It's MY Birthday and I will celebrate as long as I want to

This is what happens when THE CREW is separated by thousands of miles and time zones and other logistical nightmares. One of us gets a wild hair in our taint about something, and without even thinking about the feelings and emotions of the other members of THE CREW, pens some silly nonsense, bashing people for their thoughts and actions, based solely on their own narrow minded perspectives. Well, that and the fact that we all probably have a combined -1,000,000,000,000,000 fucks to give about what other people, even our own dearly beloved CREW, think of the shit we say and do. So, there's that.

Usually, J-Wunder and I are so copasetic it is scary. For those of us old school motherfuckers who used to watch The Patty Duke Show on Nick at Nite, we are basically identical cousins. But only in our thoughts. We couldn't look less like each other if we tried. For fucks sake, I have hair. But, we are so much alike in our mindset that we have joked that we are Siamese twins, separated at the genitals. USUALLY. But yesterday this shit dick wanted to attack one of my most sacred and loved traditions: The Extended Birthday Celebration.

For those of you in my inner circle, you know that when it comes time to celebrate my expulsion from my mom's lady cave, you had best have your dancing, drinking, and fucking shoes on and be in it to win it. My birthday celebrations are usually on par with what I can only describe as "If Mardi Gras were to be moved to Las Vegas." I have to start reminding people in October that it is a marathon, not a sprint, to stay hydrated and make sure have stretched properly before hand. And yes, my shit has lasted for a month before.

Now, before people start attacking me for being a grade-A attention whore birthday cunt, let me give a point-by-point rebuttal of Mr. Wundercunt's searing dissertation of my sacred birfday tradition.

1. The Only Child

Nope. Definitely not an only child. I am the youngest and the only girl. One would think that kind of birth order fuckery would be why I am the Birthday Princess for as long as I can possibly be, but there is more to it than that. Grab your tissues and turn off Iyanla, cus I am about to make you cry harder than the time that kid hit you in the dick with the wiffle ball bat.

My brothers and I have birthday's that are very close together. Like just a few fucking days apart. And around a major national holiday. I got shafted on my birthday as a kid more than I got shafted by anything as an adult. True story. Growing up, if I wanted a Barbie themed birthday party, that fucker OG  wanted a G.I. Joe party. And guess what? My moms was NOT trying to throw two birthday parties in two weekends, around Thanksgiving, for two kids whose idea of fun was to torment each other on the regular. Momma dukes ain't got time for that.

So how did we celebrate our birthdays? Together, at Thanksgiving. It all of a sudden makes sense why OG loves pumpkin pie so much, besides the fact that it is fucking delicious, it also reminds him of his "birthday cake." When I got old enough to properly celebrate my descent from heaven to walk amongst the mortals, I made sure that I made up for all the missed birthdays of childhood. Now I dare a mother fucker to tell me that I can only celebrate my birthday for one day. I will politely tell them to please eat this bag of dicks I have put together, just for them.

2. The Home Schooled Kid

While I was not homeschooled, the fact that my birthday falls around Thanksgiving means several things:

- I rarely got to have an "in class" birthday party. You know, before all the schools got freaky-deaky about what you could bring to school, and you would bring in cupcakes for the class or some other deliciousness that was full of high fructose corn syrup, gluten, and peanuts. The kids would get all jacked up and sugar and sing to you. Yeah, that happened like once for me. ONCE. I might as well have been home schooled when it came to my birthday.

- As I have mentioned several times, my birthday falls around a major holiday, which means that even if my moms was trying to have multiple parites for her multiple fuck-tard children, like half of my class would not have been able to go, because their family was all "you need to spend time with us." Selfish fucking bastards. I remember having one birthday in elementary school that fell the weekend BEFORE thanksgiving and I got have a birthday party. That shit was so live, kids were jumping out of the windows of my house and being all kinds of cray. It was pure fucking magic.

3. The Celebutante

This one is a little tricky to refute, because I have joked that I am the mayor of West Palm Beach and that I know just about everyone, or am one genital touch removed from everyone. Kind of like the Kevin Bacon game for your privates. I have either banged you, someone you know, or you have banged someone I know. In some instances we met in school and have remained friends for 20+ years, but the probability of us knowing or having touched mutual friends no-no parts is still high.

Because I know a lot of people, I can not expect everyone to be able to be at the same place, at the same time, on the same day. I am a crazy bitch, but that is just ludicrous. Being the benevolent human being I am, the multiple birthday celebrations are not so much for me (haha who the fuck am I kidding? Of course they are) but for the wonderful friends of mine who can not all be in the same place at the same time. Kids, work, beating that bitch's ass for looking at your man, I get it. Life if busy and we are all busy. I have at least 2 major parties around the birthday season, but I also say yes to every person who wants to take me out to dinner, drinks, strip clubs, card board boxes under the bridge, or the van down by the river, to celebrate my birthday. And because of my overwhelming kindness, my birthday often stretches out far longer than my actual birthday of 11/22. Please, feel free to send presents. I am size 7 in shoes.

I get that all of this sounds like me just being an entitled little brat. But please allow me one last time to defend myself: Fuck you if you don't like how long I celebrate my birthday for. No one wants your party pooping ass there any damn way. Haters to the left.

And to my dearest, most cherished homeboy J-Wunder. The next time you write some shit attacking the things I love most: me, birthdays, booze, me, parties, me, Imma beat your ass like Solange did to Jay- Z. Funny how both your names start with Jay. Now do me a solid, and eat this bag of dicks I made for you. I even put extra Siracha on it, just the way you like it.

Kisses Bitches!

H-Bomb

Where's your sidekick? Eat me, fucker.

Here I am minding my own fucking business, drinking my nightly bottle of wine (don't judge mother fuckers), and I see a post by J-fucking-Wunder. This fucking asshole has the audacity to ask me where in the fuck I've been and if I want him dead or some shit.

Are you fucking kidding me, cock licker? Do you know how much of a fucking little bitch you sound like? Is your fucking vagina bleeding out? The begging is seriously unbecoming. The only thing less attractive than a grown-ass man begging, is a cockless grown-ass man.

You say that you miss it when I make you look like a vagina? Pretty sure you've nailed that one on your own, twat. Seriously capitan chode-face, stop acting like a hatchet wound. Pretty sure your cock has reverted back to the size of a 4-year-old boy, because you're acting like such a little bitch. And don't try telling me that "it's not the size of the boat" bullshit, because you can't get to China very quickly in a fucking dingy.

You want to know where I've been? Maybe I've been fucking busy? Maybe I have a real job? Maybe I've started my own blog, where I'm going to make millions and not buy you even a fucking drink.

In all honesty, part of the reason is because you released my picture on the fucking blog. We had one agreement when I starting writing for the blog: don't show my fucking picture. And then you go and post this shit:

Yeah, this fucking shit caused such a fucking ruckus on Facebook that I thought it would end in bloodshed. Pretty sure, that bitch cried herself to sleep every night for a week. All because there was an argument about whether looks or personality wins. Obviously 99.5% of people who say personality are fugly. Case and point with Facebook bitch.

And then you call me a Cunt 50 times. Is 50 your magic number? Do you really think that shit offends me? I mean, I think the only person who uses the word CUNT more than I do, is you. But you want to see me be a Cunt? I Googled your name and check out the shit that came up. WOW.

You miss the abuse? Bring it, fucker. Bring it.

XOXO,

Ball Buster