Thank God For Adoptees

I just saw an adoptive Mother tell one of my good online friends that she doesn’t see a need to thank her adoptee, she thanks God for them instead. Seems that her adoptee was a great blessing bestowed on her from God.

Gee kid, no pressure.

Since any of the blow sunshine up your ass type adopto parents will tell you that blessings come in all shapes and sizes, I’m beginning to wonder if, I too, am a gift from God. Since my A-parents were rather lazy Christians and only bothered to thank God for anything on Thanksgiving, or after a particularly close call with another automobile, I’m just not sure. They never confirmed anything.

How does one go about determining if they are a gift from God? Did I come with a card? Did my parents keep it? I suppose it would read something like this:

Dear Addie’s Adoptive Mom and Dad,

Sorry to be out of touch for so long. I’ve been kind of busy with the Presidential assassination and that whole state of Israel thing. The Catholics and Jews are my first teams, but boy they require a lot of attention (ha ha). I’ve put Jesus in charge of some of the Saints, and he’s looking after admissions for me, so I’ve freed up some time for adoptions.

Hope you like this one. They tell me she’s a little firecracker and smart to boot. Sometimes they are a little colicky at first, leaving my bosom tends to bit rough on their digestion.

Got to close now, but please do enjoy your gift.



Since I haven’t found a card, I’m going to have to find another way to find out if I was actually given out by the supreme being. I don’t think I’d be marked, from my reading that is more the modus operandi of one of His former employees. I wondered about maybe having a gift on my own, you know, healing by touch, blood that smells like violets, etc. So far I can find nothing.

I’m beginning to think that maybe I wasn’t a gift from God, and just came from the hospital, like my a-parents told me.

Happy Ass Adoptive Parents (you knew it was coming)

I am so sick of hearing a bunch of happy ass adoptive parents talking about how they can heal anything with their magic love.  Hey, fuck you, alright.  All the goddamn hugs in the world aren’t going to make a shit bit difference sometimes.

You are not the second coming of June pissing Cleaver.  You will not make adoption okay within a half an hour with you magic chocolate chip cookies.  Got it?  It’s pretty fucking complicated.  Because your one year old diaper rat is smiling now, that don’t mean they are going to be in about 12 years.

You are on the first shift of the paving crew to hell if you believe you really know one goddamn more thing than any parent that came before you.   You don’t know dick.  Okay?  Nobody does, you are in the dark just like everybody else. Just keep up your happy-ass conversation with each other, keep assuring each other you know your child better than anybody else.  Because guess what?  You don’t.  This may come as a big fucking surprise, your kid may have the first clue as to what they are feeling.  Yeah, imagine that, if you’re capable.

You might as well be serving the pages out of your fucking parenting books with a side of ranch dressing for all the good you got out of them.   What did your skip the “scary” parts because that could never happen with you at the parenting helm?  Huh?  Guess what fucko?  Those scary parts are all about people like you.  Turn on every light in the house, grab your fucking teddy bear and get to studying.  You can get on the internet and bitch about how negative some experts are in the morning if it makes you feel better.  I have a feeling you’ll find the support that you so need.

But for fuck’s sake, do not get on there and discount my memories, or anyone else’s that claim to wish to learn from.  I do so wish there was a special are you dimfucks could be sent to until you are ready for mainstreaming.  I think it would do you worlds of good to review a few key concepts before you have a try at the big kid’s class again.

As I See It

I am almost always surrounded by beautiful things.  At home where I keep the things that I love. In my car where I see the rolling hills, deer, and bare trees of my county.  Even at work where the packages are bright and varied, even if a bit garish.  Everywhere I look almost everything is designed to appeal to my eye.  It’s always been that way.

I can’t remember a time when everything I saw wasn’t designed to please me, get my attention, or make me look good.  I live in a bright world.  I can’t imagine the darkness that they say I came from.

They say I was saved from a place where there would be no color, a place where everything I saw wouldn’t please me.   That if left there, I would not to this day live in a bright world.  Everything would be dark and dull.

I think they are wrong.

The colors and shapes are mine.  I see them.  Nobody taught me to see them.    I know for a fact that I was not taught to see them because the ones that took me cannot see them as I do.  I know things would be bright where ever I came from.

I am what I am.   I see things as I see them.  I was simply shown different things, my perception is the same.  I am not changed, just put in another place.

So maybe it wasn’t really about me.