Oh, I’m Sorry..This Is Abuse

Remember that Monty Python skit about the guy paying for an argument? Graham Chapman heaps a pile of hilarious insults on Michael Palin and then apologizes..Oh! You wanted an argument? This is abuse.

If you lived inside my head, you would understand PERFECTLY why that skit is appropriate to what is on my mind. But you don’t..so chances are it will be confusing and murky. If this is the case, please ignore the Monty Python reference.

I find ways, every single day, to fuck with myself. Yesterday and today have been filled with self-recrimination over the incredibly kind and wonderful things that people say to me.

For instance, the comments I’ve gotten for the past few blog posts I’ve written have been kind and supportive.

They are SO fucking hard to read and this is what I think:

Fucking hell. You know what it sounds like? It sounds like you’re fishing for these affirmations and compliments. Is that what you’re doing? Because it’s sad. Fucking cut it out. 

Which is followed up with:

Wow, people are being really nice to you. Perhaps you could just be gracious and learn how to take a goddamn compliment. Dumbass. 

And now that thought, right this second, is met with:

WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW? This is exactly what I’m talking about! You’ll write this post and then people will say really nice things and assure you that you’re wonderful when you know, deep down inside..all you are doing is fishing. 

It’s exhausting listening to the noise in my head sometimes.

I know that I am not fishing for compliments. I’m just emptying the contents of my head. I love writing this blog. I love getting feedback. And I appreciate every single comment and email I get from people who choose to read my ramblings.

Still, it’s hard for me to accept a compliment.

If I am going through a very rough patch, like death of a loved one or watching someone I love suffer for any reason, then the LAST thing I want is for people to be NICE to me. Fucking hell, tease me..make fun of me…tell me to stop being a pussy, but for all that is holy..do NOT be nice to me.


Not a clue. Well, other than I hate to cry in front of people. Too much niceness when I’m sad definitely irritates the tear ducts.

I have a friend who is exactly the same way. I know if she is in pain that I can comfort her. I comfort her by saying really mean and over the top shit to her until she laughs. She knows that her job is to do the same for me.

For instance, she has a health issue that I KNOW she is really worried about. Personally, I think it’s going to end up routine and fine, but I understand her worry. She doesn’t fret out loud too much about it, that isn’t her style..but I can read between the lines.

She’s having a test today that requires a full bladder. I’ve been given very specific instructions. If she ends up peeing all over the place during this procedure then I am to make fun of her for it.

Like she had to TELL me to do that. Of course I will make fun of her. That is what we do. That’s how we say “I care very much about you and I worry about you and I want to help set your mind at ease”. Don’t tell her I said that though, she’d hang so much shit on me.

I am going to keep working on learning how to take a compliment without feeling like crawling in a hole.

In the mean time, would you mind terribly leaving a comment making fun of me? Just a little? I PROMISE to say something horrible in return.

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    • HAHA…perfect.

      And get your own goddamn drink..do I look like your maid?

      Seriously? Do I? Because I’ve always suspected I had a little bit of a ‘maid’ look.

      • No, you don’t look like MY maid because my maid is a dude. Cleans whilst wearing speedos, mind you.

        But he’s got the day off. Where the HELL is my drink? Why didn’t you get mine while you were getting that Stef a drink? Now you have to make another trip.

        Get with the fucking program.


  • LMFAO! Get the hell OUT of my head! I almost can’t concentrate on reading your dreck due to the loud conversation continuously going on inside myself.
    Sorry. That’s the best I can do. Dreck. I just can’t make myself say mean things to you. Maybe once I know you better? Maybe sometime while we’re sitting on your pinwheel decorated deck, drinking bourbon and snacking on menstrual cheese – then I’ll come up with a zinger for you. Deal?

      • Maybe if your writing hadn’t lulled me into a deep torpor I’d be more creative! Now stop wasting my time, you B#$%&. I have WAY more important things to do than read your crap. I need to alphabetize my nail polish, and watch the dryer run.

  • I’d try, but I have a make-a-joke filter that causes me to never be able say anything mean out loud. Or to empathize with serious stuff except by making light of it. Like the time I made jokes about my step-father-in-law’s cancer diagnosis. (awkward) And I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a fork than cry with someone. It’s kind of a curse.

    But for you, I’ll give it a whirl. Um…

    ….*staring blankly into space*…

    I got nothing. Sorry. But yeah, I’ll take a drink while you’re up. :0)

  • WTF you’re too damn old to be this insecure! There have to be like a million ways to rent Fried Green Tomatoes and by the time you’ve crashed your car into some Santa Barbra wannabe tinniebobber bitches mini coupe and looked at your own vagina with a mirror – after your husband regaines consciousness and can then point out to you which hole is the one he has been using versus what “they” say he’s supposed to be using. Although, many women will admit that they get more satisfaction from an orgasm achieved via sodomy versus general intercourse… which makes perfect sense… afterall, with everything stretching out and falling all over the place, switching to the back door is like a time machine to virginity and when you could actually feel your man doing something other than just bouncing on your bladder.

    And as for the other thing… oh shit!!! Oh well, I’ll probably remember ’bout two or three in the morning. Or maybe I can walk into the other room for something – forget what THAT was – and come back here and remember… nahhhhh…. if I do that, I’ll forget something else much more important – like the recipe for kvass!


  • Shut your festering gob, you tit. You make me want to puke.

    I laughed so damn hard when I read the title of your post, and when you invited me to keep quoting the sketch, you made my day.

    • Yay….now..I will insult you…and I’ll use small words..you warthog face buffoon…

      I might have switched to princess bride for that one.

  • Well, aren’t we all a great group of smelly whores!! HAHAHAHA…..

    If you knew Russian and could understand смелиы хоры – well, then, you’d be ready to piss your pants too. Russians don’t actually use those two words together, but you would pronounce them as smelly whory… the plural form of brave choirs. I took Russian with a bunch of guys who just got free from mommy & daddy and (mind you it was a PRIVATE liberal arts college) would either want to know the real Russian slang and swear words or would come up with combos like this that would sound like they were saying something nasty in English, but then they could argue that they weren’t even speaking in English and whoever got offended needed to grow up!! It was interesting!

    That aside – we should make up our own hook-up through Google and hang out and chill sometime.

    Now, the REAL reason I was writing again (damn, can you believe I am not even 40 and already suffering from this age shit?)… What the hell was I going to say? BRB… okay, like seriously, I had to scroll up three or four comments before I remembered why I began to respond again. I haven’t even taken my cough medicine much less drank alcohol. But check this shit out:

    Okay – so my mom was missing for almost 10 years. Those that knew were she was didn’t know us or wouldn’t talk to us if their breath was the only saving air that would stop a raging fire from swallowing us whole. And those of us (talking family -blood/DNA recognized by law family) that did talk as part of my group had not one clue where she was. Well, the ONE relative who did know where she was also had his own severe mental health issues compounded by drug and alcohol use – so, when he was down here on the same planet with the rest of us the small percentage that happened – I later found out he now and then had known where she had been. But the rest if us. Fuck that – we were clueless – you could put a million dollar check under our nose singed by Trump himself and it wouldn’t do a thing. We had no damn clue for 9 plus years where she was.

    Long story short – when we were at the part where I thought she was going to die, things took a twist. People NOW tell me they hear about this all the time, but that damn nurse who ran away and left me all alone had been working in that cancer ward for 20 some years and had never seen no shit like that! She had just basically suffocated. I mean, talk about needing Dr Kovorkian, my mom’s heart would stop for a few seconds and she would turn blue and then suddenly her body would gasp and she would turn bright red and her lungs would suck in air like a vacuum and this went on almost a dozen time over a couple hours as I held my hand over her heart and sat next to her. What kind of shit is that?!? I mean, really, where the fuck is the needle THEN? Anyway… we were at a point where she had just gone silent and her breathe was really slow and almost coma-like. I was there with her sister, one of her brothers and his wife (who had been around them through their school days – so she was practically DNA)… and my mother sits up and lays back down.

    We call for the nurse. By the time this broad finally shows up, my mother had done it again. The nurse asked if she had said anything. Well, we sure hoped the hell not – the bitch is supposed to be dying!! And the nurse disappears. And then… my mother – no joke – sits up and says “Hey!” and lays back down. Honest to God, I apologized to her siblings if my mom did not die that night. I told them I didn’t mean to cry “wolf”… like a dumbshit! To matters even worse, we had lowered all the bed’s sides to be able to sit closer to her… so there was nothing stopping her when – suddenly – she sits up and swings her legs over the opposite side of the bed from us and attempts to stand up. I jumped up and grabbed her and pulled her back by her right shoulder – and this woman fought me with so much strength that I had to practically get on the bed and bare down all my weight on her. Her siblings left the room and were yelling for the nurse (I guess she had come into the room, but IMMEDIATEDLY turned back around and disappeared again with eyes bigger than the golden dollar), but an assistant came in. All she did was stand next to the head of the bed and watch like she was used to seeing this shit everyday – she seemed of African descent so I was thinking witchcraft or voodoo history the way her eyes seemed blank – so I told her to leave. Meanwhile, my mother, whose eyes are pure black and she doesn’t recognize me at all is yelling and squirming against me “Let go of me, Lady!” When it all ended, maybe a few minutes, but it felt like a lot, THEN the damn nurse showed her funky ass up to change the bed sheets and wash up my mother.

    Now this is me when they are all done and we head back into the room and there is that uncomfortable silence. “Well, that sure gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘dead man walking’! I wonder how far she would have gotten if we had let her go for it.”…

    Yep, that’s me!

  • I would have thought that a woman with superpowers of awkwardness could have made it at least a little more difficult to leave a positive comment on her blog, but NOOOO.

    • Well..my superpowers are going to kick in any day now..and when they do..you’re going to be bald and need those little blue pills.

  • Oh for shit’s sake! All this fucking whining and crying is making this place sound like a damned nursery!

    Suck it up, princess, and start pouring those drinks! We’re getting thirsty over here!

  • Haha you are right up my alley. I fail miserably at comforting people– I prefer distracting them with insanity. I am the designated waiting-room person in my family and circle of friends (probably because I love a good reason to skip work) but not because I have a comforting presence or words of wisdom– hell no! But I can distract the shit out of anyone while they’re waiting to hear the outcome of a surgery or something.

    I don’t know if I can think of something to insult you with. I went wedding-dress shopping with my friend Shleisel yesterday and spent most of the time calling her a hooker (and forbidding a WHITE dress) and telling her she looked fat. So there’s that.

    • I would share all my bourbon with you..except the last drink. I don’t like you that much. Then again, I don’t like anybody that much.

  • By submitting a comment, do I automatically receive your blog via email or on Twitter? Old and confused…ha! M, love ur writing and bitchin. The comments too are well writen and LOL too
    Hope this ain’t no meetin” ground for them funckin Mensa geniuses! Hell, I is only one ofy kinfolk to grageeeate 3rd grade. Drop on by to my place anytime.I’m in a van down by the river

    • HAHAHA..well…nope..this isn’t a Mensa site…but I do talk a lot about menopause! If you go to the main page and enter your email in, then you will get a notification when I post a new post, which should be today or tomorrow. And thank you for reading! I really appreciate it!

  • I 100% understand. I used to be the same way. I had a teacher in high school who was a mentor to me as well. She noticed that, every time someone gave me a compliment, my response was something like “oh, that’s not true.” One day she told me “Just say thank you. Accept the compliment and be happy.” It’s easier said than done, but I think I am finally there. I still say little more than thank you, though. I’m still not comfortable with compliments, although I am grateful.

  • I’ve seen many an idiot in my lifetime, but you make them all look like winners.

    (Sorry, but I’m very tired and overrun at work. But trust me, you really do suck!)

    • Wow…now that’s a lame fucking insult, right there. Tired or not…

      That might be my calling in life…I serve to make others look good. 🙂

  • Gah! I do the same thing. I don’t know why. My hubby is always over-the-top sweet and complimentary and I ROLL MY EYES AT HIM! Every. Single. Time.

    WHY?? I know he means them. Pretty sure I am just fucked up.

    I’m glad that you are fucked up too, so I don’t have to be alone. Wait, was that a compliment or an insult? Meh. I guess a backhanded compliment will have to do.

    • OOOHHH!!! The backhanded compliment. My favorite. Those are the ones that I’m used to. “You don’t look as shitty as you did yesterday.” Or the mingling of the compliment with the cut-down. “I like you hair up like that. It really takes the attention off of your huge nose.” Pretty sure that we’re ALL fucked up! But at least we’re learning to have fun with it… 😉

      • HAHAH…exactly! We might as well have fun with it..we have to deal with what we are dealt, right?

        How was THAT for profound?

        • This is decades old…but years ago in my clubbing days, I used to hang out with a girl that turned heads everywhere she went. this ONE time at a club, a really good looking guy spent an hour or so talking to me and she wanted to leave…she said..I want to go..because I can’t understand why he is talking to YOU and not ME. What a cunt.

  • I really do think we should all get over ourselves. Which of course includes you, and me. Getting called on our shit is refreshing compared to all the fluffing. I wrote a post about how I hated to get hugged and now people come up and hug me more than ever. Figures. Keep writing. I will keep reading. I will try not to be nice to you.

    • That’s so sweet! In a way that I can process!

      I am not a huggy person either..I married into a huggy family..they have worn me down and I accept their hugs with as much graciousness as I can muster.

  • I think I’m in a pretty similar boat. My friend at work calls me a “Macho Shithead” and he’s not too far off. I have the appearance of the “tough guy” all the time. However, when someone compliments me (especially on days like yesterday, Veteran’s Day) I get all embarrassed and have no idea to respond. I rather have someone insult me like my best friend so I can smile, laugh and insult him. It is just more comfortable that way.

    And fuck the voices! They have been talking to me nonstop the last 3 or 4 days now and it is really starting to piss me off.

  • My darling, beautiful, talented sister – don’t you know how bereft our lives would be without your sparkling wit and charming presence. You are our role model for what a wife, a mother – a human being should be. Except you can’t take a compliment worth a fuck.

    • HAHAHAHAHAH….that might be literally the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Don’t ever fucking do it again. 🙂

      • Not likely, probably hurt me almost as much as it hurt you 😉

        I not only suck at taking compliments, I’m awkward at giving them – “You nice…me like…ha.ha.ha”

  • Oh, hell. Stop being such a whiny pussy and grow a pair of balls. You’d likely sprout a cock with ’em and then could fuck yourself up the ass whenever you felt the urge for a little self-mutilation. Hell, might as well come over here and do hubs job for him, too. SEE WHAT I DID THERE? 2-for-1…2-for-1!!

    I’m good like that. And now I need to scrub my fingers with soap. ..for writing that, not for…

    Oh, stop it you snickering ho bag. 😉

By Michelle


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