Trying to Suck the Funny Out

When I first started blogging in 2012, I posted at least once a day. I think it was mostly because I needed something to do with myself that made me feel somewhat productive. (And not just a loser who couldn’t keep her damn job.)

I was waiting to be approved for disability and feeling extremely worthless.

But alas, the words stopped flowing. I realized that I just couldn’t keep up with such an insane pace. I started to write when I felt like I had something to write about, even if that meant days or weeks went by.

Or months.


I wish I had been doing this whilst I was away, but alcohol me no likey.

It’s amazing that I’ve known some of you guys for almost seven years. Blogging seriously saved my sanity and gave me something to be proud of. I’m not even talking about my follower count or how many likes a post gets. Just knowing that maybe I cheered someone up or made them feel less alone lifted my own dampened spirits.

I’m naturally good at four things; writing, cooking, being funny and driving.

Everything else takes a bit more effort. Like, math.

Fuck math.

But I haven’t been all that humorous in what feels like ages. I can still bust out a joke and see the humorous side of things, but damn if it isn’t often just a cover-up to hide my emotional pain.

But, you know, most of the funniest people in the world are depressed.


The more you know.

Yes, I use my sense of humor to distract people from seeing my damaged psyche. I’ll admit it.

I was told so often as a young child that I was hilarious, so I suppose I started getting a bit of an ego. For someone who has sketchy self-esteem, it’s way out of character for me.

Like, if someone tells me that I’m funny, I’ll just shrug.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a gift.”

Look at me, being all smug and shit.

If I completely lose my sense of humor, then there’s something seriously wrong with me. Please call the nearest comedian and then throw chocolate bars at me, while playing a video of George Carlin doing stand-up.

Life has desperately tried to suck the funny out of my bones.

(We all have our stories of sadness and woe, I’m aware of that, but this is my blog.)

I had mental health issues as a little girl. I saw my first psychologist at 8 years old. (I get a kick out of repeating that tidbit of info.)

I was an awkward and unpopular kid who attended a small, repressed Catholic school. The boys teased me relentlessly, the girls were all mean bitches and I was always chosen last for any team sports.

“You can have her!”

“No!! You can have her!”

“Oh man, we’re gonna lose. Thanks for sucking ass, Mer.”


No problem, I hope you break a vital body part.

I didn’t have a real best friend until I started public high school, but I sadly continued to be teased. Even on my fucking graduation day, my two main tormentors for those entire 4 years um…tormented me.

I watched as my father died the day after I turned 12.

I was date raped at 19.

I lived with my 1st abuser, my offspring’s biological father, for 6 hellish years.

And on and on…you get the gist.

I’ve had good things happen. Great (real) friends, awesome parents, a beautiful daughter and finally a wonderful boyfriend who treats me so well, I wake up every day amazed that God put him in my life.

Life hasn’t been all shit on wheat toast and I’m ever so grateful for that.

But all of that bad shit, it loves to follow me around. It’s like having a slideshow of bothersome memories inside my head, on repeat. It doesn’t seem to matter where I am or what I’m doing. I could be out somewhere with my boyfriend Steven, having a lovely time. Just trying so hard to live in the moment.

All of a sudden, there’s a clip of my first ex telling me what a fat, ugly bitch I am.

Stupid, he whispers.

Kiss my ass, I whisper back.

“What?” Back in the present, my boyfriend asks me.

“You have a nice ass,” I say.

I’d like to end this post with some song lyrics, a little ditty by the great Tim McGraw.

One of these days I’m gonna love me
And feel the joy of sweet release
One of these days, I’ll rise above me
And at last I’ll find some peace
Then I’m gonna smile a little
Maybe even laugh a little but
One of these days I’m gonna love me


Just Move On, Mer!! A Special Rant Post

Now that I’m divorced, I have many people telling me to just move on.


Let me break this shit down for all of those well-meaning peeps. (Love you.)

My MARRIAGE ended in the absolutely worst scenario, like, ever.

My husband CHEATED on me, probably multiple times over the years, but he had a fucking MISTRESS. Her name was Debbie. She had a pug. She lived only a couple of towns over.

She knew that he was married, but this did not stop her from diddling my ex husband.

So, as much as I am ecstatic to be divorced now and no longer living with such a garbage person, a genuine sociopath, who darkened my life with his fiendish personality and also subtly abused my daughter, I cannot just “move on” that easily.

Do you know how that totally fucks with your mind?

You’re thinking to yourself, well shit. I must be the worst, most ugliest, worthless woman on the planet.

The entire ordeal continues to haunt me. I’m almost positive that it would haunt YOU as well, thank you ever so kindly.

Trust me, I DO want to MOVE on, more than you can even fathom. I wish that there was a reset fucking button and I could go back to the day he asked me to marry him.

I would’ve laughed in his damned face!


I would’ve kicked him out then and there. Phew!

Fuck yeah!!

I would’ve spit in his food and told him that his beloved ding dong was microscopic.

But I can’t go back in time, this isn’t a mother fucking movie.

But what I can do is be realistic and realize that I need to address years worth of trauma and abuse. I asked my doctor to refer me to a psychologist, which he did. I’ll make the call tomorrow morning.

I think that most people don’t quite realize how truly difficult it is to “just move on” from unpleasant life experiences. In theory, it sounds fucking peachy keen, doesn’t it?

Oh yes, I never think about it anymore, Wilma. I have successfully moved on! 

My God, I wish that were the truth.

I’m admitting right here, on my humble little blog, that I do indeed need some professional help dealing with a large amount of bullshit. Self-administered EMDR therapy and positive memes just aren’t cutting it.

Rant over.


I dabble with a couple of little hobbies that bring me some gratification.

I make bracelets. I buy my supplies on Etsy, allowing myself a budget of around $20 a month. (I’m poor.)

They are nothing special. And my numerous attempts to try and sell them…all major fails. It seems that everyone is making these fucking things nowadays, they come a dime a dozen.



But, I enjoy it. It’s extremely relaxing and a creative outlet, picking the beads, matching the colors, bling and whatnot. My daughter got me a plastic thingy with two drawers to hold all of my stuff. Ironically, I made her a custom one and as she was removing it yesterday, it fucking broke in her car. She tried to gather up all of the beads, but some of them rolled under her seat.

I told her I was sorry and that maybe I need to buy better quality stretchy cord.

I watch YouTube videos for ideas, patterns and how to tie the correct knots. Then I use some super glue for extra hold, which obviously doesn’t always work. (My daughter is stronger than she looks, perhaps.)

The second hobby I dabble with is DIY home improvement. I’ve installed the flooring in my living room before and after the flood we had back on New Years Eve Eve to save some extra money.

The check that the utility company paid me due to accidentally breaking the waterline outside of my condo only went so far, figuring that I had to replace my dryer, some furniture and other things that were ruined. I used the rest of it to get nineteen extractions and dentures.

I was getting really tired of toothaches, crumbling teeth and abscesses.

I’m also currently still finishing my upstairs hallway floor, since my oldest dog Maggie is having issues holding her water at night. For some reason, she decided that the hallway was the perfect place to relieve herself.

You can only clean a carpet so many times before the smell of dog pee makes your eyes water.


My goodness, that’s pungent.

She has to wear a dog diaper before bedtime now. She’s going on 12 years old coming up this August, so I don’t scold her, because she just can’t help it.

I’m honestly thinking about selling my condo, though. This place holds so many bad memories for me and my daughter. I haven’t officially decided yet, but until I do, we’ve been trying to redecorate on a budget and fix it up the best we can.

Let’s see, what else? I plugged a black ant hole up in my living room drywall (I hate those bastards) with some damp Magic Eraser after I sprayed the point of entry liberally with some Raid.


I could probably insulate my walls with this shit.

My kid even painted our upstairs bathroom, a lovely mauve color. I’m planning on cleaning the shower tiles with a toothbrush and applying some peel/stick tub caulk so it’s more pleasant for us when we take a poo or bath.

I’m quite adventurous, I know. I often overdo it and my foe fibromyalgia comes to remind me that I’m a stubborn dork.

My favorite hobby that I dabble with continues to be writing/blogging.

I swear, one of these days I’m going to write that book.

Right after I make one more bracelet and stain my kitchen cabinets.