A rolling stone gathers no effin' moss, or any damn thing else.

This rant is brought to you by the letter F.

I'm a laid back person, rarely get too upset or irrational, and try not to rely on a potty mouth, which is supposedly the sign of a poor vocabulary (my mom's idea of cursing? "SHOOT!") and upbringing. Today, I say: fuck that.

The thing I hate most in the world: M-O-V-I-N-G (!!). After 46 moves in THIS lifetime, I cannot take it. As a shy person that gets lost easily, it sucks giant, cellulite-ridden ass. I want stability, a garden to keep, a place where neigbors recognize my face!

Divorced 2 years ago and moved from a gorgeous house (location A) to a 3rd floor apartment (location B). I pinched my pennies, drank Bud Light instead of Corona, and bought a house (location C) and moved in last October. In December, when my ex- received orders to Iraq, we thought it would work out best if I moved BACK into his house (location A) so my son wouldn't have to change schools again.

When he had trouble in school in April, I pulled him out and started driving him to the school in the school district of MY house.

Fine, now it's time to start another school year. I was going to kick out my tenants and move back to MY house (location C), gradually taking boxes and stuff during the year [total: this will be 4 moves in 2 years]. My ex, though, has a two week break from Iraq and has decided to sell his motherfreakin' house. This means a FULL move, including furniture, separating dishes, etc. and for what? For him to go BACK to Iraq and leave his crap in storage. He pisses me off. No, my son pisses me off more. Pass the goddamn tape - I have boxes to pack!

P.S. I wouldn't be surprised if the damn post office refuses to forward any mail addressed to me...

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