Titts is the New Brangelina

I’ve been trying to write a couple of stories for you here, Reader, stories that are in my brain and must be in yours, too, so that the world is a better place. At least that’s what I tell myself so that i can justify sitting around on the computer instead of, oh, say, filing paperwork, cleaning the garage or doing anything else house-hold related.

But every time I start something, the overriding thought in my brain is OH MY FUCKING GARTH MY FOOT HURTS AND I’M  NEVER EVER GOING TO GET BETTER!!

Because that’s reasonable thinking, Reader, and I’m nothing if not logical and rational, the exact opposite of hyper-complainy, over-exaggerating and cry-babying. Go with me on this, Reader. Do you see that picture I just posted?? I mean, I’ve got a MOTHER FUCKER who has decided hanging around me is more fun than going the fuck away.

And then I stop the non-gouty nonsense I was trying to write and can only deliver you another gross picture of my foot.

You’re welcome. And I’m sorry.

I just had to get talked off the ledge of another crying jag, because I’m certain this is going to lead to drastic results. I mean, I’m certain in the way that a non-medical professional can only be certain, meaning not at all certain, but it sure seems like it because comeon already, it’s been a week of pain.

To illustrate just how much this is affecting my day-to-day, I have been waking up around 4 or 4:30 for the past several mornings, including today, which is SATURDAY, Sleep Cycle, which is just really rude of you.

And then I wake up and hobble to the kitchen and graze on anything in my path, which usually wouldn’t amount to much because of our poor grocery shopping habits but for some reason this gouty foot has me feeling all “Must Eat Comfort Foods” and I have no less than three styles of cookies, I made a purchase of potato chips which generally do  not make their way into the shopping cart, as well as chocolate milk and toast. Because I’ve read that toast and dairy aren’t gouty contributors. But this morning my 4:30 awakening had me eating cold gnocchi with swiss chard, which was my 2nd Blue Apron dinner and let me just say, it’s desperate times around these parts when this is your middle-of-the-night snack.

It was fine for dinner. When it was hot. Less fine cold at 4:30 a.m., but I ate some anyway.

The bottom line is this gouty foot is making me sleep all jankety, which then results in my eating to preoccupy me from the pain and disjointed sleep, and then I’m even more sad in the morning because things are going in the opposite direction of how they should be going for my 50th Birthday in Mexico, in which I purchased a super-cute outfit that is about 10 lbs. too tight. Make that 20 lbs. after this week.

So yeah. I’m not feeling funny, just mostly hungry and crybaby, which I guess those two things go hand-in-hand so why not. I would like a baby bottle (of alcohol) but gout is really mean and alcohol makes it go all Brad Pitt on a private jet, meaning it gets even more shouty to get my attention and may even tell a stupid know-it-all kid to shut up and then we’ll all be blamed for child abuse and then the next day we’re all getting divorced. Actually, getting divorced from my gout sounds exactly like what I’d like to happen, only unlike Brad Pitt, I am not seeking any future visitation rights.

In fact, I think instead of calling my gout “gout” I’m going to name it Brad Pitt and then it will make stories more fun, like, “What can I do to finally get rid of Brad Pitt once and for all!?” and “Eh! That damn Brad Pitt kept waking me up all night long!” And, “I’d like to stop sleeping with Brad Pitt!”

Our celebrity name will be Prixie, or Titts. And we can say “This shit is Titts!” but usually that means it’s all good, but in the case it’s the opposite.

And then people will be all “Team Trixie!” and there will be Internet wars of people taking sides, but it will be very hard to take Brad Pitt’s side because no one roots for an angry, swollen lump that becomes an even bigger asshole with a steak and a beer.

Brad Pitt is so damn complicated. I’m trying to breakup, but I can’t seem to get out of this relationship.

p.s.  – this is yet another stupid bit of nonsense, except Prixie doesn’t really give two shits because BRAD PITT is driving her nuts!!  Also, I can’t think of anything else because the overriding thought in my brain is, “I have to walk around outside from 9 p.m. – 1 a.m. tonight on a ghost hunting trip, and how the fuck is that even going to happen and a ghost had better beware of ME because I’m not putting up with shenanigans today. And don’t try to trip me, either. So play nice, Ghosts, or ELSE.