Real World: Pacifica

My children have a death wish today.

Either I, or them, but not both will survive the day.

And if I had the gun and bullets, I think I might just shoot myself square in the head. Sweet silence. Sweet, fiery, silence (does anyone smell smoke?)

Until summer is over, my kids have turned our home into the set of the Real World: Pacifica.

Mostly because at this point in the summer, my kids can't stand each other. THEY HATE EACH OTHER'S GUTS. All they do is fight. And whine. And scream. And break shit. And hurt themselves (and each other).

I cannot go two minutes, literally two minutes, without needing to spring into action to break up a fight, grab an ice pack or sweep up some glass. All that's missing are awkward night vision sex scenes and racial slurs. 

They have figured out that we hooked all of their cartoons up to our bedroom TV. So now, they have both my bedroom TV and the living room TVs to themselves. Which means no matter where I go in this 800 sq ft. apartment, they follow me.

And argue.

The girls are playing (FIGHTING OVER) a Toy Story video game in the living room, which I just had to shut off because they were screaming, ready to punch each other in the face. Holden keeps ordering me to turn on a cartoon in my bedroom, where I have gone to try to escape from them, and then he leaves the room, comes back and tells me to put on a different one two seconds later.

I got sick of the whining and turned off both TVs and anticipate the screaming in 3....2....1.....And all hell has broken lose, so the cartoons are back on. And of course the fighting over the cartoons has resumed.

They have also gotten to the point of boredom where I swear they are doing shit just to get a reaction.

Cora just pissed on my living room floor, despite having been potty trained for a year and just having used the bathroom. I guess she saved just enough pee in her bladder to make sure she could still soak the carpet.

Holden is trying (with a fair amount of success) to rip the closet doors off their bedroom wall.

Holden asked me for a drink of water from my cup and when I put it to his mouth, he backed away and knocked the cup onto the floor.

Cora went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and then looked me straight in the eye as she proceeded to pick up and then touch everything in her reach with the shitty-germ-covered toilet brush.

The girls, who I sent to their room for their Toy Story rumble, are now smashing toys against the walls and screaming at each other.

Holden just pulled all of the covers off of my freshly made bed and threw them on the floor.

And now is rolling around in piss-covered dirty laundry.

And just informed me that for the fourth time today, he is poopy.

Thanks for the update, kid. Guess I gotta get that.

I AM GONNA LOSE IT. My Mantra for today has been "I am running away"...

The kids have started to take it seriously and have asked me if they can come with me when I go to Hawaii.

No offense kids, but NO. FUCKING. WAY. I know that I will never get to run away, or have that Hawaiian vacation, but no, you cannot come to my imaginary vacation. The tiny part of my brain that holds out belief that Santa Claus might be real and that maybe we DO all have untapped magical powers, like Matilda, still believes that I might possibly get a break from the kids. And I don't want to ruin that by including imaginary child passengers on my flight to paradise.

Oh the screaming. Oh God, the screaming. I have to get out of here. These kids are killing me.
Anybody have the number for a Production Company? This has to be at least as entertaining as watching guidos fist fight over a bottle of tanning oil on Jersey Shore.