I Tired Of These Mother Fucking Ants In This Mother Fucking Livingroom.

Nothing is better than coming home from school to hear "Hey, Sweetums, how good are your eyes?" and I'm like, "Dude, I wear glasses, are you making fun of me? How much times do I have to slap you in the face until you get it right?". But, y'know, I go into the living room anyways because whenever The Pilot wants to show me something it's always something sort of cool.

Like the time he found and captured an injured hawk. Yeah, we totally found an injured hawk and did a total "Let's rescue this awesome animal and resist the temptation of raising it as an attack pet." and sent it off to an Owl Rehab Center. He might have also been named Falco Peachtree the 3rd. Because, y'know, he was a classy as fuck bird.

So, I go into the living room and I'm like "I can't really see what the problem is here what are you trying....oh fuck, Ants! ARE THOSE ANTS? WHY ARE ANTS IN MY HOUSE? ARE THEY GOING TO EAT ME?" and then I ran out of the house. Because, y'know, MOTHER FUCKING ANTS!

The Pilot had to re-assure me that they weren't people eating Ants and that they probably were not going to leave our house carrying the television on their tiny backs or anything. So I came back into the house.

And then I tried to convince the dog to eat the ants crawling all over the floor boards but he just sort of sniffed them and looked at me with a "Are you kidding me? These are mother fucking ants up in our mother fucking house, I don't think so gurlfriend."And then he walked away with a huff.

Basically this left us with the only option of trying to find things that kill ants at stupid o'clock at night and wouldn't y'know? Midnight convenience stores aren't really packing Ant Killer or anything awesome. But they did have taquito's and hot dogs. That counted for something.

7-11, though, dear sweet 7-11 had Raid. They had it right next to the deodorant. And then when we bought it we got clapped at by the workers because "Hell, we've had this stuff for four years and you are the first people to actually buy it from 7-11.". Made me feel like some sort of a hero. An ant killing hero.

To make a long story short we sprayed the shit out of our house and managed not to kill the dog or get carried away by Ants in our sleep. Which is a bonus.

What's Relaxing At The Spa? Horse Sex, Obviously.

This past weekend I just so happened to have to make an unplanned trip to my parents place, which just happens to be about eleven hours of being stuck in a vehicle with the spawn of Satan (The dog, of course, and not The Pilot (( even though he did call me 'Piss Lips' this weekend over something trivial. Yes, Piss Lips. Think about it for a second. Ah -- there you go, you got it.)) ) and it was a woozy.

You know what made the trip though? Seeing an advertisement for this Spa that totally made me almost make The Pilot swerve off the road and kill us because it was so fucking insane. I've tried Googling the image of their billboard but I couldn't find it so you'll have to excuse my weak attempt at describing it's awesome horribleness.

Picture a naked lady who has her nakedness covered by what appears to be cloves of garlic laying down in a field of a ranch looking as if she is going to be ready to sleep. And then, behind that naked lady covered in garlic cloves, is a horse that totally looks like it's about to run her the fuck over or have sex with her. Because she's a naked lady covered in cloves of garlic.

Naturally when I saw this I was like "Fuck, why is that horse about to run over that naked chick covered in garlic?" and The Pilot just casually said, "Because it's relaxing, I guess."

And I could only shake my head and exclaim, "But. She's. Naked. And. Covered. In. Garlic." and he responded with "Either way she's naked and about to be run over by a horse. I guess it's confusing and slightly erotic." and then our trip basically became silent for a full hour because that's a hard sentence to fucking process.

And that's how I came to the conclusion that I'd probably never be allowed to go to that Spa because the moment they come at me while I'm naked with a horse or garlic I'd start karate chopping fucking throats.

Parenting? We Got This

(Conversation between The Pilot and myself while he is away for a few days.)

Me: How was dinner?

The Pilot: Ok, my tummy is full of water though


Me: Giving birth to a water baby? Going to have a water birth?

The Pilot: Haha to much drinking from heat

Me: Can we name the baby Aquafina?

The Pilot: Sure

Me: And only raise it in the finest of glass bottles.

The Pilot: Ya.

Me: And it's unwanted younger sibling, Poop, will be locked in a box and buried.

The Pilot: Ya or left on a sidewalk with underpants

Me: Obviously we've already picked our favorite child.

The Pilot: Haha

Me: When we have real kids, we should set up mini Olympics every four years and the winner becomes the new four year favorite.

The Pilot: Haha ya summer and winter

Me: And it's just hardcore amateur sports. You pick your player, I pick mine. And it's just full out competition. Loser is ignored for four years. It will make them work harder for the next win. The (Insert Our Future Last Name) Olympiad.

The Pilot: Haha, torches to be lit

Me: Then later we will write parenting books and film education videos for sale on our websites
and when one ends up a psycho murderer, we'll blame in on video games.

The Pilot: haha

Me: That's a life plan right there.

The Pilot: ya, my team gets red uniforms.

Me: My team gets flame shirts. And their theme song will be "Final Countdown" cross faded with "Eye of the Tiger".

The Pilot: Can i use huey lewis? Lol.

Me: Yeah, if you want your team to be continually ignored over four years. OH BURN. Your team mascot can also be Phil Colins riding a unicorn.

The Pilot: Haha your lucky i agree to keep Terence Trent Darby out of this.

Me: Why? Because you want him to be the unicorn that Phil Colin's is riding? You can have that on your shirt, no problem.

The Pilot: Haha well you might loose to team Horatio.

Me: I pity your child that is chosen to wear that shirt. A t-rex with laser guns for arms is going to be my team mascot.

The Pilot: Ya. well I am gonna eat your t-rex for breakfast.

Me: Yeah, not going to happen. My kid will slip your kid steroids and get them disqualified from the favorite Olympics.

The Pilot: haha

Me: I guarantee, we are probably going to fuck up at least one of our kids. Probably after the first games.

Only A Face A Mother Can Love

I Do These Things Because I Love You.

Bowie always wanted to have the body of Fabio.

Hipster Baby is unimpressed with your impressiveness.

The Pilot was always prone to ruining those sweet moments.

Even Jesus knows it's only proper to eat your cake with a fork.

This Is The Post Where I Talk About The Time I Pooped My Pants.

This is the post where I talk about the time I crapped my pants while viciously vomiting in The Pilot's parents basement while the said parents and The Pilot happen to be having a dinner party upstairs.

Yeah, that statement? I never thought I'd have to write that sentence in my life ever. This is my life, this is what my life is about. Crapping my pants in the basement during a dinner party.

It all started when we had the bright idea of going to The Pilot's parents for a few days because it seemed like the best idea ever after I went to school and paid a shit ton of money and suddenly became instantly poor. You know, because I gave them all my money. And they took it without ever making eye contact and treating me like every other John on the street who's dick they suck for money. But, you know, like the metaphorical dick of money. Because I don't have one. Or, at least, I think I don't have one.

So, between running to the bank and paying the school and packing up our stuff we happened to forgot to eat before we left and that's a big no no in this household because if The Pilot doesn't get three square meals a day that's packed full of meat he starts murdering little baby kittens and turns them into baby kitten angels.

OK, I haven't seen this happen yet but I can assure you that's what he probably does.

Half way to his parents we stop at Tim Horton's for some quick food because we figured it would be better than the other options and also, hello, we're fucking Canadian. Duuuhhhhh.

We eat it, continue our journey, get to his parents, have a great time, spend the night, and don't have sex because it's his parents house and that'd be weird. Also, we didn't bring condoms. Duuuhhhhhh.

The next day we get up and help around the house with some painting and moving things around when mid-day The Pilot starts feeling like crap and is all poopy. And I make fun of him because that's sympathetic to his plight.

And then a few hours later, right before a dinner party his parents arranged with family members, I start to get fucking poopy. Like, this poop? It's not even poop. It's orange water coming out of my ass.

But that's OK! Because I can power the fuck through this and while in the basement trying to get dressed I figure, BATHROOM TIME! And I get up and get to the door and BLAAARRRFFGGGGHHHHH! I vomit all over the brand new carpet that was just installed the day before we got there. And it just keeps coming.

When there is a break between the throw up I rush to the bathroom to finish throwing up only for it not to finish. It just kept coming.

And then I fucking crapped my pants because of the force of the vomiting. 

Yes, I crapped my pants. Like, no just a tiny squirt. Full on crapped. Pants destroyed. Underwear ruined. Dignity shattered.

The best part? Everyone upstairs was having a good time and laughing. It sounded as if they were laughing at me crapping myself. It was the perfect soundtrack to the shame I was feeling at that very moment.

I probably kneeled at that toilet for a good ten minutes crying my ass off because I had just crapped myself in The Pilot's parents house. I never thought I'd have to carry around that dirty secret ever. It's not like when I first came into their home I was secretly thinking "I'm so going to fucking ruin your carpet and shit myself all over the place, just you fucking wait."

But it gets better! Once I've cleaned the bathroom, myself, and changed into The Pilot's pajama pants and stashed my shitty pants outside in a bag, I go to the stairs and ever so quietly call "The Pilot!" up the stairs in hopes my baby whisper would come to his attention.

Thankfully his dad noticed and told The Pilot to come downstairs. And then I burst into tears telling him I shit myself and vomited all over the floor and I need his help cleaning it up. 

The Pilot takes one look at the vomit mess I had made and the fucker throws up twice as worse all over the place in response.

Because he's sick too. And always throws up at the sight of vomit. That part I should have remembered when I was asking for help.

At least he didn't crap his pants too.

The people upstairs? Still laughing.

And the pooping? Didn't stop.

I bet these people are so happy to have me as part of their family.

Yes, I Moved Into A Heroin Den. THANKS FOR ASKING!

Moving is an exciting, beautiful thing! You pack up your stuff and you put it in boxes and then you load into transportation and move it to your new place. It sounds so fucking easy it makes you wonder why people don't do this all the fucking time.

The trip down here was something that magic is made off because it consisted of packing our place into a trailer at the last minute because uHaul decided they were going to fuck us over and tickle our genitals while withholding our reservation from us until the last! possible! minute! Because that's how they roll. They roll like assholes.

And The Pilot was extremely tired and he was the one responsible for driving the truck and trailer across one province and into another so when he sadly said to me, "Babe, you've got to drive some of this trip because I am so tired and I need some sleep." and my first reaction was "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? If I drive we will fucking die." but I saw how tired he was so instead I said, "OKAY!" and totally faked any type of confidence I was supposed to have about driving while pulling a big ass overloaded trailer.

In total, I drove an hour out of a 17 hour trip. The whole time while The Pilot was trying to sleep I kept say "OMG, we are so going to fucking die! We're dead! I'm killing us! Any minute now we are going to fucking die in fire!" until the point he told me to pull over so we can switch because it'd be more relaxingly for him to actually be driving so I would shut up about death and fire.

And then we made it to Edmonton late at night and decided to crash as soon as possible because The Pilot was so beyond tired but I figured "He can't really be that tired, he's still functional, let's make him watch a show that neither of us have watched before but I'm going to demand that he fucking watch it straight from start to finish because I am an asshole with no soul.". True story.

Dude probably didn't get to sleep until midnight.

In the morning we were also criticized by the hotel manager for talking too loudly in the shower.

I couldn't have even made that complaint up if I tried.

And then we drive again for some hours and despite me being a gas gauge Nazi and always demanding we are filled up at the whim of my paranoia, The Pilot ignored me with a hand to the face and drove and drove until we were practically out of gas. So it was only natural for me to get hysterical and proudly declare "I was so fucking right, you should have listened to me and now we are going to be stranded and eventually die of fire and hobo raping!". But lucky for The Pilot, who'd be the first natural target of the hobo raping, we managed to limp into a small rink-dink town just in time.

So it was kind of nice that we didn't die. Or get hobo raped.

After that it was smooth sailing, I think. I slept most of the way. It was a good sleep.

Then I woke up when we were an hour away from Kelowna, our new home, only to be told by The Pilot that I was ruining his life because I was ruining his music choices by not letting him listen to the stupidest shit ever. Phil Collins? FUCK THAT NOISE!

And then we pulled in and found a place to crash that didn't have hot water but a working toilet so that was nice. Then the dog vomited on us as a "Fuck you assholes for ruining my life" sort of deal.

Then we woke up and moved into our place the next day and while we were unpacking we totally saw a junkie shooting up heroin in the car port after fighting off a few other junkies from his score. Then he got chased off by a soccer mom that informed us that there is someone in the building here that supplies the homeless people from the fucking homeless shelter next door with heroin and then supplies the rest of the building with pot.

You know, because we're in BC y'all.

Can you guess who got hysterical after that? Both of us. Because fuck that shit.

And then we visited The Pilot's parents only for them to inform us that the McDonalds' that's behind our building got shut down for being the biggest drug haven in Kelowna and that they were never going to visit us as long as we live in that street and would we like chicken or beef for dinner?

But hey, at least we have ducks out back.

Heroin ducks.

What's Exciting In My Life? I Don't Know. Maybe Heroin?

I finally have the Internet in my place so I can finally, you know, join civilization and keep up with current events that may or may not have anything to do with gossip, and cats flushing toilet videos, and comics. Because that's what I do on the Internet --- WASTE TIME! THANKS FOR STATING THE OBVIOUS!

I think one of the things I should point out about this move is the fact that I may or may not have happened to move into a Heroin den that also has a side business in pot dealing. You know, pretty standard "Welcome to the neighborhood and HOLY SHIT IS THAT PEOPLE SELLING AND SHOOTING UP HEROIN IN THE CAR PORT?" only to be told, "Why yes, yes it is. WHAT ABOUT THIS WEATHER EH?".

And that's totally how the conversation went with the landlord. THE WEATHER HAS BEEN GREAT, though, THANKS FOR ASKING!

Oh, why am I yelling at you? BECAUSE OUR BACKYARD IS FULL OF DUCKS! That just QUACK, QUACK, QUACK all fucking day. You can't hear yourself think or let alone take a shit in the privacy of your own thoughts.

Ever taken a poop while a duck is talking? It's awkward.

I'm Back Just To Turn Around & Do It All Again

You never realize how much siblings you really have until they are all crammed together inside of a cabin that can comfortably fit three people and a bathroom that at any moment could destroy the septic system. It felt like a can of sardines, really, the whole time I was visiting my parents.

Oh what? Visiting my parents? Yeah, that's totally where I have been for the last week. I flew down to see my dad in the hospital because it was all "Oh, he's not doing good" and "Holy shit, is his heart going to explode?" so I hopped on a plane after telling The Pilot "This shit better be all packed by the time I get back!" and met up with my siblings and parents and one baby.

It was a whirlwind trip that ended too soon and then I had to come back only to turn around and move to BC in two and a half days. It feels insane for having to come back to Alberta just to leave province again, but that's how I roll apparently.

But regardless, after a few scary days my dad is doing a lot better and we all felt comfortable going to our separate homes on Sunday.

Later this week I'll share the stupid adventures that came out of having all five of my siblings in the same roof and how I got to sit next to a chain saw artist on the plane.

But for now? Now I will sleep under my desk and wait for my last two days of work to be over.

Moving, It Sucks Balls

You know, after the past week I've come to the realization that moving fucking sucks and The Pilot and I have two very different methods of how to deal with the whole "packing up your whole apartment and fitting it in boxes and going through your shit to make sure you actually need it" thing.

Like, The Pilot gets into hardcore moods where it's WE! NEED! THIS! ALL! DONE! NOW! ORWEAREGOINGTODIE! and he's rush, rush, rush, clean, clean, clean, pack, pack, pack, and maybe somewhere in there he takes a break to poop. I don't know, I haven't seen him poop this week. That's how busy he's been.

Me? I get started in fits and spurts that sort of mimics a kid on too much sugar and I run around flapping my arms and kicking my legs so high as I run that I touch my butt and start about ten different boxes of things to be packed before I eventually get bored and distracted by shiny things or Jersey shore and I just give up. And then I get ashamed of giving up so easy when we have tons of things to do that I attempt to try and sneakily convince The Pilot that he should give up too so I don't look like that big of a dead beat.

But it usually never works, ever.

Well, sometimes I can convince him to have a nap but that always backfires because we have a nap and then I wake up a bitch and the whole night is ruined because it was his fault that he was weak enough to give into me sneakily demanding that we have a nap.

You know what else fucking sucks about moving? A dog. More specifically, my dog. As soon as we start pulling out boxes and packing tape he starts acting like each box is trying to kill him and it's our job to save him from the boxes we are trying to fill with our belongings. When we packed his belongings? It was like we had forced his on-and-off again girlfriend to eat their love babies in front of him as if she were a startled hamster. It was that bad.

Or if you get on the floor to start packing boxes he forces his way into your lap and demands that you cuddle him like a baby and if you don't? He's totally growing thumbs and calling social services because you are punching him in the face while eating a ham sammich.

We've got one weekend left to have everything packed before we've got to pile it into a Uhaul to move it to Kelowna and right now I'm thinking that's not going to happen. Last minute we are probably going to throw everything in garbage bags because we're bad ass like that and toss it in.

It doesn't help that I am so over packing that I just want to pile everything into the middle of the apartment and burn it. Or throw it off of the balcony and see who can hit the most middle schoolers.

Or finally convince The Pilot that it's okay for me to stick the dog in a box and pretend that he's a box dog and convince him that no it is not my fault the dog has a paralyzing fear of fucking boxes.

And Then I Was Drowned By The Ghost Of Valentines Love

The Pilot kind of has it rough the last month of the year and the first two months of the year because it's expensive for him because of Christmas, and my Birthday, and then Valentine's day. Normally I'm all "Fuck yeah, I'm a greedy ass bitch that JUST WANTS GIFTS!" but considering the fact that he gave me a wicked awesome Christmas gift, Birthday gift and then proposed the day after my birthday, I figured I'd give him a pass at Valentine's day and we can just eat our food on the floor and watch television like hobo's. Well, not exactly like hobo's, per say, because we've got a television. That makes us classy hobo's.

The Pilot being The Pilot straight up refused to just let this holiday pass us by without making any type of effort so he had planned it out that he'd do something romantic to try and keep in the festivities of what this holiday is about.

"They are having a couples firework show with fire dancers and bonfires and hot chocolate, let's go to that!" he declared while throwing the poster for the event at me, "It will be a great Valentines Day!".

"But this starts shortly after we get off work! That leaves us no time for dinner! And all the traffic! And we'd be home late! And you'd get hungry!" I said throwing the flyer for the event in the garbage because I really hate traffic and being out late on a work night and fireworks? Fuck that, I want to eat Chinese food on the floor of my living room because I'm bad ass.

So we compromised and decided that we were just going to eat steak dinner at home and watch whatever happened to be on television, on the floor, and be happy with that.

It was my job to pick up the steak after work at the nearby butchers and it was The Pilot's job to pick up everything else on his way home from work.

I got my job done. But it took him forever to get his job done because I guess he was running around trying to buy flowers on the biggest flower day of the year and couldn't find any so he came home instead just with food and when I jokingly said "Hey, where's my flowers?!" he kind of had a mini breakdown while ranting about how "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN I TRIED!". And then he gave all my Valentine kisses to the dog as revenge.

So we ate an awesome steak dinner made by myself truly and then The Pilot said he had a surprise for me and that I had to go hide in the bedroom until it was ready. I heard him singing in the bathroom the whole time I was waiting so I was half expecting to be called in and shown what an amazing heart shaped dump he had made for me because that's usually the only time he sings in the bathroom is when he is pooping.

But, lucky for me, it wasn't a heart shaped dump. It was a bubble bath drawn just special for me! And what was that? A candle? A candle lit bubble bath for me? AMAZING!

Until, that is, I had to get into the bath and he turned off the lights and left me with a glass of sparkling lemonade to enjoy my bath. Do you know how creepy the bathroom is in the dark with only a single tea light candle to light it? I've seen horror movies. This is how people are killed by insane ghost clowns people.

And my only defense against insane ghost clowns? A glass of sparkling lemonade. That shit burns the eyes, you know.

And then the dog wandered in and got curious about the candle and ended up puffing it out so I was left in the dark with the sparkling lemonade and a fiance that suspiciously couldn't hear my calls for help. That is of course until he did hear them and turned the light on for me.

Afterwards we had some dairy queen ice cream cake because we bought that bitch on the weekend as a giant HIGH FIVE to painting the apartment and had a bitch ton left.

And then we watched a movie in bed that was completely ruined by the worst fart in the world that smelled like a million dead bodies covered in goat cheese that came out of a million dead goats asses.

That was my fart. Because I'm lactose intolerant.

And farts are the only way to make sure Ghost Clowns don't kill you in your sleep.

It also has the unfortunate side effect of killing any and all romance.

And then I went to bed safe from Ghost Clowns.

Sometimes My Life Is Like The Goonies

(After watching a video about a celebrities reaction to a sloth)

The Pilot: "What, wait, hold on! Sloths are real?"

Me: "Uh, of course?"

The Pilot: "I thought they were like, fake."

Me: "How the hell did you figure Sloths were fake?"

The Pilot: "Because that guy from The Goonies. He was called Sloth so I figured that's what type of monster he was. A Sloth."

Me: "Sloth was horribly disfigured and mentally slow that's why he was called Sloth, because he was slow like the Sloth, which is a totally real animal."

The Pilot: "Oh."

Me: "So, you are telling me at 30 years old you spent your whole life believing Sloths aren't real?"

The Pilot: "Pretty much, what's for dinner?"

Me: "Sloth."

Ring, Ring, Ring! Fuck You Phone!

Considering that I've only been engaged for a few days, I got to tell you -- it already feels like forever. When we got home from that flight where The Pilot didn't kill us, he promptly decided that the best thing to do Post-Engagement was have a nap. That nap was totally interrupted by his phone ringing off the hook because people saw things posted on Face book and his parents and my parents had spent the afternoon phoning up everyone in Canada to tell them the great news.

This phone ringing? That wouldn't stop? It totally made The Pilot start having a hissy fit as he was curled up in a ball on the bed, rocking back and forth while whispering "Make it stop, please make it stop." and all I could do was cackle because I found it funny because nap times are precious to him. And I'm an asshole who can't let him nap.

It's sort of like when you see an innocent child sleeping undisturbed and you're over whelmed with the greatest urge to just shake it awake because if you can't be content and restful, they so fucking can't. That's what it's like when The Pilot naps.

The phone ringing didn't stop for hours and days and it got to the point we both wanted to turn off our phones and ignore the world but we couldn't because everyone wanted to know if we had a date set, and what we were going to do for the wedding, and oh my fucking god, have you set a date yet?

And then we did it.

Just joking! We couldn't do it because the phones they just kept ringing.

But we did make a lot of fucking toast.

We got a toaster, you see, and it was the first time we got to taste delicious bread on a constant basis in two years.

We had sex with that toaster.

Not kidding.

We totally fucked it good.

Not Dying 2300ft In The Air In The Middle Of A Snow Storm Was A High Point, Really.

Yesterday on my birthday when I turned twenty-fucking-four, it really hit home how old I have suddenly turned when I didn't want to do any type of birthday celebrations because I was so tired and just wanted to take my pants off and go to sleep. Since The Pilot is stupid old he totally jumped on the bandwagon of going to bed early and we just decided to postpone any birthday stuff until Friday, which is today.

See? Twenty-Fucking-Four totally has peaked already and it's full of early bedtimes and long naps and complaints about being tired, grump, old and not wanting to do anything.

In the morning, however, The Pilot woke me up early and declared "WOMAN! Get out of bed, we's going flying!" and despite having a boyfriend who is a pilot, I don't really get to go flying with him that much because of both of our schedules and I refuse to pay him to escort me around the skies. Naturally I sprung out of bed bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to meet the day and not at all anything close to being a person who didn't want to get up out of the warm bed and contemplating throwing something heavy at him.

At the airport as we got the plane ready the winter day started to snow and get cold and ice was everywhere and the clouds were low with a threat of spitting in our faces and ready to throw crap at us. The Pilot hemmed and hawed about following through on flying until he finally gave a big old fuckit, and demanded that I get into the plane.

We flew up to 2300ft and right when I was like "Holy crap they all look like ants down there, I wonder what would happen if I started throwing stuff out of the plane, would it hit someone? Because that'd be cool." The Pilot demanded that I pay attention to him and stop pretending I'm going to ruin the people behind us, and he pulled out a box and said "So, are you going to marry me or what?".

But of course he asked it in sort of a long winded "I love you so much" sort of speech before he got down to asking the question and looking at me in an expectant way because it was obvious I was supposed to say yes. Like, you don't tell the person flying you "No" because that scenario only ends up with fireballs and death.

It was a no brainer to say yes and immediately after I gave him a sloppy kiss and put the ring on, we got caught in an ice storm and had to almost emergency land the plane safely so we didn't die in the snow.

Because that'd suck to die so shortly afterwards. People would have thought  I said No.

Does This Mean I Qualify For Sponge Baths Now?

Tomorrow I happen to turn twenty-fucking-four and it's made me realize that I'm getting old and it wont be long now until I am thrown into an old folks home by uncaring children because I'm assuming at that point I'll be a horrible old lady no one wants to hang out with. But that nursing home? Yeah, totally the cheapest thing the uncaring children could find because they don't want their inheritance drained by such trivial things as "preventing bed sores" and "having paid staff be nice to the gross old people".

Oh, wait, I apologize. That's my plan for my parents.

Turning twenty-fucking-four as defiantly made me give a cold hard look at my life so far because it will be a year until I am twenty-five and what have I accomplished? An unfinished degree, starting a new degree, I haven't bought my own private island and I wasn't appointed the new Supreme Ruler of North Korea. All I can say is Kim Jong Il made promises he couldn't keep. The dick mouth.

Before I wasn't so concerned with my accomplishments because I could laugh it off due to the fact that I was young-ish and do you know what people expect of young people? Absolutely fucking nothing, and it's great!

Now it's just like "Oh she's getting so old and she hasn't even conquered a third world country yet. I bet her parents are so ashamed because I would be." and all I can really say is fuck you people who are disappointed on me not conquering a third world country yet, it's really hard OK? I didn't know there was laws about Human Rights and not enslaving people to make giant statues of dicks and cats. I didn't know.

The Pilot, however, seems to see a great positive in the fact that I'm getting older on my birthday and why I just can't turn twenty-awesome-three twice.

"But honey," he says, "the older you get the less I look like a creepy old man who's sleeping with you!" because we've got an age difference, you see, and he just turned thirty-fucking-old last September. It's good to know there is a light at the end of the tunnel, though.

He also told me that a new mexican restaurant opened in town and right before I got super excited and was going to suggest going there for my birthday he so cruelly cut in and said, "I've got standards woman, I don't take no one to a Mexican food joint on their birthday. I'm more of a KFC man."

So, at least I've got that going for me.

After Being In A Car For Two Days, I'm Surprised It Only Took Him 7 Hours To Snap

Things The Pilot Has Said On Our Road Trip Home

On what would happen if he ever contracted HIV: "If I have AIDS, I'm just going to go out with a bang and have a sword fight and shit."

On realizing what he said in regards to what he'd do if he contracted HIV: "I just said I'd have a sword fight with another dude, I didn't mean to be gay about it."

His feelings on when I wear boy boxers: "When you wear boy underwear it's exactly how I remember it feels like to feel up boys. Wait, that came out wrong, didn't it?"

Conversation after leaving his parents place to head home:

Me: "Why is there pieces of pepperoni scattered all over your parents driveway?"

The Pilot: "I thought the Quails would eat it, for like Christmas Dinner."

On his pride over having purchased a metal shelf for his tools: "When people come over and they see my glistening metal shelf in the garage they are going to blow their load. But not when they see my guitars because they already blew all over the shelf."

On realizing that everything he says is going to end up on my blog: "If your blog becomes famous, how am I going to convince the world that I'm The Pilot for realsies? Like, what happens if a sperm bank wont want my stuff because I can't prove my internet fame? What then, huh, what then?"

Christmas: It Totally Fucked Us Over.

So just when I thought that Christmas wasn't going to do anything stupid and destroy our holiday and I was politely tipping my hat to it and extended the hand of truce, it reared it's ugly head and kicked me square in the lady balls and then spit on my face and stole my hat. Because that's what Christmas does -- kicks you in the lady balls.

Our vehicle, we learned, is a ticking time bomb that can explode at any time it damn well chooses and stop working on us because somewhere inside of it there is a hole that's spewing liquid like it was diarrhea and that? That is bad, I guess. I don't know dink all about cars but I'm assured that it is a horrible thing to happen and so beyond expensive to fix that it's just laughable to even fix it.

And then the roads that we need to take home are all full of of avalanches and danger because once again Mother Nature is bleeding out of her soiled vagina and refuses to take out her tampons and let us catch a break.

Christmas: It Hasn't Killed Me Yet

My Christmas road trip has officially started and so far I'm proud to say that the drive to Calgary hasn't killed either of us yet and we haven't killed each other yet even though we sort of maybe came suspiciously close to dying when The Pilot saw an airplane in the sky and paid more attention to that then the merging traffic in front of him. So, we only almost sorta died.

Our road trip was riddled with arguments that started in fits and crackles over who was in charge of the music and several of my face book statuses totally explain what happened there:

Surprisingly, I haven't jabbed out my ears yet.

And then I fell asleep and woke up to endlessly repeating Christmas music and a boyfriend who was read to through the radio out of the window after ripping it from his vehicle because it just wouldn't stop and he had misplaced his own iPod so he couldn't listen to something better.

And then I pointed out cows.

Then we got to our hotel which actually turned out to be a motel and now I think we're going to be murdered in our sleep because the front desk guy was protected against the worst possible case scenario by sitting in a cage made out of bars because at any moment monkey's on tanks will attack a horrible motel.

And then we got a room that happens to share a wall with what I am assuming is an Indian Techno party because that is the only way I can describe the horrible music radiating from the wall.

Favorite part of the trip so far? When I asked The Pilot if we could stop for gas by innocently saying "Is that a gas station we can stop at?" he responded with, "No, that's a rape station and we are never stopping there."

Which, honestly, is pretty good advice to live by.

Is It Considerd A Good Gift If You Wrap The Cancer First?

Because we are going away for Christmas this year and most likely will die on a road trip or divorce each other and go into a custody battle of who doesn't want the dog, I've come to the critical choice that I'm not doing butt-hole-all to decorate this apartment for Christmas because this obviously must mean I'm the worst person in the world and ruined Christmas for a dozen orphans who later got Christmas cancer and Christmas died. Or so The Pilot might claim when he retells how I so cruelly denied him the pleasure of putting up Christmas lights all over the place because for some reason he treats them like mood lighting and if he had his choice they'd be up all the damn time.

Last year I let him go all out and he had Christmas lights over everything and if I hadn't of stopped him the dog would have been strung in lights and wrapped around the tree as a Christmas decoration. And he would have suddenly become a Christmas Tree Nazi that would hold me at gun point if I dared come close to his tree while it was being decorated and lo any who dare not to delightfully fluff the tree so it looks more real-y and less cheap-y.

I'd be a liar if I said it didn't make me laugh cruelly every time we'd walk outside of our apartment and find everyone's door decorated with Christmas stuff or see that ours is basically the only balcony that isn't lighted up like the entrance to a Gay Bar because he'd get a sad, frown-y face and point out all the Christmas cheer while simultaneously calling me the Christmas Devil. It's not my fault that his soul dying is a sweet, sweet nectar I'm shockingly addicted too.

But eventually his sad, Christmas puppy dog eyes got tired of pleading and begging with me for Christmas cheer, and decided that they were going to take matters into their own eyeball-y hands and do something about Christmas. Because that's what his fucking eyeballs do, can make Christmas happen.

And what did those eyeballs do? They stole my fucking Christmas sweater that I totally forgot that I owned and that may or may not have been hiding in a box inside of a box under another box in our avalanche prone closet and he wore it to work.

And he became a fucking celebrity. 

Everyone at the airport found themselves gravitating towards him and complimenting him on my sweater and I, Christmas sweater thief victim, had to read all of his texts about how stupidly awesome he was and that I should suck someones dink because I nearly ruined Christmas but he saved the day and the world from my Christmas Cancer Giving ways.

And then he gave Kayne a Christmas mustache ride. Because that's how you save Christmas. 

 

 

But joke was on him because he later had to wear that into the grocery store and he went from being a Christmas Celebrity to that guy who wears clothes that makes everyone else think he's going to murder them in their sleep and turn their faces into Christmas sweaters to wear into other grocery stores to lure more people into being Christmas Sweater victims.

The Tattoo Could Of Got Awkward But It Was Just Mostly Awesome

When The Pilot grew a mustache for the month of November at first I was like "Holy crap that is a cool idea" and then my feelings quickly went to "Holy crap, you look like a greek porn star from the 70's that fell from fame because he molested like little greek boys or something.". So when it came for him to shave it off because November is over, we did what any kickass couple would do when one of them looks like a Greek Porn Star/ Boy Molester and we made a movie.