Suicidal Cars and My Quest for Silence

The view from up here is stunning. Where is up here, you ask? I'm perched on my cross of martyrdom, removed from my body and watching the chaos that is my life unfold below me. The pity party is in full swing.

Somebody pass the vodka.

Whore Mouth landed a job as a caretaker for those who need their colostomy bags changed and suffer from violent mood swings, angered that they can no longer recognize the faces in front of them. Unfortunately, her car committed suicide before she could begin her first actual day of employment.

Pops loaned her his car and sure enough, she inspired suicide in yet another vehicle. She hasn't actually made it to work and has once again proved that "Irish Luck" has nothing to do with four leaf clovers and more to do with potato famines and hereditary substance abuse.

Didn't I ask somebody to pass the vodka?

She won $100 on a slot machine and sent half of it to my brother. It never got there.

But maybe her luck would change because she's been trying like hell to win one of those online sweepstakes or blog giveaways and maybe a win would be like a catalyst into the world of Lucky Bastards (yeah, I'm talking to you Johnny Boy). And when she got that email with the subject line that read, "Congratulations! You Won!!" she certainly thought that she was moving out of the shadows and into the sunshine. That is until she discovered that what she actually won was some air freshener. For her car. That she no longer has.

Even from up here on my cross, I can hear her crack and splinter.

Where the fuck is that vodka??

Ahhh, Whore Mouth. This bad luck comes at a time when she is supposed to be moving out of my house and into her own place so that she can get her granddaughter out of foster care.

And Legal has also moved back home and is sleeping on my couch. This translates into a number of things:

• My phone will never, never, never stop ringing.
• My grocery bill will skyrocket yet she will complain that there is nothing to eat.
• I will gather tumbleweeds of red hair that roll around the house because she sheds like a Siberian Husky in the summer.
• I will discover a trail of discarded clothing, hair ties and hoop earrings that will lead from the garage, through the house and to the outside porch.
• My computer will be loaded with songs from a bunch of artists with the first name Lil'.
• I will not find my makeup because it will have moved into her purse.
• I will never be alone.

Seriously, what does a woman on a cross teetering on the cusp of sanity have to do to get some vodka around this place??