The Girls’ Guide to Emotional Fort Building

Ah, yes. A key decision in any “relationship” — do I end it now while I’m pretty sure I can handle it, or let it ride until it crashes and burns in the most damaging possible way?

Pfft. JK, it’s not actually a question. Y’all know I’ll suffer for a good story — let’s dance, Feelings!

Kidding. The beauty of having played the He’s Just Not That Into You home game for 2 years a while back is that I can see it easily now. Plus ending the 10-year relationship right before THAT… I mean, it can’t hurt TOO much if this one ends. “We’re done? Oh, OK, cool. I’ll have more time to clean.”

But it turns out the “slut shame” doesn’t come from the sex. It comes from sex being all there is — from me not being feelings-worthy for whatever reason, from being kept around solely for my ability to wet a dick.

I’m not built for that. I don’t need Edward Lewis, but I damn sure ain’t settlin’ for Stuckey. 

I acknowledge the possibility that I’m hormonal and misinterpreting, but I think I’m right. If I can’t tell that you, um, like me, or want to spend time with me, that is legit insane-making for my membranes.

I deleted (not blocked) his number, and, with it, my ability to text him anything belligerent and cunty. He’s still free to contact me, though, so we’ll see what happens.

Hm… Though I guess I probably should’ve seen what happened before I spent the weekend getting myself over this based on these assumptions… Oops. Ah, well. Call it preventive care. 

Well, at least there’s that.

Quotable therapist: “I promise, you don’t hit menopause and automatically become a Republican.”

You heard it here, folks.

#science

So much for righteous indignation

I’ve been so run down that I was a little worried about my blood donation appointment today. I know I CAN donate, but I was concerned about feeling even more depleted. So I Googled it, and dammit, Australian Red Cross — I can’t decide if I’m comforted or insulted by your assurance.

“Oh, because I’m a woman overrun with hormones, I must want snacks and a couch? How dare you stereotype me?!”
“You DO want snacks and a couch.”
“…Fuck.”

The new All-Wheel Drive Honda Singleton.

I’ve had a shitty week — just too much stupid all coinciding: relationships, finances, PMS, change in prescription drugs (I don’t think they’re supposed to make you feel worse), and ball-sacky weather. It’s mangling my body, my sleep, and my attitude.

I wish our bodies had more obvious gauges for things. A red light should come on to let you know you need to eat a vegetable because your body requires, like, riboflavin or whatever. Or, *ding ding* “Oh, OK, I have to exercise more and maybe I’ll stop feeling as if I’m constantly dragging my body through sand,” or, *BEEP* “Says here this drug is fucking me up. The gauge just told me to call the doctor and get THIS drug, and it’ll fix you right up.”

Or even a green light: “You’re OK, it’s just the heat. Crank the AC and drink more water.”

We need a more specific human schematic.

We should be able to upgrade our bodies like car models. I’d like the Sport features, please. 

Can my body get nav?

“Sounds like somebody’s got a case of the ‘go fuck yourself.'”

Sometimes I check a calendar and realize I can’t pin my unusually vehement annoyance on PMS.

This is even MORE irritating because it means I am not awash in hormones and perhaps over-sensitive. It means everyone is just an asshole.

Or I am. Hard to say. Except, you know, statistically.

How the Grinch Stole My Body Image

My friends who know how self-conscious I get about my body will enjoy that my hormonal influx/weight gain have made me quite puffy today. So my favorite basic white t-shirt is unusually snug, and I’ve been walking around all day feeling like I’m mostly made of breasts. I feel like they suddenly grew three sizes like the goddamn Grinch’s heart.

Pizza cures PMS. That’s science, right?

One side of brain: “No, we’re trying not to eat our feelings, remember? We’re trying to eat better and practice healthier coping mechanisms. We are stronger than food.”

Other side of brain: “Fuck you, we’re REALLY not. I demand six Egg McMuffins and a few shots of whatever will sedate me. Literally, whatEVER: Wine? Prozac? Cough syrup? Horse tranqs? BRING IT.”

Buffalo mozzarella sticks, guys. Do you know what that is? It’s mozzarella sticks, doused in buffalo sauce, AND THEN YOU DIP THEM IN BLUE CHEESE. It is sexy, cheese-on-cheese action. It is fucking vile…and also quite possibly the best thing in the world. A nice man would deliver it to my door — along with a pizza — for a nominal fee, because America is AMAZING.

P.S. I will obviously also need a cake, because “It says right here, it is a dessert wine.”

Coital behavioral therapy 

I guess it’s probably sub-optimal to be attracted to the guy who was in the psychiatrist’s waiting room for the appointment after mine.

But damn, dude. Does your brand of Crazy involve bending me over that couch? Mine totally does.

‘Cause…you know, I bet endorphins and serotonin or whatever would really benefit us both. Therapeutically, of course. *nod* #science