My doctor tells me I have high blood pressure. I think most women would have high blood pressure around Dr. Hottie, but apparently mine is high even when it’s taken by a nurse so I’ll let him have this one. Okay, maybe I’m a little high-strung, but my life is pretty stressful.  You’d be high-strung too if you walked a mile in my shoes. Actually, walking at least a mile in my shoes is what I should be doing,  but that’s just one more thing on my neverending list of “shit I should be doing”. The same list that is causing me stress and giving me high blood pressure. So I’m going to cross that off the list to reduce my stress. I feel better already.


I don’t know what this thing is, but I think I know how it feels.

Today was not the greatest day.  I had a panic attack, complete with tears and difficulty breathing, after being startled by Mr Flatmate; a bit of an extreme reaction to a harmless “boo!”. This threw me off for the day and I couldn’t quite get my groove back.  I got a large unexpected bill in the mail, which is never fun. Then, not long after noticing my deepening under-eye wrinkles, I got a call from the school summoning me to the principals office, which you know is very rarely good news.

So I’ve decided to quit the world. I don’t like it anymore so I’m leaving. If you need me, I’ll be in my blanket fort, binge-watching Adventure Time and pretending to be catatonic. Join me if you like, but bring chocolate and cuddles.


Too Tired To Think Of A Title

Sometime during the last few weeks, the Universe apparently decided that I needed a challenge. Perhaps my life had become stagnent and boring to whichever being has the misfortune to watch over me, so they thought they’d spice it up a bit. I won’t go in to the gritty details because I could write an entire book of frustrated and angry rants about my car, insomnia, money, my ex, and various government and healthcare agencies. My ability to order my thoughts and achieve anything has been crushed under the pressure and my fatigue and foggy head have staged an overwhelming comeback. Not to mention that I can’t even play Pokemon Go because my phone is too crappy. I’m going to continue to be AWOL on here until I get back to a place of okayness, which I’m sure won’t be too long.
But here’s a few life updates in the meantime:

> Jealous McCuntbeak now allows me be scratch her head, just so long as Mr. Flatmate doesn’t touch me in her presence. Also, she’s a she. We know this because of the egg we found smashed at the bottom of her cage yesterday.

> We now have two new pet rats, Lizzie Borden and Myra Hindley. They’re super cute and playful and I loves them.

> My son has become an incredibly convincing liar and I suspect that underneath his adorable exterior, there may be an evil mastermind who is subtly manipulating us all.

See you soon!

Living With a Madman and His Bird

“I want a rainbow lorikeet,” says Mr. Flatmate.
My reply, knowing that he wants a lot of things that he’ll never get around to obtaining, was, “Yeah, that would be cool.”

Within minutes he’d located his dream bird online, for a bargain we-can’t-be-bothered-with-a-pet-anymore price, complete with free cage. Suddenly, I’m having visions of me cleaning up after it, while it’s giant cage clutters up my already cramped house. I try back out. Mr. Flatmate sulks a bit. He’s already in love. I cave because I’m weak, but also because I want to get laid. And it is really cute.

We arrange to pick up the bird, which is about two years old, and weirdly has no name. Mr. Flatmate is kind of tin-foil-hat about privacy, so for the sake of his paranoia, I won’t share the name he bestowed upon his bird. Instead, I shall refer to him as Jealous McCuntbeak.


Not actually Jealous McCuntbeak, but they all look the same anyway.

Mr. Flatmate and Jealous McCuntbeak spent the next three days bonding over their obsession for one another, and quickly became an inseparable pair. Mr. Flatmate becomes visably tense if others attempted to communicate with Jealous McCuntbeak, lest they undo the vital progress he had made in his training. Jealous McCuntbeak, being a mirror to Mr. Flatmate’s very being, also became enraged if others ventured to closely to his Lord and Saviour.

They’re an interesting pair, and can often be heard alternately screaming and singing at each other while engaging in hand vs. bird wrestling. Mr. Flatmate showers Jealous McCuntface with gifts in the form of toys and flowers, which Jealous McCuntface destroys with reckless abandon. It’s like watching a friend beginning a sickeningly sweet, but dangerously co-dependant relationship. I’ve had to deal with public displays of affection, weird baby-talk, and no longer being part of conversations. I’m also mostly exhiled from my bedroom, because that’s where they hang out, and I don’t want to get my face eaten off. Mr. Flatmate use to come home from work and harrass me until I told him to “fuck off out of my kitchen,” now he goes straight to Jealous McCuntbeak, who starts calling for him the second he arrives. Yes, I’m a little bit Jealous McCuntbeak too.

I forgive him for his neglect though, because the things I overhear during his conversations with Jealous McCuntbeak are wonderfully entertaining. Too entertaining to keep to myself, so I shall share some of them with you:

“It’s weird being naked around you. You’re underage.”

“Hey buddy, are you going to come in the shower? Hahaha. Oh, you won’t get that joke…”

“Don’t eat that, bro, that’s my flatmate.”

“Hey! That’s my phone! Give it back! Argh! Fine, it’s your phone.”

Whispered “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, and nevermind that noise you heard.”
Me “It’s still counts as singing a lullaby to your bird, even if it is Metallica.”
Mr. F “What? I wasn’t singing. Shut up.”