Huh. Well, this escalated quickly…

If you’ve never had your brain telling you you’re an undateable garbage monster on the SAME day you realize the last person you dated is now in a seemingly happy relationship and that you haven’t had ONE date since you broke up three YEARS ago…I highly, HIGHLY recommend it.

Bright side: I honestly didn’t realize it was him. I think I forgot what he looked like?

So clearly a very serious “relationship.”

Therapeutic Cliffhanger

Today I had therapy, and we ended up with an exciting basis for NEXT week’s session, where we’re going to dive deeper into how 40+ years of coddling and condescension from everyone in my family could perhaps make me constantly doubt my capabilities as an adult, and affect my self-worth in all areas of life.

Awesome. Great. I’m SO glad I did this. 🙄

(I am, but…Christ. Originally I just went to therapy for some Breakup Krazy Glue, but ended up shattered six ways to Sunday. At least when my therapist starts writing groundbreaking articles about family insanity, maybe I’ll get royalties.)

(By the way, I am STILL very much on Team “Whatever Your Family Did, You’re an Adult, Handle Your Shit.*” But it turns out I just need some strategies to make that work as more than just bluster.)

(*Unless your family was LEGIT awful and not just underminey, in which case, obviously, you have the right.)

(Part of my damage is minimizing my damage because so many people have much worse damage.)

Instagram eats more dick than I do. 

I’ve had some thoughts loitering in the back of my brain about my current relationship-like experience, and its similarities to a past experience that was much worse, brain-wise.

So obviously, as further evidence of my iPhone’s forthcoming sentience, I went on Instagram and it was like, “Hey! You might know Past Experience!”

Fuck you, Instagram.

That’s OK, though — again, the beauty of getting over the much worse past experience is knowing that THIS experience, comparatively, ain’t shit.

Oh, cool, my trust issues got reinforced!

Because I have no impulse control, I sent a Facebook message that he saw an hour ago and didn’t answer, so… I guess that’s my answer. (Ahem…I may have also sent a follow-up. Also seen and unanswered.)

So I’m not being used for sex, but I DO trust people too easily and I AM a shit judge of character. Couldn’t even assemble the balls to be like, “Yeah, we’re done”?

Fine.

(For the record, I was right — hurts a little, but I know it’ll pass.)

Science just validated my navelgazing.

Check it out, y’all, I’m not even a narcissist. This blog is for SCIENCE.

Via Inc.com: The Mental Health Benefits of Writing, Backed by Science:
Screen Shot 2016-06-24 at 9.33.28 AM.png

That’s actually how the page started, as ersatz breakup therapy — I thought I could just write my way sane. As it turns out, I needed REAL therapy, but am still a filthy whore for those red “like” notifications, and the writing definitely helps, so I kept it up. Along with a private journal. And a Twitter. And a new blog where I work clean so I can put it on my résumé.

Don’t judge me. “I just have a lot of feelings.”

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.

In which nothing you do matters if you’re not married. 

Dude, what the shit is wrong with you?! That girl is, like, 12 years old* and a floppity bajillionaire
megastar. Who gives one iota of one kitten’s dick if she’s not married? Jesus. You leave Katniss alone, Diane Sawyer!  
“…This whole year of, ‘Who am I without these movies? Who am I without this man?'” Girl, preach. Let’s get together and have coffee and braid each other’s hair. We’ll talk.

Speaking of hair, I should probably call my hairdresser right now and warn her that once I see Joy, I’m also going to hack my hair off with some raggedy scissors and then have her fix it. It seems fun and cathartic. Or I’m just a crazy celebrity copycat.

* OK, fine, she’s 25 — same difference. Clearly a spinster. Christ, I need more cats — I’m totally behind here.