Kittens On Rollerskates

Welcome back bonerz, how has every little thing been? Things here have been really fucking great, mystery bruises and total absence of lotto winnings notwithstanding. Ay! Lemme get in on those proceeds! I’ve really only played the lottery like a fistful of times, but somehow I’m totally fucking boggled every time I don’t win, then I silently berate myself for my foolish selections. I think, six numbers. That’s it. That’s all you have to get right, literally for the rest of your life. After you nail this landing, which is basically a sure thing, you can turn your virtually stressless life into a completely stressless life.  I give myself pep talks that prove that how many times I’ve seen Fellowship Of The Ring, like “It’s destiny! Turn now and face your destiny.” I do things like cast my gaze upwards to the sky, palms upraised, trying to tune into the rhythms of the universe or whatever (really I’m probably going wrong because I’m only trying to look like I’m in tune with the universe).

On the real though, this should be a cinch, just say six numbers, numbers you’ve definitely heard before, you don’t even have to get the order right. And I play Powerball, because they only draw twice a week, so I get to spend some QT walking around all smug, thinking about how magnanimous I’ll be with all that scrilla. Then I give a little shrug, like “Well, here we go! Better go enjoy serfdom while you still can!”, lose the ticket, find it 1.5 weeks later, look up the numbers, and realize that what I actually bought was futility, which evidently costs $5, which seems high.

Maybe I should consider taking the forgery route and fake the winning ticket, as I did when I was a very small child and handed this note to my mama. I wanted and genuinely expected her to believe that she had written it and then just totally spaced it. I like to think that I was prepared to pretend to be super understanding and graceful about her oversight, like “Hey. Momz. Don’t be so hard on yourself, we all forget hugely important promises that we make to our children that shape what they expect from future relationships. It’s totally cool. Now make with the toy, or Ima be a stripper when I grow up, on purpose.”

I would feel better if all of the things I wrote to her were just manipulative and greedy, but unforch there were a lot of really mean notes, too. The runaway notes were many and varied, with the only unified theme being my righteous indignation. Nothing was ever fair, and the only way I felt like I could really express that was to go write a note and then march up to her, glaring, and slam down the gauntlet. Like a super mean note, some of which are addressed to “Mom (If That Is Your Real Name)”. Please bear in mind that this woman brought me into the world with no pain medication, whereas I’ll take a Vicodin if I’m bored. If I were her I would have delivered a swift “Whatbitch get your shit I’m surrendering you at the fire station,“ which is I guess why it’s good that I don’t have children. But unlike me, my mom is wicked patient and nice (except for once when she called me a Little Shit for trying to tip over the table at a fancy restaurant) so instead she kept them to give back to me when I turned 29, which is kind of like winning a very different kind of lottery (a lamer, cashless kind). In the one below I guess I was all pissed that she tried to critique my awesome piano playing? Fuck that!

That I was not reared in an orphanage is a fucking miracle.

There are also a few things I wrote that weren’t based in rage and aggression (not that many), and I guess because I’m still essentially the exact same person, I liked to make up phrases when actual existing ones just seemed lame. My fave is the one where I drew me and another stick figure in a roughly car-shaped pod, basically a hot dog on wheels with the word “GAS” written on the side, and below it I wrote “I wish I had a Porsche. I could cross downtown with a cool of friends.” Which starting right now, is my new thing I say. “What’re you getting into tonight?” “I went to the store and got like a cool of champagne, wanna come over?” “Yes.”

Ima leave you with another selection of shit people googled that led them to here, but without much commentary, because basically I cannot. People be wilin’, yall.

“I wish I was dead because I can’t find rollerskates.” Do you? Hey, how’s your crazy bleak life? Because that thing you wish you were dead over? Is a super small problem.

“What does it feel like to get off rollerskates?” Um, it feels exactly like unlacing rollerskates and taking them off your feet. Exactly like that. You dumb, dumb idiot.

“Kittens that have something to do with drug free.” Your life…your whole shit…it’s so fucking stupid. Additionally, you are in the super wrong place.

The End.