To the lady at Walmart who seems to be the only checker working every time I go: "Yep, I used to live in Barstow, California. Yes, I remember that you used to live there, too. How many fucking people do you think live in Clarksville, Tennessee that have a Barstow, CA address on their driver's license? Am I that forgettable? Thanks for carding me, though."
To my daughter: "Today, you were the funnest kid alive. Please don't be an asshole tomorrow, okay? I need some consistency."
To my husband: "Maybe the reason your stomach hurts is that you are lactose intolerant and you just drank a glass of milk. Or maybe it's the beer you had after it. I'm sure you wouldn't drink a combination of beer and milk, but that's just what you gave your stomach. If I were your stomach, I'd hate you too. I do know that I hate the smell eeking out of your ass. Next time, you might as well eat a dozen deviled eggs on top of it. Swamp ass is not sexy."
To my dog who has no idea we're getting a puppy: "Shit's gonna change around here. You're gonna hate it. You'll get over it. You'll still be my favorite as long as you stop acting like a douchecanoe. Stop the barking, stop the begging, stop the whining, if you're sick of the toddler, go where he can't reach you. And please, stop eating random shit outside and barfing it on the floor."
To my husband and my daughter: "Stop fucking looking for Christmas presents. We have no storage in this house, and shit is hard to hide. I actually am almost done shopping before December for the first time in my life. Every time someone finds a hidden present, Santa kills a reindeer. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"