42

I am 42.  Kurt Vonnegut was 42 when he finally published Slaughterhouse Five, one of my favorite books.  42 is the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.  42 is the approximate angle at which an rainbow appears! 42 is the number with which god created the universe in Kabbalah.  Jackie Robinson wore number 42, and he was a stud.

42 is the last interesting number.

Is my life supposed to be so fucking lame?  I am choosing to be in a marriage I can't stand.   My husband is a large child, who wants to act like if you ignore something long enough it goes away. My kids totally railroad me into doing shit for them all the time.  They can't even pick their dirty laundry up off the floor, because they (subconsciously) know that I hate clutter, so I will pick it up.  I love my job, but I'm fairly sure that people have the totally wrong impression of who I really am, simply because I'm introverted., so they think I'm anti-social  AND .. I'm pretty sure the squirrels in my yard are emissaries of the devil, because they just LOOK at me when I walk outside rather than scurrying away.  (Just a theory.)

I can't even leave this shithole called Nebraska during summer break, because I'm poor as shit.  I can't afford anything, but my husband is currently out clothes shopping with my son, then off to a nice dinner, and then to a 3-D movie (aren't those like $15?!).  Why doesn't he buy some groceries instead (fucking asshole).  (Sorry, that was an organic anger, and I refuse to backspace/delete my feelings.)  Or buy grass seed for the gigantic rut he digs out beside our driveway with his car wheels?  (That shit is EXPENSIVE!!  Don't buy a house.)  Or fix the water spout in the backyard (which he started to fix and then totally fucked up and left broken).

Is this blogging supposed to make me feel good by writing my feelings down?  Because it's not working.

Shut it down.