Inner Queef Report

I bet you are all wondering how my inner peace is doing ever since I did the rapid resolution hypnosis.

Outwardly I’m doing pretty well. I am definitely slowing my reactions and I feel better about my interactions. But this morning I was a ball of hate and rage.

Maybe it was having to run upstairs at 7am to stop Loony and the kids from yelling at each other at the top of their lungs.

I swear, it isn’t easy doing home sharing.

I’m not complaining, I am well compensated for the lack of privacy, toilet cleaning, laundry, etc., but mornings are super stressful for me. Mostly because despite insulating the crap out of the walls you can still hear everything that is happening on the other side of the wall. Naturally it goes both ways.

It’s not a big deal for me, if someone wants to have monkey sex I say good for them. But I am very worried about my kids being noisy at an unreasonable hour, thus disturbing my paying guests, earning me lower ratings, and impacting my bottom line.

I’ve explained this over and over again to them. For years. But does this stop Loony from squirting Itchy with the Waterpik? No. Does this give him pause before he reaches in and turns the shower to cold while Scratchy is in it? No.

DOES ANYONE CONSIDER FOR A FUCKING SECOND THAT MAYBE THEY SHOULD TABLE THEIR STUPID SHOUTING MATCH OVER SOME DUMB INCONSEQUENTIAL BULLSHIT BECAUSE IT MIGHT PISS OFF THE GUESTS AND THEY WILL LEAVE A SHITTY REVIEW ABOUT THE OBNOXIOUS KIDS YELLING AT 7 IN THE MORNING AND TANK MY AIRBNB AND WE WILL BE DOWN 90% IN OUR INCOME BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT AIRBNB ACCOUNTS FOR IN OUR FAMILY FINANCES?

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I can kind of understand the kids being dicks about it because they are kids and kids are by definition short-sighted, have no attention span and are impulsive. But Loony? The main instigator?

So yes, I had a good ball of hate growing in my heart so after walking Itchy to school I took a hard right and stopped at My Parasitic Twin’s house for coffee.

I gave her the short version of why I hate everyone and she said, “So how’s that inner peace thing going?” and I was like, “Actually, it’s going pretty well. I’m less likely to snap and I feel better about how I interact with my family. I’m zen now.”

“THAT’S BULLSHIT,” she yelled, “YOU ARE NOT ZEN! YOU ARE FUCKING EXPLODING INSIDE!”

So then I told her about how pissed I was at Loony because the crumbling step THAT HE’S SUPPOSED TO FIX is tricky for his mom to walk on and yesterday he turned around and snapped at me, “COULD YOU PLEASE JUST DO THIS ONE THING?!”

oh-really

Oh yes he did.

AS IF I DON’T DO EVERYTHING AROUND THE HOUSE!

And FYI, I did attempt to fix it but all Loony had to do was make up his mind about how he wanted the flagstone engraved despite me saying over and over that I don’t give a shit what it looks like, I just want him to be happy so pick a goddamned rose so I can have the fucker engraved and delivered.

That was May.

BUT NOW I’M THE ONE WHO CAN’T GET SHIT DONE!

Deep, cleansing breaths because I don’t say stuff like that anymore. I have inner peace.

So I was like, “Fine, I’ll take care of it, dear.” I drove my ass down to the quarry (again) and placed and order for an engraved flagstone step that will say The Frye House c. 1880 but instead of it being centered around a tasteful rose like Loony said he wanted but couldn’t decide on, it will have this image …

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… because if you aren’t going to do it yourself, I’m going to do it my way.

I was definitely not fit to be in polite company this morning but if there is one thing that MPT isn’t, it’s polite. Not when it’s just the two of us.

Anyway, I don’t know how we got on the subject of queefing but we did and MPT told me that she can queef on command and I was like, YOU BETTER PROVE IT and she was all, NO WAY! so I was like, THEN I DON’T BELIEVE YOU and she was like, YES YOU DO, YOU JUST WANT TO SECRETLY VIDEO ME DOING IT FOR YOUR BLOG and I was like, YES, THAT IS TRUE BUT I DON’T HAVE MY PHONE WITH ME so she agreed to do it.

Let me paint a picture for you. She’s straight out of bed even though it’s 8:00 and I’ve been up for twelve hours cleaning the house and milling my own grains but never mind that. She’s standing there in a nightgown, a ratty pink terrycloth robe that has stains all over it and some coffee that she spilled on the sleeve while gesticulating wildly about how much she hates her husband too and she’s wearing foot vaginas.

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Those aren’t foot vagina, FYI

(Foot vaginas are those quilted slippers that are kind of like moon boots. Imagine your feet are painful, persistent erections that just won’t go away but then you get to slip them into some soft, snuggly foot vaginas and you feel so much better. Foot vaginas.)

She took a wide stance (to “open things up”) and sucked in her gut and wiggled her butt around and cut loose with a totally legit queef.

I almost died laughing. It was tears – gasping for breath, falling off the couch laughing – which is exactly what I needed.

Then I double burped for her which didn’t seem quite as exotic and queefing on command and she said, “If I had to choose between double burping and queefing on command, I choose both.”

Then she tried to teach me how to do it but I almost shit my pants which means I’m using the wrong hole. Obviously.

I told her that there will come a time during our next camping trip (that’s right, we are camping together again) where she will legitimately feel like it is the right thing to do and she was like, “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

It is my mission in life to get her to queef for a crowd of our peers.

She should feel good about her superpower. She could get that divorce and take her show on the road.

Me? I ain’t got shit.

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