It’s Thanksgiving. I don’t give a rat’s ass about thanksgiving.
Honestly, I think it’s all a load of crap. We’re pretty much celebrating our slaughter of a bazillion innocent Native Americans and bullshitting about what we’re thankful for one day of the freaking year when we should be thankful all the damn time. We should have Thanksgiving every fucking week. Plus, who would mind eating that well so often? NO ONE.
Anyway, I’m drunk (but only a little) and Nate’s still mad at me. Mad because I’m on a medication prescribed to me specifically for the purpose of keeping me off hard drugs. So myself and my son can have better lives. So he doesn’t have to worry about me fucking 24/7. So our son has at least one of his freakin’ parents around. So I don’t start sucking dick for money again (oh by the way, a post on that is being featured on TMU this Tuesday — stay tuned!)
Everyone who’s against Suboxone should just get off their damn high non-addicted horse and realize that it makes me (and others on it) a stronger person. STRONGER, DAMMIT.
Nate hasn’t called. He was supposed to call on Wednesday but he didn’t. He didn’t call today, either, and although we both don’t give a crap about Thanksgiving, I thought maybe he would call to speak to his son. But then again, if we’re raising him in a household that doesn’t give a crap about Thanksgiving, why would he call? He wouldn’t, I guess, so there’s no need to be mad at him for today. And yesterday was still his cool-off time, I get that. But tomorrow, oh boy if he doesn’t call tomorrow he’s gonna get it. Get what, I’m not sure, because he’s already in prison and all.
Anyway, I was going to try to turn this into a real post, you know one about Suboxone or Thanksgiving or prison or something, but it didn’t turn out that way because I’m (a little bit) drunk. And then I wasn’t going to post it at all, but I figured what the hell, if I can still spell this well when I’m (a little bit) drunk, people should be able to enjoy my madness. So, here you go. Welcome to my madness, bitches.
(I say bitches in a feminist, let’s-take-back-that-word kind of way.)
Jack won’t bring me another beer because he’s a poopy head.