you get more than magnets

Ok, I think my Wilson temper tantrum has passed just enough for me to say what I wanted to say before 2012 is over. I was going to explain why this blog is here in outerspace, and why it will probably make no sense to you if you happen to come stumbling along to read it. And it's just a simple answer that it is a love letter to the one man who has had the courage to stand by me through good times and bad, through red, little mermaid orange, blonde and alarming raspberry colored hair, the man who has cleaned up my kid's puke and sat vigil at their bedsides and mine whenever we were sick, the man who squeezed into a twin sized bed with me every night for too long, the man who has learned that McNuggets is one of my trigger words, the man who stayed by my side whether or not we had working toilets or electricity, the man who called 911 when I thought I was absolutely dying in the middle of the night, the man that celebrity lookalike says is a dead ringer for Leonardo but is 100% better looking, the man who recorded a record album for me before we even met- I love you and I don't care if no one else ever reads this or gets me. This is for you:

first you'll crash and then you'll burn

I was going to give a year-end state of the blog address today, in which I explain the whole reason I ever bother writing stuff no one reads, but I am in a bad mood. Like,

                         Tell him I'm @#$%*&# coming!!

that.
So all I want to say right now is, Dear douchebag who totaled our car,

Always crashing in the same car

If you are playing spacemonkey1138 catastrophe bingo at home, I have great news for you, you can go ahead and put a chip on "car wreck" now.

                   Things get damaged. Things get broken.

If you will recall, I did tell you that everyone seemed to be gunning for the Captain's ship. See, I am not paranoid. They were coming, two by two, hands of blue. Last week they succeeded in the form of a hipsterish, skinny jean-wearing being that appeared to be male (if you can get your junk into a pair of skinny jeans without looking like a porn star, you do not qualify as a man). Apparently his lack of genitals led to some mental confusion, causing him to WRECK OUR FREAKING CAR. Of course, he is trying to make it all sound like it wasn't entirely his fault. That's what guys who lack testicles do, shirk responsibility for things that are obviously their fault. So we have to wait to find out what the insurance adjusters think. Which we won't know until after Christmas because things move slower than molasses in this region. One can only imagine the hell awaiting us here at the end of the worst year ever. Have you been keeping score? Your card may be a winner! We've had:

a broken laptop, a leaky ceiling, eyeglasses that had to be returned 100 times, a busted toe that wouldn't heal, a dead stepfather, a widowed mom move in, a dead uncle, two family friend funerals, multiple unsuccessful trips the the so-called foot specialist, a trip to the ER, an adult with a baby disease, a ruined vacation,  a dead grandpa, a diagnosis of a killer disease, a domestic dispute over McNuggets, braces, high deductibles& tripled health insurance premiums (thanks, Barack!), a brother being sued by his neighbor, hit by a douchebag, undrive-able car, and just all kinds of other unmentionable BS that is too personal to go into.

Let me know if you have a winning spacemonkey1138 catastrophe bingo card so I can send you your prize, which will be whatever pile of ashes remain after they finish burning what is left of our broken lives.

Meanwhile, an ode to a car I never liked, but teared up for when they hauled it away...