As far back as I remember, I’ve liked animals just slightly more than I like people.

And, as most of you probably know, the feeling seems to be mutual.

I cross paths with the most random critters on a daily basis.

I’m pretty sure they scribble my name and number across the walls of their tiny animal stalls – For a good time, call Allison!

But, however great my love is, there’s one critter that terrifies me even more than Glenn Beck.

Flying tree cockroaches.

Yes, you heard right…enormous roaches…THAT FLY. It’s like the worst horror movie ever filmed.

This is what they look like:

As paranoid as this sounds, these guys are known for staring straight into your soul and attempting to make you shit your pants by flying at you.

No joke, you guys.

Do a quick Google search on “flying tree roaches houston” and you’ll find stories aplenty on these assholes.

Like this one and that one.

Anyway, the first day the outside temperature reached 80 this year, I was sitting outside drinking with a dear friend.

That’s when I felt the little tickle.

I glanced down, prepared to shoo the pesky fly away. Only the fly wasn’t a fly at all, it was one of Satan’s messengers…crawling up my leg.

I screamed at the top of my lungs and ran around in circles, as it flew in circles around me.

I was in complete panic-mode and had no idea how to handle it. So, I did what anyone would do in this situation: pointed at it and yelled, “FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER.”

(Aside: I suspect my neighbors think my marriage is in trouble, now.)

Then, I started yelling at my friend, Alfredo, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? KILL IT!”

I scoured the yard looking for a weapon to hand him.

Holding my son’s soccer goal I ran back, only to discover that Alfredo had long since found a weapon of his own.

His shoe.

Oh, right. A shoe. What normal people use to kill a bug.

Thanking my hero-friend, I gently placed the soccer goal back on the ground and went to open another bottle of wine.

***

Bright and early the next morning, I called our exterminators and begged them to come as soon as possible.

Fearing for their own lives, they sent someone out the very next day.

***

Him: So, you’ve got a little roach problem, mam? What part of your house are you finding them?

Me: Um, well, inside I haven’t seen any, but I saw one outside last night and…it touched me inappropriately. I mean, not inappropriate like that. It’s not like it cupped my breast or slapped my ass or anything, but…you know.

Him: *long uncomfortable silence* Wait, you saw…one? Outside?

Me: Yes! The one that non-sexually harassed me.

Him: I hate to tell you this, but there’s not much I can do about those outdoor tree roaches, other than treat your yard so they’ll die soon after they venture in.

Me: Wait? You mean to tell me there’s not anything you can do to keep them from stepping all their tiny feet on my premises? There’s not one single solution to this nightmare?

Him: Yep.

Me: But, but, but….I don’t understand. THIS IS AMERICA!

Him: *blinks*

***

Fast forward a week or so.

I was sitting outside, again, when two little lizards strolled on up to me. I’d never seen these miniature dinosaurs before and, completely intrigued, I ended up watching them for several days.

I’m sure you won’t believe me, and I promise I haven’t touched any magic mushrooms in years, but they watched me right back. Not in an evil flying roach way, but more in a “Hey, mind if we crash here for the season?” way.

Being the huge toddler that I am, I had to find out who these guys were. So, obviously, I emailed a herpetologist (not an STD scientist – a reptile one) I found online, and asked him to help me identify them.

I sent him another email, seconds later, telling him I did actually know how to spell inducing.

He replied quickly and not even with a restraining order. Thanks, Travis!

Then, just like that, a funny thing happened.

I stopped seeing those bitch-ass roaches in my yard, and started seeing more and more of those sweet-ass lizards.

Further nerdy research revealed what I already suspected: anoles eat roaches.

That’s when I knew what had to be done. That’s when I knew that somehow, someway, I needed these guys to multiply.

The decision had been made.

Soon, I would have my very own roach-eating anole kingdom.

Oh, yes, I would.

I racked my brain for hours thinking up ways to make this happen. How the hell would I get them to sex each other up?

Just like that, the answer came to me.

I would pipe this loudly into my backyard each evening, just before sunset.

And, you guys?

Unless this is just a great big bear-lizard hug, I’m pretty sure it worked.

Then, I ran into another problem. How would I keep them safe? Between my cat and birds, lizards are an endangered species in my yard.

It was imperative I figure out a way to protect my new tenants and their tiny newborns, because what good are roach-eating lizards if they’re all fucking dead?

So, I searched and searched and searched for answers.

(Aside: I’m pretty sure my husband will submit my internet search history into evidence should he ever file for divorce.)

In case you ever had any doubt, it’s true…the internet is overflowing with super useful information.

So, I hit up Home Depot in search of materials for my lizard friendly landscape. And, then I placed the random shit all over my yard.

Little lizard panic-rooms, if you will.

But, man, I was still at a huge loss about my cat. He may be beautiful, but turn your back on him for a second and he’ll decapitate you. Then bat at your headless body for hours, taking the occasional break to lick his paws and imaginary balls.

Just when I thought all hope was lost, I came across the most beautiful little nugget online.

THE CATBIB!

Invented by some crazy people in 2007, the Catbib is genius.

It not only keeps their tiny kitty shirts stain-free, but it also harshes their hunting mellow by basically giving them two left paws.

And, bonus, it’s cruelty free!

I mean, just look at how happy it makes our feline friends.

I promptly ordered one for my cat, Snoop, in his favorite color – feline fuchsia. Then, I told the lizards, “You’re welcome,” and turned in for the night.

Snoop’s bib arrived a few days later, right about the time I began wondering if I even needed it.

Should I have purchased a Lizardbib, instead?

But, what was done was done, and I was now the proud owner of the CatBib.

(Aside: My cat will never get pussy again.)

***

Confession time: I’ve fallen pretty hard for this little guys. And, not just because they eat Satan’s spawn. They’re really so fascinating to observe and especially when you’re drunk.

I know. Right about now you’re probably thinking, “Man, I knew this chick was a little off, but I had no idea she was this much of whack-job.”

So, if it’s proof you need, it’s proof you shall receive.

Proof…that my anole-fascination is completely warranted and totally normal. In fact, after you see this, you’ll realize it would be weird to not be obsessed with them. Come hang out in my backyard for just a few hours and, I promise, you will be just as smitten.

Truly, they are…The most interesting lizards in the world.

Now, go on.

Tell me you wouldn’t have bought yourself a god damn Catbib, too?

That’s what I thought.

They need two turn tables and a microphone…

And one of them also needs clothes…

Dog x 16
By Luca

A Boy and His Shoes…

Little Man in A Big World…

Stay tuned for my new Project: We See You mission.

And, thanks for squeezing us into your day!

We walked into the bar and were immediately surrounded by men with guns.

Card-carrying members of the NRA, in town for its annual conference.

(Really, some had the permit hanging around their neck.)

Isn’t there a law about carrying guns into a bar?

Anyway, I’m not sure why it caught me off guard. I mean, I knew they were in town. I’d been having lots of fun at their expense in the days leading up to this.

The 2013 NRA convention is here this weekend. 75,000 expected. So, if you’re a deer, or not a white person, you may want to avoid downtown.

— Allison Zapata (@allisonzapata) May 3, 2013

You guys have no idea how many deer I offended.

Of course, I needed evidence of the entire cliche.

With my poor husband melting into his chair next to me, I pulled out my iPhone.

“Babe, Don’t take a picture. Please don’t take a picture. ALLISON, STOP.”

Oh, please, relax! What’s the worst that can happen? You act as if they’re drunk and packing heat. Wait….

I posted one of the pictures later and, predictably, my trusty comrades began ripping my subjects a new one.

But, later on, as I was brushing my teeth, I felt a punch in the gut.

My conscious had shown up to ruin all the fun.

I took a long look in the mirror, and saw a drunk hypocrite staring back.

Me, the ever so vocal one on my hatred of hate and judgment of judgement, had posted a picture on the internet of someone I knew nothing about, and released the hungry hounds on him.

I ran to my computer, deleted the image, and quickly replaced it with another.

(And, by quickly, I mean like 20 minutes. I was seeing double, and typing was not an easy task.)

As I was falling asleep that night, I made a promise to myself: No more calling people stupid motherfuckers.

I would kill with kindness, instead.

* * *

The following day we took the boys to ride the train.

The flawless weather had beckoned an entire city of people to come out and play, and the park was more crowded than I’d ever seen it.

The parking lot was equally insane, filled with frustrated adults running over each other to find a spot.

Finally, I saw a family leaving, so I proceeded to do that creepy 1 mph stalker-follow, quickly turning my blinker on to shot gun the soon-to-be-empty space.

Yes! Finally, I found a spot!

Only I hadn’t, because some dude kicked his car into reverse, and clicked on his own stupid blinker.

Are you kidding me? THIS IS SO MY SPOT. This guy is blatantly stealing my spot. You can’t do the reverse move, that’s cheating. Babe, this is my spot, right? I mean, if someone had to call it, they would call it for me, right?

“Yes, Allison. He’s a jerk. It’s your spot. The imaginary parking judges would definitely call it for you. But, whatever, move on.”

(My husband’s mellowness always makes me look so unstable.)

Not ready to concede, I stood my ground, my heart beating louder than my blinker.

The spot-swiper looked at me, waved his finger back and forth, and mouthed,”This is mine.”

Oh, the rage.

Tunnel vision set in and all I could hear was my damn blinker saying – Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck You.

Finally, the poor car caught in the middle of all this began backing out.

It was go time.

The swiper and I attempted to turn into the space at the same time and, had I been cool with mowing down someone’s grandma, it would have been mine for sure. Sadly, though, I lost our little round of chicken.

I lowered the window as I rolled by, and burned holes into his face with my eyes. On the tip of my tongue, “Wow, your mommy must be proud she raised such a gentlemen…ASSHOLE!” But, my kids were with me, so I sucked it up and reluctantly moved on.

Then, the universe remembered my drunken kindness vow, and decided to put me to the test.

We approached the line to wait for the next train at the exact same moment as another family.

Not just any family, of course.

SWIPER’S FAMILY.

It was obvious by his demeanor, though, that he had no idea I was the chick who’d just penciled him in on her shit-list.

I guess he must have left his balls in the car, because he smiled warmly and motioned for us to move ahead of him.

I had seconds to decide how to react, and a million scenarios flashed through my head.

Should I kick him in the knee?

Should I twist his nipple?

Give him the wettest of all willies?

The fear on my husband’s face was growing.

That’s when I smiled.

Oh, no, please! After you, sir…

* * *

Since these events, one thought has been on constant loop in my head.

Did I kill anything with kindness in either of those situations?

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of keeping it classy, no matter how difficult it is for a hothead like me. And, there are certainly situations when this approach can teach a valuable lesson.

But, where is the line?

You know, the line between being the bigger person and letting people get away with awful behavior?

My reactions to unsavory people are usually pretty passionate. But, why shouldn’t they be? Why in the world should I stifle my opinions when people are in my face shouting their own?

Because, it’s politically correct?

Because, it makes me a nice little robot-lady with impeccable manners?

I have no desire to act like lady, simply because that’s what some expect.

I have no interest in being a doormat, especially when I see other people being treated like one.

If what I say makes people cringe, then so be it. They’ve made me cringe.

The fact that I’m often a hypocrite – judging the judgers, condemning the condemners, being an asshole to the assholes – does not escape me.

Would using more kindness and less venom be a more effective approach?

Maybe. I don’t know.

I mean, sure, rising above can be a wonderful lesson for children, and great if you’re a believer in karma, but what happens next? They go on to act shitty towards someone else, because no one’s ever told them their behavior is unacceptable?

There is a time and place for kindness, and a time and place for telling it like it is.

* * *

So, ahem, in closing, I’d like to retract my retracted NRA picture.

Am I stereotyping?

Maybe.

But, if the American flag-covered gun-filled camouflage backpack fits, well….

No, not all gun owners are extremists. But, the ones who carry a gun just to prove a point scare the shit out of me.

It’s like they’re itching for a chance to use it. For protection, of course…always for protection.

These are the people I’m afraid will, eventually, become desensitized to guns.

What do I mean?

Consider what the outcome could have been in the Trayvon Martin case, had the shooter not been armed.

What would he have done?

No one can say for sure, but it’s likely he would have simply stayed in his car and called the police.

And, that young man would not be buried six feet under right now.

So, if these people…

and, these people….

Target Practice

…don’t have a problem speaking out, then why the hell should I?

Their voice is no more important than mine.

And, this country is just as much mine as it is theirs.

If they insist on caring more about politics and profits than our children being killed with guns, then hell if I’m going to kill them with kindness.

*Drops the breakfast burrito and walks away*

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Yesterday was one of those days that seemed like it would never end. I had a ton of things to do and planned it all very poorly, which ended up interfering with Leo’s afternoon nap.

As in, he didn’t get one.

And, if you’ve ever gone to Target with both kids in tow, you know it can get pretty messy. Especially, if one of them is hungry or tired.

I was making my way through the store, when Leo ripped off both his shoes, throwing them down the aisle with the skill of an all-star pitcher.

As I ran to scoop them up, Luca began shouting, “MOMMY, Leo won’t stop touching my penis! Leo won’t stop touching my penis! STOP TOUCHING MY BODY, LEO. This is MY penis.”

On one hand, I was proud that he knew to say “THIS IS MY PENIS,” because of, you know, stranger danger. But, on the other hand, having him repeatedly yell penis in the middle of Target was a little startling to…everyone.

During this ordeal, Leo kept hitting the button on his new toy car, prompting the song feature.

Won’t you take me to…a funky town….over and over and over again.

Luca was angry and defiant when I told him the town was funky.

“Mommy, it’s CRAZY town, not FUNKY.”

Crazy town, indeed.

I was smack dab in the middle of that moment.

The moment when you’re sweating, and positive that all eyes are on you and your shitty parenting. It’s easy to forget that, most of the time, people are too busy stressing out about their lives to notice ours.

Just as I was about to lose my shit, an older woman approached me.

What the hell is she going to say to me? That my boys are out of control? That they’re causing a ruckus? That I suck as a mom? I know all this. Move along, lady.

Instead, she gently laid her hand on my shoulder and, with the warmest look in her eyes, said, “Honey, I just want to tell you that you’re doing a marvelous job as their mommy. You got this.”

It had to have been at least three decades since she had stood in my stressed-out shoes, but she could see in my eyes that I was in major need of some encouragement.

Those words took mere seconds out of her day, but they changed mine completely.

You know what? I do have this.

That simple shift in my attitude carried over to my boys, and left us all much more relaxed.

I laughed, thanked her, and we went our separate ways.

But, I wish I’d said more. I wish I had told her that her support, her kind eyes and warm smile, had made such a difference in my day.

In a city of six million people, the odds that I’ll see her again are tiny, so all I can do is pass it on.

Whether it be a look of solidarity, or a quick, “Oh, mama, I’ve been there. It’s so hard, sometimes. But, you’re doing awesome,” makes no difference.

Sometimes, all we need is support from our stranger-friends, from those who’ve been there, to turn our day around.

A few aisles over, Leo chunked his shoes, again, straight at another shopper.

“Uh-oh!” said the innocent victim.

This time, instead of getting all sweaty and panicky, I laughed out loud, and told him, “Being the mom of two boys isn’t easy, but it’s definitely never boring.”

Then, I walked away, the three of us singing as loud as we could.

Won’t you take me to, a CRAZY town…

I told you yesterday about Luca’s big transition at school, from half-day to all-day student.

But, I wasn’t completely honest, because I failed to mention the real reason this is such a big deal for me.

You guys, I have to pack a lunchbox every single day, now.

What’s the big fuss, Allison?

Oh, I’ll tell you what the big fuss is, smart ass.

My kids attend a Montessori School, which takes this lunchbox shit to a whole ‘nother level.

Hippies no likey the processed foods!

I’m terrified I’m going to be judged from now on, based solely on my ability to pack a decent lunchbox. I’m even more terrified my kid’s going to be judged by it.

This is all dredging up very dark memories for me. Memories that, until now, have lain dormant, deep in my subconscious.

The agonizing trauma can only be traced back to one thing.

Tuna Fish Sandwiches.

Mom….

I have something I’ve needed to get off my chest for a really long time.

And, while this might be hard for you to hear at first, leaving you to question if you ever even knew me at all, I feel like in the end, it can only bring us closer together.

So, here goes nothing.

You, Mom.

Oh, sweet- beautiful, you!

The one who put so much effort into packing my lunchbox everyday, that I’m shocked you didn’t get Carpal Tunnel from the repetitive motion of spreading all that tuna.

But, sadly, this was all for not.

Because, I never ate them.

I’ll give you a moment to take all that in.

Instead, I ditched them in my locker everyday, opting to buy Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, a Kit-Kat, and a Coke from the cafeteria.

I know!

All those years, you must have been so confused. I mean you were, after all, using non-fat mayonnaise.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say, is that, I…I…I have lunchbox-induced Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Oh, no, please don’t do that.

Don’t blame yourself.

This is all of my own doing.

If only I hadn’t been such a slob.

If only I had thrown that brown bag away.

If only I had done the normal thing, rather than letting that sandwich fester under past-due assignments and torn-up book-covers, left to be forgotten in the dark seedy underbelly of my humid basement locker.

I could go on, but that won’t change the past.

The fact of the matter is, I did none of those things, and it cost me dearly.

Because, when you’re sixteen, a week-old tuna fish sandwich, shoved in a bag, and squished under a Social Studies book is a one-way ticket to Dorkville. 

I can still smell it.

Anyway, this is precisely the reason I’m so distraught over having to pack my kid’s lunch.

But, so far, considering the horrific flashbacks, I think I’ve held it together pretty well.

And, even packed some damn fine lunchboxes.

Pretty amazing, huh?

Now, right about now, some of you are probably thinking, “Oh, please, she’s only writing this post to try and impress us, so we can think she’s some kind of amazing, non-preservative, force to be reckoned with.”

But, you’re wrong, my people.

So, so wrong.

I’m writing this post for one reason, and one reason only…

It is crucial that I have it on record.

Proof, if you will.

Because, in a week or two?

That shit’s gonna be a god damn Lunchable.

Psst.

Come here.

I have a secret.

Closer…

Don’t be shy.

Come on, closer…

Eww, too close. Back it up, creep.

Here’s the thing.

People who blog don’t usually read a whole lot of other blogs.

Well, I don’t, anyway.

This little tidbit shouldn’t really be all that shocking to you, because…

Warning: I’m totally about to offend someone.

People who write about themselves all day long on the internet are likely to possess at least a little bit of arrogance. It’s kind of a requirement.

Now, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and I’m certainly not saying we don’t care about others but, well, it is what it is…we like to talk about ourselves.

Last night, after the kids were in bed, I went about my usual routine of checking my Twitter replies, checking my Facebook and blog comments, and, of course, my traffic numbers.

And, for what?

I mean, the amount of money I’ve made over the past several years from writing would be at least enough to buy a few of you a Slurpee. And, I generate zero income from my personal blog, because I want to be able to say fuck and shit without giving a fucking shit who I offend.

Anyway, last night, after really thinking about all of this, I realized there’s one common theme.

ME! ME! ME! ME!

You guys, I’ve been way too self-absorbed, and doing this all wrong.

Do I try to interact with my small readership?

Most definitely.

Do I go out of my way to read your words? Words that are just as important to you as my words are to me?

Not nearly enough.

When I took a step back and thought about it, it didn’t sit well with me. The one-sidedness of my behavior reeks of narcissism, and makes me feel gross.

I don’t want a superficial relationship with the people who take the time to read my thoughts, reach out to me, comment, and stroke my ego.

I want a real one.

So, after whacking myself upside the head a few times, I asked my friends to share their favorite posts with me.

Then, today, I asked again.

Said this last night, but sorta late. I’d love for you to send me the most favorite thing you’ve written. I talk too much. Time to listen.

— Allison Zapata (@allisonzapata) April 12, 2013

And, now?

I’ve got a shit-ton of beautiful reading material for my weekend, that I’m really looking forward to.

My friend Mandy summed it up beautifully…

And, although, I’m sure it’s been done a million times before, in a million other places, in a million different ways, I thought it would be wonderful to open up this space, as well, to what’s going on in your lives, in your heads, and in your hearts.

I’m so tired of the fake encouragement, the superficial relationships, the bullshit camaraderie, and the faux-gratitude.

It’s time for me to STFU & Listen…

So, I would love for you guys to leave a link in the comments, or even in a direct message, with your words.

Anything, written at anytime, as many as you want, even just a photo you love.

There’s only rule.

No penis pictures.

Because, I don’t want to know you that well.

Parenting is hard.

We have to deal with things like seeing our babies sick, projectile vomit, and a four year old mini-Picasso painting their bright-blue masterpieces on our clean, white garages (ahem, Luca.)

Everyone tells me it gets harder as your kids get older. But, most of the time, I’m knee-deep in kid-shit and way too busy to worry about what’s to come.

Yes. I’m well aware that their questions will become more difficult with each birthday they celebrate, but I’m barely hanging on as it is, you guys. Taking things one day at a time is all I can handle.

For now, I make sure to answer my boys open and honestly, giving them as much as their little brains can process.

But, I always try my best to tell it like it is.

My husband once asked me why I introduced words like penis and vagina into Luca’s vocabulary.

Umm, because that’s what they’re called? What should I tell him to call it…a cock?

Kids deserve our honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable for us.

I mean, do I dread the day when the Mommy, what does pizza look like when you throw it up turns into the Mommy, how are babies made?

A little.

Although, I’m pretty confident, because I totally have a fail-proof plan as to how I’ll approach these kinds of things.

(Plans? Ha. Children laugh in the face of plans.)

But, I’m certainly in no rush to tackle these doozies.

And, luckily, I haven’t had to go there yet, because my boys are still at an age where I can control their environment.

Just yesterday, I thought about how relieved I was that Luca wasn’t around when I was unwillingly exposed to pigeon pornography.

Oh, but not so fast with that big sigh of relief, Allison.

Hours after my little pigeon peep-show, the animal kingdom decided it wasn’t quite done fucking with me.

As I was getting Luca ready for bed I heard him scream.

“MOMMY! Come here now. WHAT are these guys doing? WHY is my boy frog sitting on top of my girl frog like that?”

Of course, our frogs had decided to do it froggy-style right there in plain sight for all the world to see. OF COURSE THEY HAD.

Oh…well…honey…that’s…umm…how they make their babies do you want a giant cookie before bed oh look there’s a bird.

“They hug each other, mommy?”

Oh. Yes…Ha…YES! They totally have to hug each other to make babies.

And, although the explanation was one of pure innocence and the crisis seemed averted,  I could see that somewhere, deep in his four year old head, he knew there was way more to the story than that.

Please, animal kingdom, I beg of you.

Get a room.

Because, it turns out, I am so not ready for this shit.

Dear Party City,

I know this can be a shitty time of year for you. And, that makes my heart hurt.

But, fear not!

I’ve come up with a brilliant idea for all those slutty Halloween costumes you’ve got laying around collecting dust.

His daddy put the kibosh on the latex whip and fishnets.

Sigh.

Such a fun sponge, sometimes.

Five years gone.

Five birthdays missed.

I keep having to do the math.

Then, do the math again.

And, then again.

Since I suck at math, I keep convincing myself that I’m simply adding up the years all wrong.

Because, it’s just not possible that they’ve been gone for this long already.

But, they have.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about them. That’s something that will never change.

But, I often fear, the longer they’re gone from this world, that others will stop remembering them. This makes my stomach hurt in a way I can’t explain.

Not too long ago, I came across my wedding video. I thought about how fun it would be for Luca to watch his parents celebrate the love that brought him into the world.

So, I popped some popcorn and popped in the video.

And, there they were.

Susie, in her bright blue dress.

Vivi, our flower-girl, in her poofed-out princess ensemble.

The boys, in their crisp, white guayaberas.

All of them were so alive.

Before I pressed play, I hadn’t even thought about the fact that they were such a huge part of our day, so when I saw them it took my breath away.

I would give anything to rewind these last five years the way I did that video.

When you left us, Susie, my biggest fear was that, one day, I’d forget the sound of your soft, kind voice.

Thankfully, that hasn’t happened.

I remember the sound of all of you.

I guess some things are etched so deeply in the heart that they’re impossible to forget.

Sadly, with Leo being so sick, I had to miss your birthday lunch for the first time.

But, there was no way in hell I was about to let this day pass without celebrating you.

While the boys were busy feeding their dinner to the dogs, I quietly crept out the back door holding fifteen bright orange balloons.

You loved orange.

I held onto them for quite a while, scared to let go…scared to feel…scared for another year to begin.

But, finally, they slipped from my hands and floated away. I stood watching them until the disappeared.

Keep an eye out, sweet Susie, they’re making their way to you now.

Happy Birthday, dude.

You are loved by so many.

Swelling of the throat?

Driving, eating, or engaging in other activities, while not fully awake, without remembering the event the next day have been reported.

Abnormal behaviors may include aggressiveness, agitation, hallucinations, or confusion.

Risk of suicide?

So, let me get this shit straight.

They’re basically saying that, if you take this roofie sleeping pill, there’s a chance you’ll kill yourself or someone you love, then drive to Taco Bell to binge eat four talking-tacos that you’ll need to quickly swallow before your throat swells shut.

AND YOU’LL REMEMBER NONE OF IT THE NEXT DAY?

SIGN ME UP!