...You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry...

That's right, folks, Mother Trouble is about to go HULK.


The rage has seethed inside me for weeks now, amped up by panic and PMS, and it's all I can do to not go flaming apeshit on everybody.

Urge to kill, rising...Rising...RISING

So I do my cleansing breaths and scream "SERENITY NOW!" in my head, I force myself to look on the bright side, or acknowledge things could be worse.

Problem is, my Rice Krispies instruct me to "KILL! KILL!" and no amount of new age crapola or country platitudes quells the hot lava surging through my veins.

This is how I went to Colorado, to visit my children and deal with certain !%#!$%!#$!#%#%!%!suckers. My mother, who is both evil and stupid, went to the wrong pickup lane at the airport and kept calling me on my cellphone. This wouldn't have been SO bad, but the 3.5 hour flight from LaGuardia was a nightmare.

After being dragged all over Denver by my mother, I finally got to pick up my precious spawn. What's this? Two of them are no-kidding skin and bones, their faces look like the faces of prisoners of war. The other one was fine, displaying her staggering gift for manipulation for a 7-year old. I ask them if they are sick, and the two skele-kids say, "No, it's just our medicine for ADD."

WHA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-AT?

Turns out the stepmonster, who is an expert on all things despite having the intelligence and charm of mountain troll, diagnosed my children with ADD, then set about getting appointments with doctors and prescriptions.

All without a word to me, their mother.

Now, I don't know much about ADD, but I know a lot about psychiatric medication. A five-year old boy has no business being on Adderall, in my opinion. And since they both look like child zombies, I'd say it's high time they get another opinion about this diagnosis and prescription, don't you?

Well, my bastard %!%$@%$%@% ex-husband and their father, cunt that he is, defers to to the Step-troll. They refuse to consider my differing opinion. They refuse to include me (even though our contract stipulates it)in important medical decisions with regard to my children. And they refuse to acknowledge the terrible state of my children.

Know what all this means, kids? Right! Mother Trouble, the Incredibly tiny Hulk, has a cause, a channel for the unending river of rage. After firing off a carefully-worded email to His Travesty (Superfly, I couldn't wait for you to help me, but I promise I deleted all expletives and scathing insults) I got my lawyer on the horn.

Suddenly, I'm smiling. Suddenly, after getting a grand total of 5 hours sleep this weekend, I feel like crashing.

Urge to kill, Fading...fading....