Welcome to the FYBF Fears, Tears and Belly Laughs series!
While I’m on holidays, I’ve asked some very special bloggers to share a story based on one of the prompts and wow wee, what a great line up!
Please make sure you leave some comment love for each guest blogger. The more love we give out, in tenfold it returns.
To complete our series with a Belly Laugh, I’ve invited the wonderfully witty and hilarious Daisy of Daisy Roo and Two.
Gifted crocheter and writer, lover of cake. Daisy is also mum to the gorgeous Roo and also wrangles identical twin boys.
Another bloggy buddy who I befriended from the early days, the days we don’t talk on the phone or through text are rare and the ones when she leaves me laughing in stitches are next to none.
Give it up for Daisy!
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Fucking Balloons
I have an irrational and complicated dislike of balloons.
I’m not scared of them. Really.
And when I see them in photos I see how beautiful and light and happy they are.
It’s just that when I’m in the presence of balloons I feel a soul-driving urge to pop them.
Maybe it’s all the tantrums I’ve had to endure over balloons.
There’s the tantrum where you refuse to get your child a balloon from the stand giving them away for free.
And said child then stages a sit-in protest in the middle of the busy shopping centre because BALLOON.
Then there’s the tantrum where one’s sibling has stolen the other sibling’s balloon. Even though everyone has their own fucking balloon – despite how much you hate balloons – because you were trying to avoid this exact scenario.
Then there’s the tantrum when the balloon finally gives way and pops on a toy or the grass or (to be perfectly honest) my pin when I’ve finally had enough.
And if the tantrums weren’t bad enough, then there’s the sound balloons make.
There’s the squeaky sound as they rub together, or get carried around like a football under a 5 year olds arm.
You know the sound. The one akin to fingernails on a chalkboard.
Then there’s the sound they make when they’re being lobbed like a volleyball into someone’s face. Which is also followed by wailing, so it’s like a double whammy balloon fuck-you.
Then there’s the sound they make when the balloon is constantly blown up, but then let go to spray it’s spit all over my goddamn house. It splutters and splodges me to death by balloon grossness.
The only sound I DO like, is the sound balloons make when I pop them.
And if all that weren’t enough, now bout the fact that when you finally find a beautiful, lovely, floating balloon and you think to yourself:
Maybe I DO like balloons. Maybe I’ve working through my issues.
That’s when that fucker flies off and abandons you, only to pop in the sky and have the rubbish land somewhere where it can choke local wildlife to death.
You have no idea the anxiety I have watching Up.
I have great plans for retirement. Pal and I will travel across the country, visiting shopping centres.
I will sidle up to stands of balloons given out by people trying to sell their wares to already harassed and flustered parents.
I’ll get as close as I can with my walking frame.
Then I will pull a pin out of my crochet bag.
And go to town on those suckers.
I’m not sure Pal will agree to my vision of retirement but I sure hope he does.
I’ll need someone to pick me up from the centre security office.
You can call me a birthday balloon grinch. You can call me joyless. You can call me whatever you like.
Just don’t come calling with balloons.
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