It’s true that a blog is a kind of shrink. A free therapy session with a kazillion excellent and understanding listeners, and really, isn’t a great deal of therapy really just listening? And responding to what is heard? Well, if it isn’t, it ought to be.

The very second I hit “publish post” on that hateful rant below, I felt both better and worse. Better, because it was a kind of release, and worse because now everybody who is important to me knows I’m a bitch sometimes.

That was a silly thing to say, because you all knew that already, dinncha.

Truth be told, someone I love is being maligned, and I hate the feeling of helplessness, and I hate the deja vu, and I hate the anonymous spawns of Satan who are being so cruel.

I might hate their anonymity the most. People say and do terrible things under the cloak of anonymity.

No, that’s not true. I hate those who believe anonymous insinuations even more than I hate the insinuators.

Well, it might be a tie.

Those of you who pray: please put a word in for my friend. Those of you who don’t: that’s okay, too. But you don’t know what you’re missing. 🙂

I thank you, dear internet peoples, for putting up with me. It’s got to be hard, sometimes.

Wes: remember that post card you sent me YEARS ago? I still have it.

If anybody knows why so many old women wear those humongous white furry turbans instead of a normal hat, I wish he/she would let me in on it. I’m sure they’re warm but holy scheisse, they’re just so darn ugly! And they make those two thick dabs of bright red rouge stand out way too starkly.

Another Reason: They’re hideous and make me think of large hairballs and dust bunnies, not that I have anything like that in my house, but why would someone wear one on her head?

Another Reason, Part II: An old chick wearing one of those hats came roaring down the Brook Knoll hill and never even PAUSED at the stop sign at the bottom. She almost ran me off the road. And once she was on the road, she drove 15 MPH, and there were no shoulders and no place to pass her.

Reason Tres: When I am behind a car driven by an old chick with dandelion head, going the big two-digit 15, and all I can see is that large roundish blog of white fur, the sides of huge brown glasses, and two hands reaching UP to touch the steering wheel, I want to get out a big remote control and zing that chick over to the Family Video parking lot and disable her engine.

I am not a fast driver – ask my kids. But even I go faster than 15 bloody frickin’ MPH.

They always have those hideous heavy-looking Cadillacs, too. I consider a Cadillac to be the Chosen Fogie Vehicle of the Aged.

I also hate tan cars. Tan is the Camouflage of the Vehicular Color Wheel. Tan cars are invisible, especially when it’s raining.

In movies, the getaway car is usually black. In real life, I bet the getaway car is tan. Who can see a tan car?

I am in such a bad mood. Honestly, I think I could bite the handle off an iron skillet. And spit bullets. I have targets in mind, too. I’d like to line them up and start devouring the skillet.

It’s none of you. I still love all of you. Thank you all for being you.

It’s nobody who would read a blog, in fact. Probably they can’t read at all. Well, maybe the Enquirer and the Star; the personals in the back are probably where they met their spouse. I’m sure they also love to read their account of how the UFO looked, in the Police Reports, too. Not to mention their relatives listed by name and address in the Domestic Violence and DUI columns.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this angry. I apologize for venting all over my loved ones, but I know you’ll all understand, because you’re all just so immensely awesome.

P.S. I’m not really mad at dandelion-heads, either. She was just one more annoying thing today.

P.P.S. They really are ugly, though.