Why Don't We Just Eat the Zombies? They're Already Dead.

Today I came across a friend's talking about how she paid a visit to her local butcher. And I was thinking, "Butcher. What a truly bizarre profession. To slaughter animals all day long."

Now I am no vegetarian, although I eat very little meat just in passing. But to cut up and chop up and filet up and slice up and grind up animals all day long is just very...icky.

Not to mention the bum-bum germs. Someone has to yank out the poop chutes. And the grinding--think of all the airborne meat germs.

Although thank goodness somebody does it, because, steak.

In the event of Zombie Apocalypse, do you think you could slaughter your own food? Could you slit the throat of little Peter Cottontail? Does it matter what kind of animal? Maybe you could kill a chicken but not a goat? Do you think, if you had to, you could actually do it to keep your family alive?

Survivors.

So the time has come to post again. I am still FRESH OUT, SON, of ideas. I mean, you can only blog about Purell and new Advanced Purell ("takes less to do the job"(TM)) so many times. So what now?

I think I'll free-associate here.

So my most recent meeting with Dr. P

As I was saying, my most recent meeting with DR MOTHERFUCKING P, went poorly. We kind of have nothing to talk about anymore. Kind of like me, and this blog. Nothing to talk about. He asked questions, but my answers to those questions we vague and were almost always "I don't know." Or, "I feel like, I don't know, it's complicated, I don't know."

So now what? He seems unwilling to delve deeper, like delve into the sources of my OCD (which I could easily explain to him, since I KNOW how they started). He seems unwilling to talk about much at all, except for my meds.

Now, I feel a certain, how do you say, oh yes, kinship with this man. 

I've been seeing him for at least a year and a half. So it would be traumatic to attempt to start seeing a new therapist, and having to explain the SAME SHIT ALL OVER AGAIN. So on one hand, I feel sort of bound to him. On the other, he's not really doing much for me. Other than carefully monitoring my medication--I can give him that much. (PS: Awesome sidenote--the meds I'm on, combined with a less-than-stellar diet, have caused me to gain approximately 2387438 pounds exactly. I am positively rotund. Bygones.)

So anyway, Dr. P. He seems to want to farm me out to another therapist--he's constantly on my case about seeing someone who specializes in CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy)--which is a whole lot of "be present in the moment, acknowledge your pain, feel grounded, put your feet on the fucking floor, know that this too shall pass." Good advice for normal people. But I'm not normal.

I will continue this later, because as heretofore mentioned, I have nothing to say. A lot of words to say nothing I have to say, but still. I must go wash bottle nipples. Yes my two-year-old child still uses and loves her bottle. What of it?

More later.

---

It's later. I've currently got cupcakes burning in the oven, where my five-year-old drizzle-dripped that batter right the hell into those cupcake papers, or near enough. And then she licked her fingers. Salmon-to-the-ella, what what? Oh well, I survived, she will too. Maybe that's my Luvox talking, but we'll be OK. After a small bout of diarrhea.

The other day, we went to a birthday party at, get this, CHUCK E. FUCKING CHEESE. As if anything could be any grosser. So my kids touched tokens, and went on rides, and climbed climbers, and then ate horrible pizza, and yet survived. So far with no ill effects. Except for the E. Coli. Bygones.

---

Today I plan to take the kids to the park. I'm only doing it because I promised last night I would, so I can't get out of it.

Edit: Mission accomplished! We actually went to two parks. Go me! The kids had an absolute blast. Here are a bazillion pictures of the cutest chitlins ever:

Lots of fun, right? I even let them play in the dirt and gravel. Although I did periodically Purell them and when we came home I made them strip naked and wash their hands for four hours.

Love,

Jo