Look Out: It's Time For Another Virtual Temper Tantrum.

If you’re offended by foul language, you might want to stop reading now. Seriously. Well, okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

When Tori’s upset (or even just a tiny bit bothered), she throws herself backwards on the floor, arches her back and screams for all she’s worth.  And you know what? That’s exactly what I feel like doing right now.

My insides are still a mess. I have no appetite, and probably have not eaten more than 800 calories in the last five days, but I’m so ridiculously bloated that my pants barely fit. That fucking sucks, people. Everybody knows that if you can’t eat, the reward is supposed to be artificially loose pants.

Fuck you, body.

And you know what BabyCenter just sent me? An email with an article titled, “Why you might still look pregnant.” I clicked on it, thinking it might make me feel better about myself, only to find the following gem of advice, “it might take weeks for your belly to go down to pre-pregnancy size.” Weeks? Weeks? I’m on month nine, people, and my belly is nowhere near its pre-pregnancy size.

Fuck you, BabyCenter.

Oh, and speaking of Internet fails, today’s How To on my iGoogle page is “How to Sleep When You Are Not Tired.” Really? Google, the king of data collectors, can’t sort its content better than that? I mean, come on. Even the text ads next to my facebook profile know I’m a tired, fat new mom who hasn’t gotten enough sleep in the last 18 months. Are you telling me google can’t figure that out, too?

Fuck you, google.

Oh, and you know what else makes me mad? NBC. They’re threatening to bump Conan in favor of Jay Leno. NBC, you know what? The reason you have to cancel Jay Leno’s show is because he’s not funny anymore. Say it with me. Jay’s. Not. Funny. Don’t go replacing actual wit and humor with the vapid nothingness that is Jay Leno’s show. And Jay? If you still feel the need to work five days a week, have some respect for yourself and go be a greeter at Walmart or something.

You thought I was going to say fuck you again, didn’t you?

Okay, fine. Fuck you, NBC.

Sarah Palin. She makes me want to stab things. Why won’t she go away?

Also, the racist idiots of the tea party. They need to go drown themselves in a big vat of tea-flavored urine.

Glamour magazine? You make me mad, too. How many years can you continue to recycle the same 14 stories? There’s a world full of freelancers out there. Find some with original ideas.

Authors of parenting books? Stop making me feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing (I don’t. I know it. You don’t need to remind me).

Makers of baby products? Stop making me feel like I’m depriving my child if I don’t have the thousand dollar stroller, the five hundred dollar car seat and whatever gee whiz super cool gadget you’re going to come out with next.

World? Stop looking at me. You’re making me paranoid.

I could go on, but I think I’ve probably alienated enough people already. So I’ll stop. Normally, this is where I’d go pour myself a big drink, except for the fact that my fucking body is fucking messed up and in need of prescription meds to continue to function.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

See? The F-bomb. It has magical healing powers.

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