Holy Mackerel

So, Mr. Handsome laughs at my blog. And I don't mean in a good way. As in, how you, my faithful readers, laugh at my blog. Nay. I mean, the odd time he finds it somewhat amusing, but more often than not, his remark is almost -- shall we say -- condescending. And again, I don't mean that in a good way, if there is a good way with being condescending. In simpler terms: condescending = not good For instance, in case you are doubting my statement above, saying, "Nay nay, sweet Mary, your husband would NEVER be condescending toward you and your blog," let me tell you this: he rolled his eyes at my last post, and said, "You're really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, aren't you?" But he really wasn't asking me a question. It was more of an absolute statement, like he was the ultimate god of funniness judgment or something equally as important and strangely unique. Well, he may think he is, but he's not. I mean, I probably don't even ...

It's hard to keep a blog going. God help me. I only do three posts a week, for god's sake. You'd think I'd be able to at least manage that. But nooooo, I can't. That's probably because I'm still on the toilet 20 times a day . But, at the time of this writing, my explosive diarrheaic episodes seem to be waning. For the past two days, I'm down to about five explosions per day, which is a miracle of sorts, I'd have to say. Now, if I could only get the 15 nightly implosions that continue to barrage my insides as I try to sleep, I'd be one happy camper. I'm not sure why I feel so stressed lately, but I know I am, because my fingertips are bloody. Apparently, I've adopted this relatively new habit of gnawing on them until all the skin is gone and all that's left is exposed, raw flesh. It even hurts to type, which, now that I think of it, may be why I've only been posting once a week. I'm wondering if maybe it's because I'm ...