Fuck you.

There I said it: Fuck you.  And it’s what I should’ve said in the doctor’s and therapist’s office but I was a lil blindsided.  I may like you and respect you and all that happy bullshit, but fuck you.

Now I’ve been telling you black assholes for months that I’m addicted to this goddamn stuff.  However I’ve been managing it and trying to ration the doses myself, but then ya fucked me in the ear by taking the Ultram away.  No I didn’t find the Ultram addictive at all; the best thing about it was that it extended the Vicodin’s life.  So instead of popping them every 2 to 3 hours I could hold out till 6 and sometimes 8.  

You bitch at me that 6 Vicodin are 3000 mg of acetaminophen, but guess what, I have taken that much in one day thanks to good ol’ over the counter Tylenol.  So whoopty shit!

The best part is they want to wean me off and learn to live with the pain.  Wow!  Really?  That sounds great!  Unimaginable pain that causes intense irrationality; well I don’t see how anything could possibly go wrong there.  Perhaps I’ll regularly visit a support group where a bunch of pussies sit around and talk about their feelings, or a bunch wetbacks sit around speaking Spanish – same thing really.  Do intelligent people actually buy into support groups?  I’d like to see the average I.Q. of a support groupie.  

So the drugs were supposed to be hidden and I was only to have my daily allowance; this never came to pass as I’ve yet to niggar in an extra pill.  Even Mother tried to force a couple extra down my throat when I was in agony and I told her to go fuck herself.  And yet after all this all my therapist can do is yammer on incessantly about addiction.  Uh huh, have you been paying attention to what I said to you?  Even after waking from a dream where someone was stabbing me in the middle of my shoulder blades with scissors only to find the pain was still there, and I still didn’t take a goddamn extra pill?  

Fuck yourself gently with a rusty chainsaw then learn to live with the pain.

You wanna talk about someone who needs help then let me introduce you to Martha Fucking Stewart on crack:  My Mother.

We’re having a party tomorrow for the pastor’s birthday and she has been at this thing for months; obsessing and doing way too much.  Think she’s ready yet?  Oh fuck no!  Because she keeps thinking of inane things to do at the last minute:  She bought this huge three gallon glass jar that has break me written all over it, and plans to fill it with homemade lemonade.  Wanna know how many lemons that took?  No you don’t.  I can’t tell you how much useless crap she’s bought just for this party.  Today she wants to go to the store and get raspberries.  Well I didn’t recall hearing that on the menu and thankfully she was insightful enough to order a damn cake.  So what are the raspberries for?  Oh she wants to make lil lemonade ice cubes with one raspberry inside each.  She’d already bought the ice cube trays – there were about 16 of them.  The best part is when I offered to do something to help that wouldn’t cause me to cry in pain.  She was dead serious when she said this:  She suggested I get the ironing board out and iron all the napkins.

I have a good mind not to even get up tomorrow.  My cousin’s not wild about this party either, I’m thinking about telling him to play sick too.