Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids

Reason #81: Bordering on Ridiculous
April 25, 2009, 12:54 pm
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Last night, the huz and I were going to bed, and I asked him to check in the closets and under the bed and in the closets behind our bed too. Then I asked him to fix the covers so that they were ‘right’, which may be one of my obsessive-compulsive things. Then I asked him to make sure the door was locked. He got pissed then and said “You know, your bedtime needs are bordering on ridiculous!”

I know they are ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous if you look at it through that sort of lens. I mean, really, keeping a blog of reasons why you shouldn’t fuck kids is ridiculous too. The only people that don’t know why you shouldn’t fuck kids are the people that are fucking kids, and if they are reading this blog, they are still justifying their shit before, during, and after reading these reasons.

I know it’s ridiculous to ask him to check the bed and the closet and the door and everything else. This ‘ridiculousness’ is my response to being victimized. This is how I survive being fucked as a child. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

Reason 51: Underwear Mishegaas

For those of you non-Jews out there, mishegaas is a yiddish word that means ‘craziness’, and that is what I am experiencing. Underwear craziness. Seriously.

The only two colors left in my drawer this morning when I went to pick my underwear were blue and black.  Now, I didn’t want to pick blue because it could mean bad things and I didn’t want to pick black because it could mean bad things.  I wear black on the outside all the time, but this black would be close to my vagina and I don’t want black or blue close to my vagina. But I only had the two pairs.  What to do, what to do.  The thing is, I wore the red ones on the day I needed extra luck because red wards off evil (Jewish superstition), and I wore purple on the day I was looking towards healing, and I wore the pink ones figuring it’s in the same family as red so it’s okay too.

But today, you see, I was left with just the blue and the black pair.  Now, blue I figure would mean ill health.  No reasonable reason why that would be, but then none of this shit is reasonable.  Fucking kids isn’t reasonable either yet people do it.  I wore the black pair today figuring I always wear black on the outside, maybe it would fool whatever powers that be into thinking that it is really just part of my outside outfit.

Here’s the best part.  I asked G-d to bless the underwear before I put them on.  If G-d blesses the black underwear, then it is okay to wear them.  G-d can certainly wash away any color weirdness that might accidentally result in my unintentionally wearing a color that attracts evil.

Seriously, this is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.  I mean, come on, underwear color mishegaas.  I literally pray for my fucking underwear.  That’s fucked up right there.  I am reasonably certain that had that babysitter not entered our lives and shown me that bad things can happen to good people, I would not continually be trying to ward off surprise badness that might come via my color choices for underwear.

Reason #13: OCD revisited: It’s A Numbers Thing
October 3, 2008, 12:46 pm
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This post was originally going to be about panic, but because it is #13, I got all OCD about it, and now it is going to be about having a numbers thing.

I have always considered 13 a lucky number.  Many people consider it a bad number, but I don’t.  My beloved grandfather was born on the 13th.  Friday the 13th no less.

But the number got me thinking.  I have a numbers thing, and I know it is an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder thing. My mom once attended a conference about survivors of child sexual abuse, and while she was there she found out that a lot of survivors tend to have obsessive compulsive behaviors. She came home and said “You don’t have that, right sweetie?” And I said, “No. Not really. Well, I do kiss my Jewish star 18 times, but that’s not really my fault. I started kissing it only once, when I was scared about things, but then I thought that it deserved more kisses. So I started kissing it more, but I never liked the number it ended on. Then I would keep kissing until I got to 18, and that way it’s okay. And plus I lock my door 3 times, and check it 3 times, but then I don’t like the number that comes out to, so I do it a few more times, in case G-d is counting it from the times I lock it or the times I check it or both, so that no math that comes from it adds up to six.” By this point, Mom was staring at me, with her jaw agape. She said, “Oh sweetie” in such a way that I knew that she was thinking I did have this OCD thing. I had never thought that I did until then, and I realized “Fuck, I do have that.”

I once heard that Roseanne (an incest survivor herself) has a numbers thing too. She has to shut her stove off five times. She will shut it off once, and then again a second time. Then she says “Well, the kids are in the house, might as well check.” So then she shuts it off again, and then a fourth time. At this point, it is killing her not to do it a fifth time, so she is like “fuck it” and shuts the fucking oven off a fifth time. When I heard her talk about this (in a comedy special), my first thought was “Thank goodness I am not alone.” My second thought was “I would never pick the number five”, and then I thought about how interesting it is that we all have different fucking numbers.

You’d think that shit would have gotten better for me over time, but instead it just gets worse as I find new things to be obsessive and compulsive about. Like the shit with my right arm and right foot and what not. I learned once that unless you agressively attack the thought processes (like with a trained mental health professional) that are causing the OCD behaviors, it will only get worse. And that is exactly what is happening to me. Why would it get better on its own? I mean, nothing is happening to make it better on its own. You’d think that one false action would disprove shit (i.e., counting something to the wrong number of times, and things not turning to shit afterwards). But instead of disproving shit, I chalk it up to that time being missed by the universe or whatever, and they are really waiting to get me on the next one.

This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids. We get afraid of angering the whole fucking universe by counting the wrong number of times. I mean, come on, that’s fucked up.

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