This crazy lady I met on the internet asked if I would write something for her blog. Unlike all the other lifestyle and recipe blogs, she rants and swears with the best of them. Unlike my bullshit, there’s a lot more to her stuff than just anger and insults.
So, I could only hope to put some bullshit together that would fit on her page. And sadly this is the best I could do.
You can read it on her page:
Updated — July-2019
Or Maybe Not.
She switched over to Worpress and this link goes to her old site. So… I’m copying the rant here. Just in case she deletes her old shit — I don’t want to forget this story…
Killing Me with Coffee
It was a rough night.
The Bear bought Dairy Queen; we ate it before bed. All those diary-like substances grew a huge painful gas bubble in my guts. The sugar made my heart pound. I was just watching the clock.
She had a cough. Every time I started to drift, the Bear went off like a 1972 Pontiac with a cracked block — cough, hack, spit, repeat.
Without sleep; time to get ready.
I put on the coffee maker. Went to brush my teeth and pee. I returned to find hot water all over the counter.
God damn coffee maker, if you don’t put the fucking pot exactly in place it floods.
Nothing in my cup. Fuck.
I soak up the shit and set up the coffee maker again. There’s no drip sound. Brown water starts “leaking” out of the bottom.
“Jesus fucking Christ, this god damn, mother fucking, worthless piece of crap”. I pick up both sides of the maker to move it. Burns my hands. Shit.
I keep moving it so I can sop up its shitty runoff. Every time I pick it up, I feel the burn. Every time I put it down, a new puddle of hot brown water appears. Fuck!
“I just want a fucking cup of coffee.” I’m pleading to the god damn thing, like it’s Saint Peter and the gates are closing fast.
I set it up for the third time. I’m graduating from pleading to tears, but I remember — there’s no crying in coffee-making.
Sure, repeating the same process and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. But I’ve worked in software for a long time. If something’s broke — see if you can repeat it.
Each repeat brings a new wave of rants and swears over this mutha-fucking, piece of shit.
The screaming wakens the Bear. “Want me to fix it?” she asked.
“No! Now is not a good time to come in here!” I warned. I just wanted to “smash” everything in that fucking kitchen. The last time I felt this destructive, I was wearing pads and had a helmet on my head.
She pushes past me.
Nobody is ever afraid of me. I just started lifting weights again. Can’t she see the size of my new arms? Mother-Fucker!
What is the fucking point of being the size of a black bear if you can’t make women, children, and pets flee when you are in “hulk” mode?
She reaches into the dishwasher. “You are missing a part.” She pulls out the “basket”.
How the fuck am I supposed to know that she would put the basket in the washer? You are filling it with boiling water, nothing is going to live in that pot. Cleaning it is fucking stupid.
Now the coffee maker works.
Plot with Coffee Pot
And I start thinking… this is a fucking plot. This is the same woman who has watched Investigation Discovery for 20 years and talks about the perfect way to murder her husband (that would be me, in case you are confused).
Maybe she doesn’t need a knife or a gun. She just needs to push my ego enough to make my heart or head explode. She’s killing me with coffee.
Yeah, god-damn-it. Why else the ice cream? She knows that shit ruins my sleep.
Why the basket in the dishwasher? She knows I would never look there.
I’m sure the cough was just a bonus, a happy accident to build up the pressure.
Why else would she risk my rage and walk past me to the kitchen? Every little step to push the blood pressure a few points higher. It was the perfect plan.
Everybody knows that someday the beer, the wings, and the anger will get me. She could leave the body right in the kitchen. Wait hours before she even calls an ambulance — just to make sure there’s no chance of rescue. The cops wouldn’t even question her…
I was on the 4th cup of coffee, had 30 minutes to breathe, and driving 20 miles away. I slowly realized — maybe the “killing me with coffee” idea is bullshit…
A few more minutes, a few more miles… Yeah, definitely bullshit.
This year we celebrate 32 years of marriage. 32 years of bliss, baby. On our anniversary, I will be the first one to wake up — just to make the coffee.