You people get TWO Mondays Blow photos for the price of one today, because I want you to understand my misery fully. Today’s Monday blows because it’s 9 a.m. and it’s 80 degrees inside. Circle of hell level elevated to: Ninth.
I’m marginally happier with an ice pack in my bed.
Hell is being so hot that the only relief to be had is lying flat on your stomach on the floor, and even then, it’s kind of shitty and uncomfortable because you still have to lift your head to breathe occasionally, since you can’t breathe through your nose. Hell is being so hot that beds, your one sanctuary, are like cushy furnaces. Hell is having to trot – TROT – across the pavement, which is approximately 9,345 degrees Fahrenheit, in your bare paws to go to the bathroom. Hell is not being able to fall into a blissful coma at 8 p.m. because you have to pant to get cool. Hell is spending most of your time with your mouth open.
My hell is summer.
Anyone who doesn’t believe in global warming or climate change is a stupid idiot. It feels like the world is ending for everyone but geckos and horny toads. We’re not even to the “official” first day of summer, and we’ve experienced days and days of heat close to 100 with little relief. No rain, no cool nights. It is so hot that the state has spontaneously combusted and is burning down. I can feel the ring of fire closing in on me.
This week’s forecast calls for – surprise! – more temperatures in the high 90s and low 100s. Did I choose to live in the middle of the desert? No. So, why do I find myself sweltering and panting and melting in a fur coat? The unjustness is staggering. To get a refreshing drink of water, I have to get up, walk across about 2 miles at high noon, drink, and then make the same trip back. I’m exhausted when I look at the vast expanse that separates me from the water bowl. I’m exhausted on the trip to the water bowl, where I pass the crumbling carcasses of others who have not survived the trek. I’m exhausted and hot when I get back to my spot, and I’m thirsty again. Goddamnit. It would be better to just forego the water and disintegrate into a pile of fur and dust from dehydration.
I’ve considered my options, and they are not plentiful. Move to the Arctic Circle? Too late, it melted. Plus, there are bears. Shave my fur? My age-spotted bare belly tells me that it may not be the best look for me. Fill my bed with ice? Damp.
The heat is inescapable, and the stupid people I live with are too cheap to push the A/C to its limit. There is no little umbrella in my water bowl. I have a limited warm weather wardrobe. Summer sucks. Please send frozen margaritas to:
Pickles
7 Hell Circle
Burning State
America
UPDATE: The air conditioning just broke. I’m cursed.
Today’s Monday blows because it’s time to put away the booze. At least until 5pm. Maybe 2pm.
Women’s relationships with their fathers are especially complex and fraught with possible pitfalls, anxiety, and disappointments, but can also be the source of a large amount of happiness and satisfaction. Some women get a whole slew of complexes from their fathers – maybe from trying to please ‘em, or maybe from trying to forget ‘em. Some women love their daddies something awful, but are too attached for their own good. And some women have normal, healthy father-daughter relationships. But don’t tell me that they don’t still worry most about making their fathers proud.
Today is Father’s Day, and I thought I’d tell you about my take on fathers. I don’t remember my biological father, but that may be because I don’t actually have one – I just popped into existence just as I am today. He wasn’t around, therefore, to advise me against stripping at roadhouses or drinking whiskey before 11 in the morning. He couldn’t rescue me from that cult, or propel me to college, and, perhaps, nuclear physics.
What I have now is a stepfather. Yes, he is occasionally known as Eternal Tormentor (ET). And is it any wonder why?
Exhibit A: Being held upside-down, pug feet-side up. I protest this position by deploying the Pickles Defense System: holding my breath until I make “erk erk” sounds, sticking my legs straight out like four sticks of rebar, and occasionally eking out a small, round poop. It doesn’t help.
Exhibit A.1: Please help.
Exhibit B: Being spontaneously smothered. You can see me weakly reaching for rescue, but the light is flickering out in my eyes. I can only wait. And refuse to breathe.
Exhibit B.1: All hope is lost.
All of this causes me to try for invisibility behind Mommy, who offers only slight protection, and damn it all if my trying to remain invisible doesn’t make me the more tempting target!
ET came into my life about nine months ago, when Mommy met him online. Not long after that, he moved in, along with the two Blond Puppies and the Big Brown Idiot. And yes, Mommy is much happier. So is Other Pug, since he laps up attention. Even Fluffy Mafioso and Mountain Lion are happier – they purr a lot and cuddle with ET.
Despite the daily torment, forced cuddling, and general violation of my personal space, I have to admit that ET is an acceptable stepfather. He has adopted me as his own, which shows that he feels some fondness for me, and not just glee at my discomfort. Also, shhhhh, don’t tell Mommy, but ET is a good source for yummy contraband, like jellybeans, chips, and doughnuts. That’s why I’ll still hang out near him if he’s eating. I also interpret some of the harassment as affection. Dads sometimes have funny ways of showing that they care, but if you read between the lines, you can see it. And when it’s gone, you’ll miss it.
That’s why I’m grateful for my stepdad, My Eternal Tormentor, on this Father’s Day. I look back to my life on the streets, the times when I lived off spray cheese and Meow Mix, and I am grateful for the life I have now and the happiness and comfort I’ve been given. And for the family who loves me.
Today, Monday blows just because it’s Monday. 
Ever been told that you’re so ugly you’re cute? I have, and here’s why I hate it. There is no such thing. You’re either cute or you’re ugly or you’re something else. Like maybe you have a nice personality.
Back when I was stripping, men used to say I was so ugly, it was hot. You know who said that? Ugly guys. Which just proves that what you’re judging other people for might just be what they’re judging you for. You think I’m ugly? Well, I think YOU’RE ugly. Luckily, I can’t see you clearly because I’m close to blind, but there’s something messed up about you. Maybe you have nose hairs that are too long, or your eyes are too close together, or your outfit sucks. We all have our flaws.
Maybe it’s my buggy eyes, or my head that is disproportionately smaller than the rest of my sausage-shaped body. Maybe it’s that I’m missing a toe on one foot or that my six remaining teeth are worn down to nubs. Whatever it is, people feel like they have license to say my photo looks like an ultrasound or ask whether there’s a bug stuck on the camera lens. All I know is this: Mommy thinks I’m the prettiest girl in the world, and the next person to say I’m ugly gets a pug fist to the face.
