The true story of when I ran myself over with my own car.
I ran myself over with my car. I had never felt more like an idiot in my life. I am lucky to be alive, actually. What a dumb way to die.
The morning started just like any other with me being frazzled and running late. I rushed through my morning routine, grabbed my work, and darted out the door. This is the same as any other weekday except on this particular morning, I was on the phone with a friend. She called me at 7:30 am to try and help me with getting my lazy ass out of bed, but we ended up chit chatting as I rushed around.
I hopped in the car, cranked it up, put it in drive, and got off the phone with my friend. Then, I realized, as I was backing up, that I had forgotten my lunch in the house. I jumped out and headed to the house to go get it. I saw the car moving in my peripheral vision.
I turned around and was horrified to see my car backing up out of my driveway with my driver side door hanging open. I raced back to the car, in my heels, and grabbed the edge of the driver’s side door just as the car backed up out of my driveway.
I hung on as the car drug me across the street and into the neighbor’s yard before finally coming to a stop against the tree between my car and the neighbor’s house.
Luckily, the tree stopped serious damage, or worse, to myself and anything else.
The pain was not instant. It seemed to be on a twenty second delay. It came with an intensity that almost knocked me on my back again. Lunging, burning pain in my ankles, knees, and back. Blood pooled up on my knees and my ankles started swelling. I started mentally berating myself for not letting go of the car.
Then I started laughing. Then, just as suddenly, I stopped laughing. That was the moment I realized all of my neighbors had caught this on their cameras.
My family has extremely bad luck, but most of us have two nipples
I never thought I’d write about my Aunt’s nipple. At least, I’m not writing about my Uncle’s testicles. Yet.
This story has been passed around more than my high school best friend since this incident happened. People at bars have heard it. People at church have heard about it. I created a children’s book about it and read about it to my son’s kindergarten class. OK, well, maybe I didn’t do that. Yet.
I will preface this story by saying that my Aunt, my Mother’s sister, was very sexually active back in her day. She continued to be sexually active long after her day passed, also.
Breast cancer runs in our family and has caused many tragic, untimely deaths. So, in an effort to be proactive against cancer, my Aunt had a double mastectomy. She went ahead and had reconstructive surgery soon after and had those puppies lifted and enhanced.
Fast forward a while later. This is where things get foggy. I’m not sure if it was eight weeks or eight years, but she had taken her bra off during the night and her nipple fell out of her bra onto the floor. She reportedly yelled, “Shit!” out loud.
Honestly, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I can probably say that I wouldn’t have gathered my nipple up, set it aside for the night, and worried about it the next day.
Maybe she didn’t worry about it the next day despite what she says. Because to date she still does not have a nipple on one side. Yolo, I guess.
I may be the black sheep, but there’s a herd of us in my family.
I don’t care if my butthole color offends anyone. You read that correctly. Bleaching one’s butthole, aka spinchter, is now a thing.
Now, not only do we have to groom ourselves meticulously in our nether regions but we also are being pressured to bleach our anuses. Well, I guess we don’t have to. Because I’m not going to. There is no beauty standard or ideal worth much pain or effort for me at this point in my life. Much less a sudden standard about my butthole color.
What is anal bleaching?
I am so glad you asked. Butthole bleaching is the process of dying your asshole so it is lighter than the color you were born with.
Why bleach your anus?
I don’t know. You tell me. I guess there’s also self-esteem issues regarding the color of one’s sphincter. Your guess is as good as mine.
I would love to be informed if this is somehow deemed medically necessary. If I find out anyone’s insurance actually covers this, I quit. I quit everything.
I am not ashamed to tell you that I researched this vigorously. You can buy a cream to do this yourself or you can go professional and get it done at a place that actually does sphincter bleaching. Either way, you will use a cream that is most likely cancer-causing just to make your butthole blend in with the rest of your skin.
I just want to know why this is not a disorder of some kind. Are mental health professionals not concerned?
So, if you, or someone you know, actually plans to spend their hard earned money to have their butthole bleached, please email me. I will give you my cash app info. At least that way your money will be going towards a good cause. The good cause being anything other than a butthole bleaching.
Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, if you or anyone you know, enjoys a butt bleaching, please do not let me know. That’s weird AF.
I got my love for shocking people from my mother. No filter, no care for political correctness, and no f*&ks given were also handed down to me, via the maternal side. We also have the same straight face that makes messing with others extremely fun as no one can tell if we are kidding or not.
As a child, and now as an adult, she provided me with love, laughter, confusion, and fear. All the things that make up a great parent, in my mind. Over the years, and despite what I told myself growing up, I have adopted some of her ways as my own. Others, I have left for her to keep to herself.
Hoe Up/Hoe Down
This advice is a gem that I have passed down to my own kids. There comes an age, usually in middle school, when the size of a shirt or a pair of shorts suddenly become the size of a peanut. The tiddly bits of young ladies are almost exposed because they are so short! I sound like my own grandmother right now, but it is what it is.
It was during my own dress like a whore phase that my mother sat me down for a chit chat. She told me, “You have to hoe up or hoe down. You can’t do both or you’ll get a reputation.” The reputation threat didn’t really bother me, because I didn’t care what people thought of me. However, I thought that was really good advice because I wanted to show some kind of illusion of being classy while also submitting to the mating dance of the hormonal, like the other teens.
So when I wore a cleavage bearing shirt, I would wear long pants. When I was rocking some booty shorts, I would make sure my cleavage was covered. Even though I am old as dirt now, I still use this advice often with my children, others and even on myself when I’m feeling particularly whore like.
This is She
If you answered the phone at my house and you were heard replying, “This is her” to a person asking to speak with you, you were no better than a convicted felon. My stepfather was the editor of the local paper and my mother may have been the first grammar Nazi. I never understood the big deal of it all until I watched my children trying to date people who couldn’t speak correctly. Then I understood.
Don’t say fart or crap. That shit is fucked up.
My mother had her own version of bad words. The word fart being the dreaded F word in my house. It was hugely offensive. We had to call it a motor boat. Imagine my surprise when I got older and learned the other definitions of motorboat.
We won’t talk about how many odd looks I got for gasping in response to someone saying the word fart.
All births deserve flowers to be sent and all deaths deserve hand delivered casseroles. Nothing cures grief faster than some tater-tot casserole. All wedding showers will get a money envelope. We don’t give a f$&k about your registry. Have fun buying that new toaster with your new husband, because you are getting what we decide you need.
Furthermore, any necessities that you notate on your registry are to be ignored. We will buy what we want. If it is a cute child, or even an ugly one, we are buying for, we will pick out a cute gift. Otherwise, you will get cash. Those are the only options.
It doesn’t matter how old you are or what the other kids are doing. Nothing is open after midnight except legs and Walmart and you don’t need to be in either of them.
Don’t slam the door!
This was a disrespectful action equitable to flipping the bird or worse. I don’t know if the cost of a door used to be ludicrous or what, but door slamming, aka door damaging, was a big deal back in my day.
I guess the price of doors was a lot higher when I was a kid. Because my mom lost her ever loving mind when I slammed one.
I grew up thinking that dogs were boys and girls were cats in the pet world. I’m going to tell you that I was not 17 before I knew this was not the case. Just please politely mind your business. Once again, I would like to thank my mother.
Never leave the house in underwear that is not in mint condition, lest you die suddenly. It is apparently a huge deal for any EMTs or funeral home workers to see underwear that has been tainted.
Of course now that I’m older and I understand the bodily functions better, I realize this is not reasonable in any way.
This article just covers the ludicrous that my mother taught me in my childhood. The good things she instilled in me would take several books to record. Maybe one day.
Articles are meant to share information, tips, and opinions. This one is important to my heart. It is a list of the items I think should be made to be common sense knowledge at a minimum.
Teach it in school, teach it at home, blare it from loudspeakers in North Korea, and replace all media ads with it. I don’t anyone to be able to claim ignorance anymore. We are all put on this Earth for a reason and I know what mine is.
Best case scenario, this would become criminal activity. I have about 18 laws I will recommend we take off the books if we can have these in their stead.
Kylie’s Public Service Announcements
1st offense — Warning
2nd offense — Life in prison
You, good sir, are not a backpack. So, kindly remove yourself from being one millimeter from me while we are standing in line at the gas station. Standing closer to me won’t get me done with my transaction any faster.
I do not like feeling your breath on my shoulder. “I beg your pardon, Sir. Please remove your breath from my neck and fuck off a few feet back.”
Even with the pandemic and the six feet away rule in place, it does not stop some people. These people are primarily at the gas station and Wal-Mart for some reason.
Holding The Door
Look, I am from Georgia and no one appreciates a gentleman more than us. But if I’m 500 yards away in the gas station parking lot, please do not hold the door for me. I do not want to do an awkward run/walk across the parking lot. Then you will not be standing there holding the door for five minutes straight.
We all appreciate what you’re trying to do. God sees you and we all see you. Just cut it out, though. I am not trying to run.
For god’s sake, please brush your teeth and bathe. Dousing yourself in cologne does not count as bathing.
Some of us can still smell so please have pity. If you are not sure if you smell or not, ask yourself when was the last good scrubbing you had. Or ask a friend or a family member to tell you.
Just because I like to wear a cardigan does not mean I am a librarian. I work on the south side of my town and apparently they equate every white person in a sweater as a librarian. Make no mistake, my street CRED is unparalleled.
Cardigans are amazing. If you are hot, you can take it off. If you are cold, you can put it on. You can buy one in every color to go with every shirt that you own. Stop the hate against cardigans.
And also, calling someone a librarian is not an insult. There’s no shame in being smart or appearing to be smart. I just don’t like the ignorance of cardigan shaming.
For the love of all that is holy, please play your damn lottery during working hours. Not right before work starts or right after work ends. We have jobs to get to and don’t have time for you to pick eight number sevens, five number threes, and eight number twos.
And please tell me how the hell you manage to have the money to play the lottery every day when you don’t, apparently, go to work. I’m talking to you, weird creepy guy that hits on me every day at the gas station.
Get a job. The chance of you getting rich is much higher that way. The chance of you scoring at the gas station is much higher that way as well.
I have touched on this before. It’s still an issue. Facebook messenger was not invented for the sole purpose of harassing women on the internet. At least I don’t think it was.
Regardless, it is absolutely the most annoying thing that has ever happened. Even though I find some small pleasure in rebutting the advances of said weirdos, I wish they would just stop already.
I’m sure there are women that have used this for that as well, but I have never heard of one in my life or from someone I know. Just last week I had a man asking me to use him financially, no strings attached. Now if I was a younger, dumber version of myself, I might’ve fallen for that.
I’m 41. I know there’s no such thing as no strings attached. So, sorry Buddy, you’ll have to spend your paycheck on yourself or some other lady that believes you will leave her alone and just hand her the money.
These are just some of the most urgent items I must fix as your new leader. I mean, someone should do something about these issues.
So call upon Congress or write me in for the next election. The choice is yours.
My lady bits eerily resembled a cantaloupe with a Hitler mustache. It was definitely not what I was envisioning when I made the appointment at a local spa to have a full Brazilian bikini wax done.
I was young and newly married. Our oldest daughter was but three or four years old. Our relationship had taken a backseat to my complete and total addiction to my daughter. I felt like an amazing mother, but not a sexual being. I laugh now, because I was no older than twenty-five back then. They aren’t lying when they say youth is wasted on the young. I don’t know who “they” are, but they’re right.
So, I was feeling unattractive with my flat stomach and beautiful skin. I can tell you that 40-year-old me really hates that bitch. Anyway, I made an appointment to go get a Brazilian wax. I thought maybe if I was as smooth as a glass ball, I would stimulate some activity in the bedroom or some desire anyway.
I made an appointment with a local salon that was locally renowned for its excellence which was also reflected in the prices.
I showed up for my appointment appropriately dressed, groomed, and medicated as per my phone instructions. Please note what I’m saying here. I did what I was supposed to do.
My waxing specialist exited. She looked to be no more than 16, but said she was 19. That did not inspire me with confidence in her experience level. But being raised with manners in the south, I overlooked the lack of experience and decided to have faith in her abilities. The first lesson I learned was to always listen to that little warning bell in my head.
In my birthday suit basically, I was maneuvered into the most awkward positions available to the imagination. All the while trying to maintain small talk while someone ripped the hair off of my privates. With wax that was not hot enough. I mentioned a few times that the wax did not seem to be warm, but she seemed to be unconcerned.
When I tell you that I was in agony, I am not exaggerating. This little sadistic heifer used cold wax on my taint. I would’ve stood most of it, but when she got to the little man in the boat, aka my clitoris, I jumped up off the table like my life was at stake.
Still clinging to my manners, I said, “You’ve done a great job, but I think I’m good now. We will just leave that there.”
I high tailed it out of there and went home to sit on a bag of ice. Three days later, my vagina still looked like a cantaloupe with a Hitler mustache. I never had this procedure done again. I was very proud of myself for not yelling out Kelly Clarkson’s name during the painful parts.
Moral of the story is, don’t do a Brazilian. Or if you do, just do it yourself. With a hedge trimmer. Or a flamethrower.