It’s not my birthday. I’ll cry if I want to.

I love me some birthday cake almost as much as I love a hot Asian cutie sucking on a lollipop, but let’s just take a minute to talk about how the cake doesn’t taste quite as good at SOME OTHER BITCH’S BIRTHDAY PARTY.  Okay, I take that back, because Auntie Jamie will kick my ass, and I really don’t think my sweet, little, toe-headed cousin Sienna is an actual bitch, but…it’s the principle of the thing.  Yesterday it was Sienna’s birthday.  It was a bit more mellow than the drunken, no-kid-food frat parties that mommy and daddy throw when I celebrate a year, but it was cool.  I did get my ass kicked by a four-year old when we set up a wrestling ring in the living room, but whatever.  There will come a day when he won’t have ten pounds on me or a 6” reach advantage (that kid has some crazy fucking monkey arms, dude),  and he’ll be whining like a girly-man at a monster truck rally when he sets his eyes on my sexy mug at a birthday bash.  Bitch. I digress.  Happy birthday, Sienna.  You got some cool shit.  I look forward to all the sharing you will
bestow upon me in the near future.

Talking about Sienna brings up a very sensitive issue that has been nipping me in the ‘nads for some time now.  We have a guy re-tiling one of our bathrooms right now, and his name is Raul.  Naturally, I am curious about anyone who rolls up in here and starts using power tools inside the house, so I asked mommy yesterday, what’s his name?  And she said Raul.  And I said, oh, Wah-oool.  And she said no, RAH-oool.  Ruh, ruh, RAH.  And I was like, yeah, I know, are you deaf, bitch?  That’s what I said!  WAHHHH-OOOOOL.  And she shook her head and looked at me like I smelled really bad, muttered some shit about at least I don’t have a lisp, and then she said, you know, Sienna is five months younger than you and she can pronounce her “R”s beautifully.  Maybe you will need a therapist.  And I was thinking, fuck yes I need a therapist, but it’s not because I can’t fucking say Wah-oools name right, it’s because my prick mom likes vodka in her coffee and hasn’t a sensitive bone in her soft, jiggly boddy.  Oh, yeah, I went there, Mom.  Take your meanness and inject it into the cellulite in the backs of your thighs, and stop bitching about being a fat-ass if you don’t want to do something about it.  So fucking WHAT if Sienna can enunciate words like “sparkle” with perfect ease…I can eat dog food and like it.  If you insist , mommy dearest, on making me feel inferior all the days of my life, I will likely bring an automatic weapon to pre-K someday—if i don’t get kicked out because I can’t say Wah-fucking-oool.

What else?  Oh, since we are getting that bathroom re-tiled, I get to use the one in mommy and daddy’s room, now.  There are many things for me to get into in there.  Daddy’s shaving gel.  Mommy’s make-up  brushes. Expired prescription drug bottles. (Ask her about the time she had to shove her fingers down my throat for twenty minutes.  She is not the best child-proofer in the universe.)  And toothpaste.  Oh, baby, toothpaste.  Gramma Grace (a.k.a. G.G.) was in there yesterday (she is here helping out for a few weeks while daddy is crippled), and I had to poop.  So I opened the door–I gotta poop, get out!—and she obliged.  (Hey, I need my privacy.  And promptly, most of the time.)  Five minutes later, she came barging back in the door to bust me with a fresh tube of Crest.  I was two-handed-squeezing that shit right down my throat, and it was soooo good.  Sweet…minty…squishiness…it would only be better if I was tonguing it out of a Korean girl’s belly button.   Anyway, my sweet treat was confiscated, and later, G.G. was reading the back of the tube to a disinterested mommy about how poison control should be contacted if children under the age of six consume toothpaste.  Oh, he might grow a second head then, Mommy  mused, not taking her eyes off the television.  Fuck you, mom.  Yeah, I MIGHT grow a second head.  Or maybe a third and fourth testicle.  Or an ass tumor the size of a cantaloupe.  And then how would you feel when I went on Dr. Phil to tell the world that you didn’t.  Give.  A Shit.  because The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills was on that day?
Do you all see what I have to endure day in and out of my life?  I’d rather be in foster care.

So, on that note, I’m going to watch some football and lick the salt off mommy and daddy’s chavelas.  I refused a nap today, which means I’m going to be in rare form by the
time our guests arrive.  Tomorrow I have to go to Beauty and the Beast at the AMC with Sienna and mommy and Auntie Jamie.   Mmmm.  Awesome for me.  A princess movie.  I’m bringing eyedrops for everyone’s Diet Cokes so we can get the fuck out of there before the Beast even meets the Beauty.

Catch you all on the flip.

Also, happy birthday to Uncle Boone.  Let’s go fishing some time.

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