wanted to express how beautiful and loved she was. Her death was a sudden, horrific tragedy that changed our lives.

I ordered flowers from a national florist and spent more on them than on all other flower purchases in my entire life combined. It wasn’t really representing, but over reaching. I wanted something extravagant because her life wasn’t and should’ve been. It was the centerpiece of the stage and I was proud when I arrived, which is something reality often steps in and checks. As I got closer I saw the card said, “Piggly Wiggly,” and the flowers were dead. That night I requested a refund. They offered to send more flowers, but turns out don’t deliver to heaven. Looking back, it was a perfect represent. We’re more Piggly Wiggly than FTD, but mom’s boots are smokin. Nice to meet you.

(c) cercando dicapirlo 2014