Relieving emotional tension < relieving sexual tension. 

Between hormones and holiday stress, I just ended up Ugly Crying over something incredibly stupid, and now my brain is convinced I am unlovable and will die alone. So that’s always fun. I think these particular feelings will need to be handled via pizza.

I almost never cry, so storing it all up for the twice-yearly Ugly Cry is sort of like when I finally get laid — I never realize how long it’s been since I’ve done it, so I just explode from the catharsis of it all. It generally works out much better during sex, but the result is the same: I end up collapsed in an exhausted, lifeless heap. And I feel a lot better. And I demand snacks.

I’m dreaming of a white (trash) Christmas…

Family Time, Day 2.

Wine rations are low. I am texting friends:

Me: “I’m in a car listening my mom and grandfather talk, and ‘Disco Duck’ is on the radio for some reason. So… I’m just gonna jump out of the car and hope for the best.”

Friend 1: “BWHAHAHA.”

Friend 2: “Holy shit, that is amazing. Godspeed.”

Me: “The conversation literally just went from houses in the city Grandpa worked on back in the day, to this area being ‘right near where Butch’s* friend was murdered,’ to ‘I have to go to that Indian doctor later this week.'”

Friend 2: “I look forward to your alone time. That is a lot to process.”
*When you’re white trash (as I am), there’s always a Butch. Fact. I know two. If you’re really lucky, you’ll get a “Butchy.” But you have to BELIEVE.

Cool Girl’s guide to holiday tEXting

It’s probably a good, healthy step this long after a breakup to not wish each other Merry Christmas, not out of anger or spite, but because you’re busy living your lives.

I mean, unless you’re me, and will sit here stewing about it at the end of the day but not saying it first because you sent the last text yesterday, and you have too much pride to say it first because remember you said “Happy Thanksgiving” first?

Ahem. Not that that’s happening… Because that would be lunacy.

My wine and I are going to bed.

Merry Muddling!

Merry Christmas, you guys. May your liquor, ham, and patience be plentiful.

And remember, even if Jesus is the boss of you, this day isn’t. So if you’re just muddling through one way or another, high-five, ’cause we’re muddling together. Let’s make today our bitch. (“That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”)

Have fun and be safe. I love y’all.

Kisses,
Smug

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, some good mood-altering substances.

I think I’m packed for Christmas, yeah?  

No, wait… You’re right. I need beer.

Also, I totally hear you — Xanax would’ve been great, but alas, there’s some shit about ethics where they won’t give it to me because I don’t actually have anxiety? I KNOW, right, what the shit? This IS America, right? Family gatherings + Jesus’ birthday = special dispensation. That’s in the Bible: “And lo, distributed among them, there were delicious medications, and yea, they were happy. OK, well…not really HAPPY, but they didn’t hit anyone, and so there was peace on earth, and sedated goodwill toward men.”

P.S. I will spend today baking MANY cookies; those are almost Xanax if you eat enough of them.

P.P.S. That whiskey is not for me. That shit is like having one of those hippie honey cough drops in your drink. Ugh.

Family rally cry? Family rally cry.

I know you guys aren’t on my side with the country music, but I think we can all agree Pistol Annies have been reading my journal as we approach my family’s Christmas dinner. This is my new favorite song to sing in the car. (Shut up, I am SUPER hot when I have twang.)

“Well, Daddy’s reading propaganda
And he’s talkin’ ’bout the end of days
Well, cheers to the vodka Mama’s been sneakin’,
Let’s all gather ’round and pray.

“So I snuck out behind the red barn
And I took myself a toke
Since everybody here hates everybody here
Hell, I might as well be their joke.

“I’m gonna dance up on the table
Singing ‘This Little Light of Mine’
God gave it to me, what good’s it gonna do me
If I don’t, by God, let it shine?

“Hide your tattoo,
Put on your Sunday best,
Pretend you’re not a mess,
Be the happy family in the front pew…”

“Hush hush, don’t you dare say a word
Hush hush, don’t you know the truth hurts
Hush hush, when push comes to shove,
It’s best to keep it hush hush.”

Dating, waiting, baiting, mating, masturbating, sating, procrastinating…

Today I saw my psychiatrist (ie, my Drug Czar, not Talky Therapist — it takes a village, y’all). And she thinks I should start dating again, before I “get used to being alone.”

Um… How ’bout “Shut up and give me my drugs?” You’re not the boss of me. Talky Therapist is. (Though, um, Talky Therapist also thinks I should.)

You’re shrinks. Shouldn’t I be OK being alone? Shouldn’t I be happy with myself before I bring in a Crazy copilot? Did you HEAR me tell you about the last times I tried dating?

“Well, you can just date casually. You don’t have to sleep with them.”

Well, no, I don’t HAVE to. But if history is any indication, I WILL. If I kiss (and I really NEED to kiss), I will tease, and then the man will end up touching the “on” switch on my neck, then I will lose my tenuous-at-best “lady” decorum, and then suddenly we’re post-coital, and he wants me to spend Christmas with him or leave a toothbrush at his place, and then I’m hyperventilating and doing The Fadeaway because I am a big fat coward.

I don’t feel like dating right now. I’m not cute in the winter, all shrouded in big bulky sweaters and corduroy pants. (Though, it’s supposed to be fucking 74 degrees in Philadelphia on Thursday, so I guess that’s not a valid defense right now.) But generally, sundresses are more my wheelhouse.

And by the way? I LIKE being alone. I’m pretty rad. That’s how I’ll know when I’m ready to deal with a relationship — if I wouldn’t rather be alone than with the guy. This almost never happens. Normally it’s “UGH, I have to…TALK to someone? And…shave things? This will not stand!”

*sigh*

On one hand, I don’t think it’s fair to potential dates that I would be comparing them at least a little to these previous relationships. But Talky Therapist tells me that’s actually a good thing, because I know what I want and what I don’t. Also, I do understand it’s not doing me any good to sit and wallow about any man who, perhaps over-simplistically, doesn’t want to be with me. So maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go check out OkCupid again. (I’m not going to meet anyone in a bar, that’s not my scene. I wanna get with a dude who steps to me in a Barnes & Noble — instead of sending me a drink from across a bar, he can send his favorite book and preferably a scone.)

If nothing else, attempting to date will give me good stories here. So here’s to 2016 being the year I finally get some. (And blah blah blah, true love, soulmates, rainbows — FINE. If I happen to find that while rubbing up against people, then yay for me.)

You have your Christmas carols, I have mine.

I was looking for a different Garfunkel & Oates video for a later post, but I saw this in the YouTube sidebar so I’m sharing it first.

I’ve posted this before, but it’s been a while, and it’s always worth hearing again. But also, I HAVE in fact gotten that drunk text at 3 in the morning, and it was indeed “SO close, but not quite there.”

Searching for therapy. And cake. And therapeutic cake.

This was in the most recent list of search terms people have used to get to my WordPress page:
  

Holy shit, you guys — WHAT am I writing? I know it’s my id and all, and I certainly have my moments, but it’s USUALLY not “devastating Christmas depression fuck you.”

Seriously: Therapy. It’s great. Mood drugs, too. Maybe also have some cake? Cake fixes a lot of things. Search for cake.