I’m very sick.
I blame my post surgery compromised immune system, but I have contracted the worst cold ever.
It’s like the apocalypse of colds.
It has me laid up, permanently, on the couch, while I do important things like watch the boys play Lego Batman on Xbox and help Gigi dress and undress the American Girl Bitty Baby she got from Santa, which, incidentally is African American, because Santa, in her endless pursuit to only buy Gigi dolls with brown hair, got overly zealous when it came to finding a nice medium skin tone, and Gigi fell in love with the baby before Santa could enact any sort of return policy.
Also, on top of my overall sickness, I am not sleeping.
Laying on my back due to surgery, coupled with the 800 pillows I need propped under my head to garner any chance of breathing out of either side of my nose, is just not doing it for this stomach sleeper.
So, I just stay up all night, watching movies and looking up B List actors on IMDB.com.
And, maybe it’s the pain medication, the Nyquil/Sudafed cocktail, or my general lack of sleep, but, is it just me, or has Brad Pitt turned into the biggest vagina ever?
In the interest of full disclosure, I do not like Angelina Jolie, so there that, but it just seems like ever since he’s been with her, he has morphed into the beret wearing, crazy gray beard guy at Starbucks you don’t make eye contact with, lest you get pulled into a 3 hour conversation about the novel he is writing and America’s bigoted view on open marriage and the legalization of marijuana.
Are he and George Clooney even BFFs anymore? If I was George’s girlfriend, I would never want to hang out with them, I’d be all ugh, Brad and Angelina are coming to the villa again? I hate hanging out with them. Brad just spends all his time twirling his beard hair and Angelina just leers at me as she suckles the blood from baby lambs. Plus, the kids keep asking if I’m their new mommy and Shiloh asks to borrow your shoes.
He went from completely likable, to only making movies that he thinks will win him an Oscar, much like Rene Zellweger and Nicole Kidman, whose movies either put me to sleep or make me spend the whole film practicing making face wrinkles, just to prove I still can.
I miss the old Brad.
Oceans 19? Yes please.
Fight Club 2? Sure.
I just want the next time I see Brad Pitt, for it to be in a film that reminds me there is more to him than the sullen looking guy who stands next to Angelina Jolie at her movie premieres, in her billowy one shoulder dresses that try to disguise the fact that she weighs less than Gigi.
On that note, I’m going to the doctor, and he better not give me a prescription for antibiotics, because I don’t want anymore pills to take.
I just want a shot. Directly into my face.
And when I get home, my house better be clean.
*Said loudly enough for the ghosts that I am convinced live in the attic to hear.*
*Yeah, Andy, ghosts can live in houses that are only eight years old, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I don’t want to go up there to put the Christmas decorations away.*
*Not to mention, there’s probably mice, raccoons and birds in there. And, if Disney has taught me anything, small animals clean and sew shit all the time.*
*OMG I bet this is how people end up on Hoarders. They put their trust in the wrong kind of Disney animals.*
*Ok, I am shutting off my internal monologue, it’s making me sound crazy.*