The Shower Debate

There is a certain debate that I've heard on and off for about 10 years.  It makes me laugh due to the fact that people actually debate this topic:  Is it okay to pee in the shower?

Now first and foremost, I don't particularly care to be that intimate with people to know whether or not they urinate in the shower; consequently, I don't see what the big deal is.  Urine is actually sterile.  Unless someone has a UTI (Urinary Tract Infection) or some other genital infection, it is sanitary.  Besides that little factoid, it's liquid and it goes down the drain nice and neat.  So again, who gives a rip if someone pees while taking a shower.  Men even have the ability to aim for the drain (yeah they probably don't exercise that ability, but it's still a cool idea).

I do take issue if someone over the age of 2 or 3 chooses to purposely defecate in the shower and/or tub. That's just nasty. Chances are the toilet is merely two feet from the washing area, so one really should do that business in the toilet.

So with all that being said, I am brave enough to publicly admit that if the urge hits while I'm taking a shower - I will make a golden waterfall. Yeah, I said it.  Just don't take a shower with me if you can't handle the truth.

The Grope Experience

I am traumatized.  Maybe I'm being melodramatic, but it's my story.  I had a very thorough breast exam today by a specialist. I had my first mammogram last December, and I'd rather do that again than be clinically groped like I was today.

After my appointment, hubby called and asked me how I was doing.  I told him that the doctor did more with my breasts in 15 minutes than he had done in all our years of marriage. Hubby laughed himself to choking, until I likened it to someone playing patty-cake with his goods and rolling them around between foreign, male fingers.  That shut him up.

I tried to go to a 'happy place,' but it just didn't work. Hubby took me to dinner to soothe my frazzled nerves. That sorta worked. Just sorta. I think my nipples are on hiatus until spring.

Parent - It's a Noun and a Verb

Believe me when I say that there are some people out there who are unfit to be parents. They have some archaic belief that since males pushed a baby in and females pushed them out it qualifies them to be a parent.

Lately it seems that many 'parents' want to be one in name only. They don't want to have to help their children with homework, or make sure their kids get their teeth brushed, and heaven forbid they see to it that their offspring actually bathes and brushes his or her hair. I see it all the time, especially in the line of work I am in. It makes me want to use that "clue stick" (see previous rant) on them too.

Unfortunately (or fortunately) for me, I am mandated by law to report such offenses as neglect and or the more heinous crime of abuse. Believe me, I will not hesitate.

I have been told that children should respect their parents NO MATTER WHAT. Bullshit. Act like a parent - actually perform an action of parenting then maybe, and that's a big, fat maybe you'll begin to be respected as one.

That being said, I don't want to sound like a bitter harpy towards parents; I am one twice over. I just work in an industry where good, caring, loving parents can make a child and prepare him or her for the future, and the lack of those qualities can certainly break a child. It's heartbreaking and senseless. Life is hard enough as it is to go through it with idiots as parent, and therapy is damn expensive. Don't do that to your children.

If you're old enough to perform the act of conceiving a child then by damn you better act and become a responsible adult if and when you become a parent. Quit screwing up the kids of our future. They're worth it, and it pays in the end.

Amen.

Confessions of an Ex-Chatroom Addict

Back in the day, I was addicted to chat rooms. I admit it. This was over 10 years ago, thank heavens. I was truly fascinated by the whole chat scene. I started a web site based on a particular chat room. The majority of the chatters were dysfunctional idiots. Was I a dysfunctional idiot? Well I certainly wasn't an idiot, but I think my dysfunction was my fascination.

When the web site started, it went viral. People flocked to it like drones, and I was the supreme ruler. I called myself "YT" which stood for "Yours Truly," and I was anonymous. To this day most of the chatters in that sad chat room have no clue who YT was. I made fun of everyone; no one was safe from YT's omnipresence and caustic comments. I took the stupid, moronic things people said and did in chat, and I made fun of it. Quite simple really. Their behavior was fodder for my creative juices.

I enlisted the help of a friend, and we gave the site a make-over with its own domain. It was absolutely insane. People lived for the next issue of the "newsletter." They loved seeing their name in virtual print, although it was not widely admitted. The hit counter kept track of how much traffic the site received, and even I never could have predicted how huge it became.

The site had Top Stories that highlighted a different nutter each week. People camped out in the chat room and copied each others' comments and emailed them to YT in hopes of 15 seconds of fame. YT's limelight was contagious. They stabbed each other in their virtual backs for that 15 seconds.

The site also had games that each visitor could occupy their time. One favorite game in particular was based on a woman chatter YT affectionately called "Ape," which was short for her real name - April. April was delusional. She mailed a pair of her panties to a male chatter she was obsessed with. Apparently, in her psychotic mind Ape thought it was sexy to wipe her snatch on the panties before she mailed them. Chances are the panties were 3 sizes smaller than her derriere any way, but let's not forget the poor victim i.e. the innocent receiver of her nasty panties. The game was patterned after one of those shell games. You know the kind - where a ball is hidden under one of three shells, and the player has to figure out which one after they're mixed up. A mail truck appeared on screen and three packages flew out of the truck. They showed Ape's stained panties then spun around and around before they came to a stop. The player had to guess which package had the panties. Once found, the player heard the cool "ewww" sound effect. Brilliant, right?

My favorite were "The Sticks." They were simple, animated stick figures who parodied chatters. For example, one chatter YT dubbed as "Icky Anna" took a snapshot of her fun bags. She gave her photo to certain male chatters. Of course it circulated through the room as the males shared the pic with other chatters. So with her chest widely known, her stick walked to the center of the screen and flashed it's own set of twins and a dialogue bubble appeared as the stick said, "See my tits." People campaigned for sticks of his or her own. They begged for one. Their behavior became out of control in hopes that it was crazy enough to be parodied in a "stick." It was utter chaos.

Many times I laughed myself sick over the occupants of the room and their behaviors. It was inspiration for any writer to let loose, and I was no exception. I went to work. Now please don't think I spent hours writing on this site. It took minutes, because the thing practically wrote itself. I just added comments that ridiculed and highlighted their lunacy. People called YT cruel and mean and "how could you make fun of me." Unreal. They couldn't see the forest for the trees.

I came to realize that I could wrestle with the pigs all I wanted, but the pigs liked it and I smelled like a sty. Another chatter wanted to buy the site; I refused. It was my baby. I let the site run its course, then I let it die a natural death at the height of its fame. The chatter started his own site, and it failed in an epic way. There was only one YT. They say imitation is the finest form of flattery, but not in this case. Their imitation was stupidity in all its glory, and I've already mentioned in a previous post how I feel about stupidity.

So yes world, I was a chat room addict and an even bigger chat room web site junkie. Sometimes I miss it, fool that I am, but the feeling is fleeting.

Stupid Rant

I hate stupidity. Hate. It.

Sometimes my mouth is agape at stupidity that happens for no apparent reason. In my advancing age I expect people to mature and grow as they age, and oft times that just doesn't happen. I have no answer as to the reasons why this does not happen. Believe me, I wish I did.

I have seen supposedly seasoned adults who have experienced decades of life act infantile, and to be frank it embarrasses me. I want to buy one of those big swim noodles and adhere the words "Clue Stick" to it and just whack the stupid-offenders with it over and over. And over. And over. It may not help them lose their stupidity, but it will definitely make me feel better. At least until the next stupid episode.

I know there is this pseudo 'Peter Pan Syndrome' where people refuse and don't want to grow up. I labeled it pseudo, because it is not recognized by the World Health Organization as a psychological disorder. Good, it shouldn't be. It's a sorry excuse for irresponsibility, in my humble opinion. We're over diagnosing in today's society. Excuses do not cut it.

At the very least I wish people who don't act their age wouldn't multiply. Stupid people breeding and having children - now that is the real tragedy.

It really isn't a hard concept. Start small e.g. learn responsibility, keep commitments, keep promises. Anything. Just do it. Two words: clue stick. Two more words: grow up.

It Begins - Again

I was a blogger once - a long, long time ago. Back then I had to create a site from scratch. Good times.

I used to own my own domain. I got lazy, so it's gone now. I'm okay with that. It was pointless paying for a dead site. It took me a couple of years to let it go. But I was brave.

This is all about me. It's nothing fancy. I hope you're okay with that.

I missed writing. I will explain that at some later date of my choosing. Or not.

Sometimes it feels like my brain is so full that it will implode if I don't let it all out. This is that outlet.

Consider yourself lucky.