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for Medicinal purposes only

By no means do I advocate the use of drugs. But right now, I’m completely off my chops on painkillers from a back injury.

I’ve had 2 x Endone and an assortment of other drugs that would make me popular on some seedy street corners. My kids suddenly make me giggle in between my moans that would make a porn star proud.

I literally just stared at an ant for five minutes and felt sorry for it.

I waited in bed until I was full to the eyeballs with my own pee as I was too scared to get out of bed due to the pain. I peed in the shower like a racehorse and then giggled for five minutes.

Off my chops.

Eating toast and thinking it’s hilarious that black shit (Vegemite) with a slab of butter on toast makes me feel proud to be Australian. Then I remember I have Aboriginal heritage and get cranky when I can’t remember if I’ve ever felt the need to go on a Walkabout. I would now but my back hurts and I wouldn’t get too far.

I also have Scottish heritage which is why I’m as pale as a freaking block of vanilla ice cream. Maybe I could find some bagpipes and give that a red hot go too.


My eyes are getting really heavy and I need to go back to bed. First I have this ridiculous desire to put all the dirty dishes in the sink but I think I’m trying to write cheques my body can’t be arsed to cash.

I nearly passed out on the toilet yesterday… not for dramatic effect but just sitting down puts pressure on my back. I’m also incredibly pleased that painkillers block you up because how the hell can you poo in this condition??

Random thought…


I can’t remember what it was.

I love my husband and the kids, but now it’s also with a wild drug induced passion. I would forgive pretty much anything now because he’s been so fucking amazing letting me use him as a crane when I weigh the same as a small baby elephant. Then I think, fark, hang on a minute. You’re a fireman. You have to lift people like me anyway and you get paid for it.

And I’ll pay him in favours the big spunk of burning love… eventually.

Moral of my stoned story? Do Pilates and get your core sorted. Get yourself some amazing friends that you can cry to and some amazeballs family you can rely on.

The idea of getting a cortisone injection this afternoon scares the shizen out of me but it’s my own stupid fault for not listening to the warning signals – AGAIN!

For the love of God and all things Adam Levine, DON’T put any sympathy messages in the comment section . I don’t want your sympathy…I just wanted to tell you why I haven’t written for a while. If any of you write “poor you blah blah” messages it’ll make me feel like one of those fuck-knuckles that write passive aggressive sympathy seeking things like “oooh, im in so much pain” or “oooh, off to the hospital again” without any fucking explanation. They just want people to go all gooey and worry about them.


Screw that.

Can you maybe just write a joke, a funny gif or just use some naughty swear words in the comments to give me a chuckle? That would really rock. The dumber the better.

Right now I’m having a chuckle at the fan in our bedroom for going so slow.

What the actual fuck?


Shannon’s Kitchen you’re the funniest girl I fan girl over, don’t suppose you can give me a decent penis joke?

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New Year’s Eve resolution truth bomb

Every New Year’s Eve I commit whole-freaking-heartedly to my New Year’s resolutions.

This time last year I optimistically decided that 2017 was the year I would:

a) be nicer to people that I find annoying
b) I’d become a better parent and stop doing things like muttering F Bombs and flipping the bird behind their backs
c) I’d lose weight like an absolute freaking champion
d) I’d stop drinking

It’s now 12 months to the day and it’s clearly turned out well:

a) I tried really really hard, but I failed miserably.
b) I mumble F bombs like I have Tourette’s and still flip the bird at my kids – and the husband
c) I’ve added on probably 3 kilos 🙄
d) and because of a, b and c, I’ve never stopped with the bubbles and Grey Goose

So apparently I’m still a cranky, chubby, inappropriate, swearing, booze hound of a woman who’s trying really, really fucking hard to nail this whole Mum thing.

Maybe this year my resolution will be to NOT have a resolution?

That’s a thing right?

What are your resolutions for tonight?


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Being an a-hole mum

At the end of the day, I think I’m a pretty good mum.

I’m by no means one of those amaze-balls mums – and to be honest, I don’t even believe there really is such a thing. I can honestly tell you that my intentions are (almost) always pure, my heart is full and I love my family with a wildly ferocious heart.

Do all of these magical fairy dusted emotions stop me from being an absolute arsehole to my children and husband at times?

Nope. Not at all.

I yell and carry on like an absolute arsehole…and not just any arsehole, I’m talking a big ugly one with sweaty hairy balls hanging down the crack while flipping the bird to the world.

I don’t even mean to carry on like the proverbial bum-bum, but there are random occasions when I imagine yelling “fuck you” to them all and then run away to a deserted Island with Adam (I’m actually referring to Adam Levine here – not my husband) drink cocktails and then just ummmm…stare at him.

My arsehole moments are admittedly random, erratic and generally unwarranted. I don’t really even sweat the big stuff – the big stuff I can take care of easily with my stress levels in tact. I just crack it over the tiniest of things because apparently, that’s what mum’s do.

Could it be because the little stuff is out of our control? Like when I actually resented the crap out of my hubbie for not having a big cut under his balls from delivering our babies into the world.

How ridiculous was that sad but true thought in my head?

I’ve even been jealous that my hubbie can jump up and down on a trampoline with the kids and the fact that he can sneeze without piddling himself.

I have resented my kids for never sleeping in. For the love of God small insomniac children, just sleep-in for one fucking day so that I can play catch up on sleep… and maybe even have a languid sexual encounter with my husband (and his non-delivering balls)

I sometimes crack it that we can’t go out for dinner without having to book a babysitter 2.5 years in advance.

I get the ferocious eye-roll combined with teeth gritting grimace when I see a Facebook post of the braiding, Lorna Jayne, muffin baking, label wearing, always smiling mum when she posts perfect photos of her neat-arsed children in her perfect house.

I crack it at the remnants of toast on the kitchen bench

I become an arsehole sometimes when I can’t do a poop by myself without having to zip up a dress, talk about school or even just be stared at mid-strain by an adoring trio of primary schoolers.

I crack it at the husband for fondling me when I’m unpacking the dishwasher…and then I’ll crack it at him if he doesn’t fondle me when I’m unpacking the dishwasher. HUH?

I’ve even been mad at a school shoe.

A. School. Shoe.

I’ve picked it up and thrown it against a wall because the stupid bastard MOFO thing hid itself when we were late for school.

These things are utterly ridiculous to get mad about, but hey, if that’s all I’ve got – this stupid random shit that only ever bothers mums – my life can’t be too bad!

I have a spunky, helpful, loving sexy beast of a husband who is an amazing father, three well balanced and healthy kids that adore the hell out of us and I have my health, wealth (haaahaaaaa – that wealth part isn’t true!) food on the table, two arms, two legs and a heart beat.

Maybe I should just take a deep breath and remember that the next time I’m yelling at a shoe.

Or not.

Surely I’m not alone in the psycho tantrum stakes?


Bueller? Beuller? Bueller?

Adam Levine (haaaahaaaaaaa)

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