I have this habit of intending to respond to OkCupid messages, but then I forget about it, or I want to wait until I’m at a computer instead of my phone, and then suddenly a week has passed and I think, “Well, if I really wanted to reply, I would’ve made it more of a priority,” so I just delete the message.
When I told my therapist about this, she said, “Hey, maybe don’t do that? You saved those messages for a reason. Either write back or delete them, but letting them sit in your inbox makes them just another to-do item looming in your brain, making you feel like you’re behind on life and bad at being an adult.”
So, um… Can y’all write these dudes back?
Apparently I have hella issues and emotional walls and I think I’m boring so I don’t want to waste anyone’s time? I didn’t know these things about myself — never go to therapy. “I would’ve made it more of priority” sounds far less tragic, like I’m just such a busy, baller boss bitch that I don’t have time for you people and your penises.
But hey, you know what? Frankly I’m doing these men a favor. If I never answer, they’ll never get any of my Crazy on them, and then no one gets hurt. I’ll just continue hiding in my little Singleton cave and never getting laid and letting these feelings deepen and fester until I’m a crazy, old cat lady who dies alone and the cats eat my face. What’s the problem? The cats will be fed!
(Ahem. Why, yes, it has occurred to me that perhaps I should be in therapy twice a week.)
I had a whole thing written about last night’s therapy session, but then I saw this comic from Sarah Andersen, and… Yep, that pretty much covers it.
Some days all the hippie feely stuff I follow on Facebook makes me feel better.
And then some days it’s like, “Hey, you know what, Special Snowflake? Shut the fuck up with your groovy bullshit.”
That’s it, I have done HAD IT with you people and your ridiculous facts and science — I demand someone invent a blood test for mood issues. Yep. Blood. Science it up, people, I don’t care how you make it physiologically valid. But all this “being aware of my feelings” shit is just not gonna work for me. I have things to DO. I don’t have time to think about how I feeeeel.
Psychiatrist: “Well, can you ask your friends if they’ve noticed changes in your mood?”
…I’m sorry, you want me to be the Gretchen Wieners of mood disorders?
“I mean, you wouldn’t be bipolar without asking your friends first if it looks good on you!” And you know ADD only comes in sizes 1, 3, and 5 — I’d have to try Sears.
I definitely shouldn’t be as proud as I am of my ability to choke down sudden-onset Feels and get on with my workday, but my GOD, this time was impressive.
I deserve some sort of Irish medal.
But…tonight is pretty much earmarked entirely for a date with Fiona Apple, bourbon, and an Ugly Cry.
And hey, happy bonus of the nausea: my lunch is still sitting untouched on my desk. They’re diet feelings this time! Feelings Lite! 100-Calorie Feelings!
Ahem. There’s a line from “Friends” where Chandler introduces himself by saying, “I’m Chandler, I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable.”
P.S. I’ll be fine. Don’t call any hotlines.
I’ve heard this song a bunch of times since That Guy “made it like it never happened and that we were nothing,” and I was perfectly fine. But it just came up on my Pandora playlist and suddenly I’m a weepy bitch over it?
Li’l early for PMS, isn’t it, Body? Though I suppose that would explain the recent irritability, exhaustion, insatiable libido, and mass consumption of salty, cheesy Mexican food with Girl-Scout-cookie chasers.
This is all fine. (It actually is. It’s out of my hands. There’s literally nothing I can do except “breathe and reboot.” Plus I think I’ve proven I’m stronger than Weepy Bitch, even if on occasion she IS the one who knocks.)
More years ago than I care to consider, there was a show called Married with Children that probably wouldn’t make it in today’s infinitely-more-PC TV landscape. I remember people being offended by it at the time, but it was the late ’80s/early ’90s and most people didn’t give a fuck.
So there was the dumb blonde bimbo daughter, Kelly (Christina Applegate). She’s more appealing than her sports-fan father, so she goes on a sports trivia show in his place. But she knows nothing about sports, so he fills her brain with trivia before the show, and for every sports fact she absorbs, a bit of basic life knowledge leaves her brain, rendering her dumbstruck (seen here) when asked to recall everyday knowledge.
That’s where I am right now. For every bit of bullshit my brain has encountered this week, I’ve lost knowledge and patience. This morning I stood in the shower with conditioner on my hair, and for just a second completely blanked on what the next step was. And I just snapped at my brother because he’s being a fucking asshole. (Though I do kind of love it when I finally give up on trying to be polite and just say what I’m thinking.)
Family issues, friend concerns, medication that’s ruining my appetite and dehydrating me, not sleeping, and additional things with That Guy, all in those 3 days of spiked blog stats… I’m out. I spent my workday NOT FUCKING WORKING, but rather ensnared in a texting clusterfuck with aforementioned brother.
Also, I know my friends love me and will listen to me, but I’m sick of being the Needy Friend — they’ve heard a LOT this week, I sent a goddamn list. (Subject line: “No advice needed; just FYI, everything is fucked.”) I’ve talked to friends, a therapist, my personal journal, and you people. I am tired of thinking and talking about my fucking feelings. I’m not even upset, per se — I just want to go home and sit there for a week or so and not talk to anyone or think about anything. Maybe just spend the whole week re-watching all of Grey’s Anatomy in my pajamas.
So yeah. I’m currently at a Bundy Brain grade 4. I’m gonna pull a reverse Kimmy Schmidt and put my ass into the doomsday bunker.
Oh, good, ’cause it’s been some time since a tiny, mundane incident has caused me to feel All the Feelings at once.
No, really, it’s great. I’d missed it.
Fuck you, brain.
Here’s the thing about putting my dating life on the Internet… For me, fiction is rarely funnier than the truth. I’d love to change certain details to protect the innocent, but nothing I conjure is as funny as what really happens. I’m not that good a writer; funny shit just happens to me. I write it down, y’all laugh — easier than me after two martinis!
But as much as I want an audience, I don’t want to hurt anyone who might see this page. So I grapple with optimal hilarity vs. not wanting to hurt feelings.
Example: My latest New Lad story isn’t as funny if I change the details, but it’s seven kinds of snort-laugh if I tell it how it happened. I’m still friends with him, though, and I don’t want him to end up on this page somehow saying, “Wait…that’s clearly me.” Of course, if it weren’t for Facebook, I wouldn’t even still know the guy, so maybe that’s not an accurate definition of “friend.”
See, this is why I need a book deal. The ones who yield the best stories don’t read books.