Mother’s Day and blow jobs

here’s some matt smith to break up the sherlock / cumberpr0n

“But you know who else deserves it?  The women who have struggled to be, or are still struggling to be moms.  The women who want children but just aren’t in a safe place in life to have them.  The women who don’t want kids and have to listen to a bunch of bullshit about how you’re only worthwhile if you’ve pushed a human out of your vagina.  The women who miss the children they once had.  The women who miss the children they lost before they ever met them.  The women who gave up their children so their child could have a better life than they could provide.  The women who were raised motherless, or with shitty mothers, or who have lost their mothers and are reminded of how alone they feel.  Mother’s Day is a confusing, weird, very-seldom-wrapped-up-with-a-nice-commercial-bow sort of day, and as for me, I salute you all – mothers or not…you’re here.  You’re alive.  You continue to survive.  You are worthwhile and wonderful.  Never forget that.” - The amazing Jenny Lawson

Whether it’s about depression, anxiety, or Mother’s Day, a woman I’ve only met once (and for 5 minutes if that) continues to tell me what I need to hear even when I don’t know I need to hear it.

——

We all know I’m not quiet about the fact that my mother died. That she made my life miserable. Or even that she’s been gone for too many years for my feelings about her to remain this unresolved…

Suffice it to say, I fucking HATE Mother’s Day.

A guy I know, a really young kid, texted me today and wished me a happy Mother’s Day. Even though he picked my brain about The Crazy frequently, I don’t think we ever talked about the choice I made to be child-free. THAT’S not really ever a topic up for discussion.

You want to know about the bipolar? About my fucked up relationship with my mother? About my weird obsession with Johnlock and the actors who fleshed out the characters so brilliantly? Even my quasi-self-harming?

Open. Book.

But kids? Not so much.

Honestly, I’d rather spend hours talking to you about why so many pr0ny fanfic writers never have their characters swallow. Seriously. (This topic REALLY bothered me this morning. Like REALLY bothered me. Ask J. I wouldn’t stop talking about it, and I’m still really curious.)

Wait. What?

How the hell did I go from being all “I hate Mother’s Day” to talking about blow jobs?

Yet another one of life’s great mysteries…

Let’s get back on track, shall we?

There’s been a couple of things going on this week that have pushed this to the forefront.

1) A’s text.

2) MKS’ post about being child-free and why it’s nobody’s fucking business.

3) The actual holiday

4) Having a recruiter tell me that the photo on this entry shouldn’t be my profile picture on LinkedIn because “it might send the wrong message”.

5) The sad fact that there are so many members of The Dead Parents Club and that the majority of them are missing their mothers today.

6) Picking up the “Wonderful Wallaby” again… which inspired this Facebook status: I’m knitting a “Wonderful Wallaby” for a little person who honestly melts my heart in a way no child has ever been able to.

7) Realizing that this July marks four years of friendship with Black Mountain Symphony, and remembering C-Rollz’ reaction when I told him kids were never going to happen.

And you know what?

I started writing this entry to talk about why being motherless and child-free on Mother’s Day sucks. (Even though I’ve got “kids”, they’re always brushed off because they’re “just” animals.)

Only to discover that I STILL don’t want to talk about it.

Blow jobs, however?

Fair game.

Couldn’t help myself…

They left out “world’s most adorable dork”

They left out “says the f-word so much, it’s gotta be the only word in his vocabulary”

Bricks. Boston. Interviews. Bricks. Did I mention bricks?

this scene gives me the giggles every time i see it.

I’ve got two interviews in Boston tomorrow with two different recruiters.

It seems that my new idea of finding the recruiters with multiple interesting positions and sending a resume for something that’s a little bit of a stretch gets me more attention than if I apply to one I’m actually qualified for. I’m not quite sure why that’s working but in this recent job search, I’m four for six. That’s not too bad.

Shit. Yesterday, I applied for a position at 10:02 and got a call at 10:06. He’s interview # 2 tomorrow. Of course, I’m not the right fit for the job I sent my resume in for, but he’s got several I might be a fit for…

Jackpot.

Since there will be walking, I was planning on bringing my brick filled ruck. I’m a little nervous about that, though so I probably won’t. I mean, it’s bricks. In duct tape, and bubble wrap, in a black backpack. Bricks in duct tape and bubble wrap and that kind of look like a bomb. In a city that just had, um, issues with bombs in backpacks. Oh, and I’m going into the Financial District. I wonder what security will be like…

Maybe not such a good idea after all.

It’s one thing to explain the GORUCK Challenge, it’s another to whip out my brick-bomb and be all nonchalant: Yeah, these bricks? They’re my BFFs. I’ve gone everywhere with them for the past six months. I never leave home without them.

I’m going to miss them.

After Boston, I’m off to Albany. It’s a much needed break from reality on what would have been my parents’ 44th anniversary (assuming the divorce hadn’t happened in 1992). Actually, I assume all the time that they’d still be together. From what I can gather, my father was crushed they got divorced and I think it was a last-ditch chance to get my mother to smarten up. Of course, then she up and died days after the stupid thing became final, so they never got a second chance.

Way to go. Now I’ve depressed myself. AGAIN.

Here’s some more Sherlock because I need to giggle. The death Frisbee!

Your face, sir, with that crunching thing it does… Here, please watch as my ovaries explode.

Also, yet another CANON hint that Johnlock may indeed be a real thing, despite Moftiss claiming that it’s not like that between the two men.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

yep. the milk. it’s practically a thing.

Remember that Johnlock fanfic culture thing I posted a few days?

I’m proofreading my Johnlock brOTP fan fic and what do I spy with my little eye?

John looked around the kitchen and saw all new appliances. The old ones were piled in the corner, each one neatly labeled “EXPERIMENTS ONLY.” Sherlock was sitting at the table calmly eating a scone, a mug of tea at his side. “I did some shopping. I hope you didn’t want to pick anything out.”

John opened the fridge. There wasn’t a single body part in there. Just food. And milk. Lots of milk. He fought to keep the smile from taking over his face. “No. It’s fine. I’m just completely gobsmacked.” He turned to the cabinets and drawers, opening each one in turn. “New silverware, even.”

“I replaced everything. Even scrubbed the shelves and cupboards.”

Yep.

Sherlock bought some fucking MILK.

Baaaaanaaaaaanaaaaa!

The Brits may hate apples, but the Doctor FUCKING loves him some bananas.