Dear Taylor Swift, I’m Happy Free Confused And Lonely At the Same Time

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So.

T.Swift has decided to take herself off of Spotify because she’s worth SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT.  She just can’t even anymore, you guys.

Some of you don’t give a rat’s ass, some are relieved and some are like us: fuckin’ bummed out.

Yes, that’s right.

I’m a 40 year old Taylor Swifter and her songs have inspired many a dance party in my kitchen.

Is her music “art” as she calls it?

In some circles that is very debatable, but I like to think of art as something that moves people. I don’t care if your reaction is disgust, disdain, glee, amazement, introspection, or it’s just something that makes you wanna shake it.

Art, in any form, is art as long as it moves people in some way.

Indifference is the artist’s worst enemy.

Her definition of her art (and art in general) is totally fucked up because she refers to all of it as “rare and valuable.”

Oh, honey. Some art is indeed rare and valuable, but there are a dozen or so pop princesses out there. I’ll give you the art thing, but it is not rare. In fact, it is ubiquitous.

However, I agree that it is valuable.  Its value for me lies in the enjoyment it brings to people and not in the amount of cash it delivers to already stuffed coiffures. Judging by the home she purchased here in Rhode Island, she is not hurting for mortgage payments and heat. So, I’m disappointed. I have stuff like food and warmth to purchase instead of albums.  Maybe little girls will buy her albums with their allowance money, but that’s sad too.

How can she take their allowance money? They worship her, and she looks at them with $$$ in her eyes.

You cannot place a dollar sign on the fun and happiness that art inspires in fans. It is priceless.

Money, although nice and awesome if you can make some whilst doing what you love, should not be a primary motivation for being an artist and sharing your work.

Some people hate her songs, but people like Girlfriend, Homeslice, Ehpa, Pam and me find it perfect for dancin’ like you just don’t care.

What an amazing power that is.

I get all bummed out after I spend hours writing a blog post, for instance, and nobody reads or comments. I’m completely stoked when somebody reads and has something to say. Trolls are even welcome. Bring it, assmonkeys. You cannot hurt me with your words! I shall throw you to the ground very roughly!

A little bit of pee comes out when something I write connects with someone and makes them laugh or feel like their life is normal or whatever. That should be what makes her happy, too.

I wanna see Taylor Swift piss herself at one of our dance parties. It is a sight to behold, let me tell you.

There is video, you may not see it.

We pay for Spotify, and even though she makes a fraction of a penny for every time someone plays one of her songs, MILLIONS OF PEOPLE ARE DOING IT.  I know that in this household alone, we have played her tunes enough times to have purchased at least one album, so fuck you, Taylor.

She’s not our favorite anymore because she’s acting like big giant greedy poo-poo baby!

I cannot get down with that literally or figuratively.

I am super disappointed in her life choices.

And so, dear Taylor, we are skakin’ you off.

I’m sure you’ll be writing about this in your next album entitled “Why Does Everyone Think I’m a Douchebag Now?” coming out in December 2015 when you realize that nobody listens to your rare and valuable art anymore.  If we can’t hear you on Spotify, well then, you are dead to the QOFEs.

Dead,

I guess it’s on to the next one, but for now, I am happy to be free from her spell, confused by her choice, and lonely for a new dance party favorite (mainly because her songs remind me of Ehpa and I play them when I miss her).

Perhaps this young lady has the right idea:

Other replacement suggestions welcome below, but remember we need shit to shake what our mommas gave us.

Suggestions for Meshuggah or the like will not be considered (I’m looking at you, Mister!)

Meshuggah makes me need a Xanax.

 

 

The Ratio of What I Want to Read and What I Have to Read is Completely Shaquaed

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I just read The Art of Racing in the Rain.  Do not ask me who wrote it because I don’t have time to care. I liked it though, so kudos to some guy or whoever.

The point is that this is the very first book that I have read since Homeslice was nursing, and I had lots of time to just sit and wait for her to drain the life out of my (then) bodacious ta-tas.

Turns out those were the glory days: I had huge knockers and time to sit and read.  Who knew that would be the highlight of my existence as a reader.

I loved my books so much and I missed them tremendously, so reading one for the first time in five years was a momentous occasion.

“I’m READING AGAIN!”  Yay!

It felt like I had a part of myself back again!

Except: nay, nay.

It was not meant to be because once school started, I have been inundated with shit I really don’t want to read, but have to: PTA newsletter, Common Core Eureka! suggestions for how not to kill myself while learning “the new math,” suggestions for how to teach Homeslice to read, and a bevy of other crap that I don’t really care about but because I do not want my kids ending up homeless on the street giving hand jobs for crack, I must read the shit that comes home every day.

Mainly, I just skim it for stupid crap I have to remember like “wear pink on Thursday for Breast Cancer!” and “Wear your class color on Friday!” and “Pajama day on Wednesday!” type of bullshit.

I don’t want my kid to be party asshole and wear all black on breast cancer day.  Next obvious step is prostitution.

Every week, there’s a special day to remember in addition to making sure we are wearing sneakers on gym day and have studied for spelling tests and what kid needs to return library books on which day and who has a dentist appointment.

With all this going on, do I care that there was a great turnout at the Halloween Dance?  Do I need to read a letter about it? Should my tax money be thrown into the recycle bin within seconds of having received these papers?

I think not.

I was there at that dance on an exhausted Friday night, and from my perspective, it was an awkward  high school dance situation that I did not want to relive.

The cops escorted one dad out for being drunk.

I was jealous because this was a sober event for children, and so I dutifully donned my ghost costume and showed up sipping water (having pre-gamed only with Xanax because omg the people and the flashing lights, loud music and the children running around like little assholes for two hours. Fuck that I had to do something!).

Had I known the cops would be escorting drunks home, I would have shown up having had winethirty in an incredibly obvious way.

As far as I’m concerned, since there was no wine served for parents, the Halloween dance sucked ass. I would have even put up with a two drink maximum. Something, anything, but throw us a freakin’ bone here!  Nobody was happy to be sober. Possibly not even the kids.

But, I digress.

When it finally comes to be reading time at my house, I’m reading to Homeslice. Such tantalizing tomes as Fox Wears Socks and Cub in a Tub really aren’t getting me there.

And after working all day at my fancy lady job reading more stuff that is not of my choosing because I also do not want to wind up homeless on the streets giving hand jobs for crack, I have to come home and read school nonsense from not one but TWO teachers. Thank god I don’t have more than two kids because I just can’t even.  I cannot.

Perhaps I should read this:

how to even

But I do not literally even have the time.

NOT EVEN!

You Better Not Pout, You Better Not Cry

You better watch out, I’m tellin’ you why…

DADDY IS TRYING TO TAKE A MOTHERFUCKINGPICTURE AND IF YOU DON’T CUT THE SHIT THERE’S GOING TO BE NO CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR I MEAN IT!

It’s Christmas portrait time, Queefies.

It’s one of the most stressful days of the year for Crissy and Mister because omg kids.  If you’ve ever tried to take a portrait of your kids with their shiny happy little faces you know it’s a total fucking shitshow.

We decorate the tree, light the fireplace, set up the camera and the lights, get them into their matching Christmas dresses (purchased weeks in advance in preparation), comb their hair and get them in front of the camera to pretend that we are a functional family.

There’s bribery of the M&M persuasion and when that doesn’t work there’s threats of taking away television and when that doesn’t work Christmas gets cancelled like fifteen times.

Then comes the begging: “Please just smile.  This is not for US, this is for your family!  Auntie Cya and Marcy and Dips and Pop-Pop and Popa and Grammie and Uncle Billy and the people who love you want to have nice pictures of you!  DON’T YOU LOVE AUNTIE CYA? Smile for Auntie Cya! Come on, come on, sit here and smile…good!  good!  YAY!  Happy Kids! AW FUCK! THE DOG’S ASS IS IN THE FUCKING FRAME! GET THE FUCKING DOG OUT OF HERE!”

And then we try again and again and it goes similarly and it’s exactly like herding 147 profoundly retarded cats.

I start sounding like Bill Cosby:  “Come here. Come here. Come Here. Here! Here! Here! Here! Heeeeeerrrreeeeeeeee!!!!”

“Sit down. Sit down. Sit down. Sitsitsitsitsitsitsit.”

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Brain. Damage.

And I look like Jeffrey’s mother:

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This is because Girlfriend knows she’s in a position of power over both of us, so she fucks with us.  She splays her legs out, she crosses her eyes, she sticks out her tongue, she does whatever she can think of to ruin the shot.

She finds it tremendously rewarding to see Mister and me go to Crazytown.

Now, one might question why we do this year after year if it’s such a disaster.

Because if we didn’t, we wouldn’t get pictures like this:

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Have yourself a crappy little Christmas.

Crissy makes a video!

Tomorrow, you guys are gonna get a treat!

We made a video at work just for funzies and I’m gonna share it with you because it’s about my glamorous life as a Mrs. Fancypants.

Plus, you get to see Crissy, plus her work environment, plus her co-workers, plus you get to laugh because I’m ridiculous and that’s why you come here.

Wait for it…