My Life as a Blog

Posted by @ 3:56 pm on December 2nd, 2008

Tuesday December 2, 2008

I don’t know, does this pale green background make my ass look fat? I got 60+ hives on both legs yesterday. People on the ‘internet’ call the hives ‘comments.’ Every time the kids have a temper tantrum in public, I get a major allergic reaction.

People on the street always stare whenever I bring the kids into town for ice cream. Blake and Sam always get scatological with the fudge, and it’s not pretty. And Kendra likes to flash the boys, while Catherine and Soffi watch in awe. “Mommy when will I get a rack like that?” Catherine asks. “Iraq is none of our concern dear,” I say.

Gene and I are arguing again. Ever since Matthew, we’ve been growing more distant. Gene says he’s tired of biblical names. I tell him Michael, Joshua, and Matthew are my favorite sons. Jimmy, the one we adopted from China, is tearing this family apart (he’s a panty sniffer, according to Kendra, Catherine, Soffi, and my mother).

I wonder if Shane and Justin are gay (not that there’s any problem with that, even as a Christian). Shane simply looks too good in a V-neck shirt to be straight (besides, all his friends are ‘feminists’) and Justin has had his face in Baudrillard for the past year. He’s currently deconstructing the semantics of ‘putang,’ convinced that pussy does not exist.

Jereme spoke in class today—not in any Eddie Vedder way—I mean, he literally finally spoke his first words. His 4th grade teacher and I were getting worried. Ryan is also a little slow, but we can’t all be Justin. Blake seems smart, but I think it’s just tourette’s.

The kids love their hamster, named it ‘Tao.’ Tao, despite being forced into his plastic compartment or spun on the wheel, is somehow able to maintain a ‘neutral facial expression.’ Sometimes we let Tao out to ride Melville, the toy whale, in the tub.

Sometimes I lie in bed at night, through the haze of Gene’s bear-like snoring, worrying about the ‘internet.’ I mean, what is the point of my life? I try to be a good mother, a good Christian, a good wife—but there’s this part of me that wants to get Mme. Bovary on Gene’s ass, like run away with Barry Graham, who measures various girths on his body.

There is a certain sadness to my life, to all of ours. I wish I could be happy like Gawker, that bitch. Oh dear, I must run. Little Sammy is eating his shit again, which is setting Blake off.

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