We live in a f*cking camper. (Part 1)

Hi, there. We haven't talked in a while. I've been going through a lot of shit, and I am dealing a lot better with it now, so I'm ready to share. I don't know if I've told you guys this, but Hubs and I are building a house. Since we have three maniacal, furry roommates with bad table manners and strange greeting rituals, and we're trying to sell our other house, we thought it best to move out of the old house so that we could freely show it and not have to haul the bedlamites around all willy nilly. After all, we'd need to be closely involved with the new construction project, making sure that someone's shitty kids didn't knock out our windows with our own rocks and that wandering crackheads didn't steal the copper out of our HVAC system to get their next fix. We're out in BFE, and people can be very, very weird. We also deduced that since we were building out there, and we have ten acres to spread shit around, we could buy a building that has been nicely outfitted as an apartment with air conditioning and berber carpet sans the loo, and install a fenced running/shitting area with a doggy door for the furbabies... Then we, the humans, along with the tiny, smelly one, could comfortably abide in the camper until the new house was ready to move into. Great fucking idea. Great. Fucking. Idea.

So now that I've introduced you to my current situation, I feel it dutiful to inform you that the next few blog posts, including this one here, will be about the horrors of living in a camper with your spouse, a big screen TV, your dogs, and too much shit to put in the teacup sized cubby holes and closets a camper is outfitted with. I'm also going to be gratuitous with the dropping of fuck nuggets and sometimes more serious fuck bombs here and there. If that's going to offend you, then FUCK you. I live in a fucking camper, and frankly, I'm offended that you're offended with me when I am the one smelling a perpetual bowel movement all of the fucking time.

The day we moved in, I was suffering with a nasty allergy attack that gave me a screaming middle ear infection and laryngitis. Again. I've been sick with allergy-related nonsense since before Thanksgiving. I think we moved in some time in February or March. I honestly can't remember, not because it wasn't a big deal, but because my brain has literally been breaded and deep fried like an oyster since then. I remember it was cold and rainy, and I remember leaving Quick Care with a joke of a prescription for Tramadol and various other combinations of steroids, antihistamines, and antibiotics. They were such ass hats about the script, even after telling me, "Ooooohhhh, yeah. You're in a lot of pain. There's quite a bit of pressure on your ear drum, and you're not far from perforating it." I'm obviously not crackhead, and I was obviously in agony, and they had the wherewithal to change that, but they acted like dicks instead and made me feel guilty asking for it. I've prayed for sick babies to have dysentery in their laps at least ten times for that. Ass. Holes.

Upon arriving at the camper with an ice chest of groceries and enough things to get us through the next week, I find out the refrigerator is broken. Shit balls. As I look up to the heavens thinking, "Universe, why are you fucking with me?" I realize we have a small fridge back at the old house in the shed. Cool. We'll get it tomorrow. I spend the rest of the day doped up on as much shit as I could take without causing myself to die, putting away clothes, trying to find room for our splendid piles of shit, and hallucinating about the positives of the situation. That day I had five loads of dirty laundry and not a goddamned thing to wash them in because all of that shit was still back at the old house... Along with my sleep number bed, my curling iron, my Double D batteries, and my sanity.

The next day I didn't feel like going anywhere or getting anything, so I read and slept all day. I, after all, had been burning my candle at ends I didn't even know I had, and I desperately needed the rest. Elated about having constant access to outside, the maniacs were running to and fro in their fabulous new apartment, sounding like a herd of elephants. Maximus, the boxer, took a little while to acclimate to the doggy door, but he started learning by thrusting one paw through and pulling it back out. Then he'd thrust the other in and pull it back out. Then he'd put both front paws almost straight out in front of him and stare wondering how he was going to keep the fucker open if he moved his front feet. He began to push himself up the ramp with his back paws, taking baby steps with his rigid front arms, and would continue to pretend to be a wheelbarrow until he made it inside. I was high, and this was hilarious to me. I was almost disappointed when he finally learned how to use it properly in the coming days. That day, though, we were all sort of just taking our new environment in still.

Feeling better that evening, I thought I'd get up and try to bake some canned biscuits. Why? Because I had to get rid of some of those fucking groceries I lugged out of my house with a perfectly good refrigerator. Also, I was hungry. And I like bread. Every time I would raise my head, I would hear the pounding of a bass drum in my right ear, and when I walked to the oven, it started getting faster as my blood started to heat. I realized that I didn't know shit about cooking on a propane novelty stove. GODDAMNIT!!! Fuck the biscuits. I'm eating a whole box of strawberry shortcake rolls. And so I had one that burned the hell out of my throat and heated up a can of soup. Delicious. Canned fake meat, overcooked noodles, and salty water.

By the end of day two, I had six loads of dirty laundry and tangled hair, and I had already stubbed a toe on the stupid barbie couch that's bolted to the floor. FUCK.

I honestly can't believe I've only gotten two days along, but I'm glad. I want you to take this journey with me because misery loves company, and I want this story to resonate so intimately with you that you can hear the pulse of that vein that sticks out in the left side of my neck when I get insanely pissed off. So close that your head feels the sharp corner of the broken cabinet door pierce my scalp, so close that your chest feels the spring of the ridiculous shitty, shitty piece of shit mattress dig into my tit. Oh yea. There's much more to follow, so stay tuned. Thanks for coming, and welcome to my hell.