Shoot Me, Shoot Me Now

I feel like microwaved cat vomit, I have sick kidlets, my house looks like Hessians have ransacked it looking for the liquor I already drank. I have lots of work do to that I don't at all feel like doing, but will do anyway, because, hey, the holidays are coming, and I can't as of yet barter bales of dog hair for turkey to feed my wan, sickly children. (I seem to have an excess of dog hair in my house, so I'm hoping when society falls there will be a market for it, maybe to spin into garments to keep us warm while we're trying to run from wandering mutants).

I'm sending my kids to an expensive school (at least when they're not vomiting copiously) that is apparently managing to escape the word "slavery" when teaching American history. No doubt, by the time the kindergartner gets to fifth grade, the phrase "captive Africans" will have been swapped out for the more-unwieldy-yet-less-offensive  "undercompensated-laborers-who-only-received-room-and-board." In light of this I realize in my musings about Piggly Wiggly's new "No Hood and Sunglasses" policy, I neglected to factor in the possibility they weren't actually talking about hoodies. Trying to figure out if Klansmen wear their sunglasses over or under their hoods is less amusing than it should be.

In other words, everything sucks. I feel like I would feel better if I can just say FUCK often enough, but it doesn't seem to be fucking working.