Saint Dirty Face

📖 Blog Post (Saint Dirty Face Edit):

Friday kicked off with a bang… dipped into a whimper… and ended with a wifey bang.

That’s the rhythm of Saint “Dirty” Face, baby. No apologies. Just pulse, pause, pound.

Started my day playing public health prophet, dropping a 411 on TB for a local school district. Gave the nurses some knowledge and a dash of charm—bless their hearts, hope they make it through the year without strangling a parent.

Then boom—Captain Moron at work decides to catch feelings.

Apparently, “I should’ve told him” about my little educational field trip because he’s “the administrator and should know what’s going on.”

I’m like, settle down, Dumbfuck Dumbledore. Even if I told you, your pea brain would’ve short-circuited halfway through the acronym TB.

Anyway—back at the office, where the workload was lighter than a fart in space.

No Work Friday in full effect. I looked busy, pretended to type, and watched the clock like it owed me money.

Cut to 5:30. I’m home. Ready to relax. Unwind. Reclaim my soul.

But the moment I walk in—

Chaos. Everywhere.

Kids screaming. Somebody crying. Someone else needing Wi-Fi help or therapy.

So what do I do?

I ran.

Like the last survivor in a zombie flick—I made it to my bedroom, locked the door, and buried my face into a pillow with the muffled scream of a war-torn veteran.

The Mrs? Also hiding.

We’re both battle-fatigued, communicating in silent nods and trauma blinks.

Thankfully, we’ve got a secret escape door that leads to the backyard.

Plan activated.

Dinner for two.

Vape shop delivery.

Picture tube on.

Soft Barry White.

And a solid hour of neighbor-roasting (If you’re reading this, neighbor… it definitely wasn’t about you. 🫣).

Then the candles get lit.

The music gets low.

And we do what emotionally exhausted, beautifully filthy, married saints do best.

Until next time,

Saint Dirty Face

Stay wild. Stay wet. Stay unapologetically you.