So Mr. Husband’s parents drive me absolutely crazy sometimes, like crazy fuckity batshit caddywampus. They brought little Frannie chicken soup while she was sick…except it was that soup in a cup shit that has no relation to chicken, really, except for the fact that the word “chicken” is printed on the cup. Really, it should be called “chiken” or some such just like that ol Krab With A “K” business.

They also saw fit to bring some of that random pudding in a cup. (Mr. Husband’s parents generation are very fond of ____ in a cup, methinks.) This is the same pudding in a cup that proudly touts itself as “never needing refrigeration, ever!” I can see stacks and stacks of this stuff lining the walls of bomb shelters everywhere. Everyone’s crapping dead, but at least you’ve got your pudding that never needs refrigeration ever, and your porn.

Anyhow, the real reason I get so honked off about this random food is because I always end up eating all the fuckity stuff, so as to spare Frannie the chemical distress on her little body. Heh.

I had already eaten three of the four BOCK BOCK fuckity pudding in a cups in two days, and last night I was settling down to eat the very last one with my favorite small spoon.

“Hey,” said Mr. Husband, “is that the very last pudding? Cause I didn’t have any.”

“Are you telling me that you are going to take this crapping jive-ass pudding out of my very hands? That I was about to enjoy immensely?”

“Yoink!” said Mr. Husband, and liberated me from my pudding. Bastard!

I stared at him like an evil dog and he stared at the TV and ate the goddam tiny cup of pudding, every last bite of it. I “ahermed.” I clicked my nails on the coffee table. I gave him meaningful looks. I was ignored.

When he finished, he set the spoon down very carefully and looked at me.

“I can’t believe you are making me feel guilty for eating this pudding,” he said.

I win.

Did I mention that every goddam fuckity year I forget I get all manic in January, because the sun is only a tiny goddam dot hidden behind many layers of pukey, wooly clouds? Did I mention that I didn’t sleep at all last night? But it’s actually okay because though I will be insufferable, my grades will be really good?

C’mon, March.