Patience is a virtue, but a finite one.

One day my filter will fail and I will not be able stop myself from asking another full-grown adult, likely a coworker, “How the FUCK do you not fall down more often?”

The rare and elusive Stage 6 clinger.

In 2013 after my breakup, I had a Year of Poor Life Choices. I dated before I was ready, tried to get over my ex, tried to get over the OTHER guy I’d developed a crush on. It turned into a few “relationships” that crashed and burned fairly spectacularly.

One was a friend of my sister’s, and I’m not proud of this, but I ghosted on him. We went on three dates before I realized we had NOTHING in common*, and I TRIED to be an adult and tell him I wasn’t ready to be dating. He asked if we could be friends and I said “sure,” because that’s what you SAY, but you both know you’re not going to be friends — or at least *I* knew.

Eventually I blocked his number and deleted him from Facebook because I am a coward. That was probably the summer of 2014.

THIS MORNING I got a Facebook message from him: “Hey Smug, tour name popped up on my phone so figured I’d say hi….Helloooo. How’s life treating you?”

It’s probably true he saw my name somehow since we still have mutual Facebook friends. But, like… Is there a Clinger beyond Stage 5?**

* When I say “nothing in common,” I mean I went to his Facebook page and he’s now an “all lives matter,” flag-fapping Trumpublican, and I am…NOT those things.

** I feel bad, he’s a “nice guy,” but…no. You are a reminder of a terrible time in my life. That’s not your fault, but it does mean you can’t exist in my world.

Family ties that bind…oppressively.

It’s adorable how I thought I could exist in my family and get away with saving some cash by getting LESS therapy. But at least they gave me some money for Christmas, so they’re inadvertently footing the bill.

Are you serious? We’re adults. Someone in the family just DIED — they are now an EX-parrot. Maybe get some perspective? When YOU die, are you gonna be like, “Heh… Yeah, I was a complete DICK to my niece in 2016, remember? Deleted her from Facebook for some BULLshit — I showed HER. LIFE? HA! NAILED IT. Go ‘head, Jesus, take the wheel!”

I’m pretty close to telling everyone to go fuck themselves. I’ve already said, “I want nothing to do with this.” Do you know how much you have to fuck up before *I* won’t talk to you? You have to, like… kill a Muppet.

Time to invoke The Asshole Inference: “I don’t know. I don’t wanna know. I’m out.” *hand gesture*

(Actually, I think writing this and seeing Token was probably all the therapy I needed. And also bearing in mind that running away to CA and never coming back is always an option.)

Like an ADULT. No, really.

A friend pointed out that I’m kind of shitty to myself when it comes to my ability to be an adult: “You are constantly talking about being incapable, an unfit adult, generally sucking at everything, along with other negative talk about yourself.”

Hm. That’s because I genuinely do FEEL incompetent probably half of the time, like I can’t even believe I’m allowed to drive and make life choices. But I think the difference is, unlike everyone else, I say it out loud. And probably too often.

A Facebook friend who doesn’t know me very well went so far as to imply it was my “thing,” and a coworker sent me a JPG of an “adulting honorable mention” ribbon that said “I put on pants today.”

I really don’t want ineptitude to be my “thing.” Especially at work.

We’ll add that to the list of goals to work on with the therapist, because I’m really not sure how to go about fixing it. (Other than to just shut the fuck up, which I guess is probably the best option.) But I can’t get butthurt when people treat me like an incompetent asshole if I continue to act like one.

But ssshhhh… I’m totally going to go eat Froot Loops in my blanket fort. And the pants will be gone as soon as I walk in the door.

Selly Celly

I almost never say “mansplaining,” but I absolutely just had it happen to me, via a Facebook friend I rarely talk to. (Come to think of it, I don’t know why we’re Facebook friends. I will remedy that.)
I mentioned I was going to a cell phone store, NOT requesting help in any way. But he climbed straight up my ass: “What do you need? Oh, a new phone? What kind? Have you been with them long? You might be better off calling to find out what they’ll offer you for customer retention. You should wait to see what they’re offering for Black Friday. And other stores might have better deals. Be careful with the plans they offer you. Check if it’s an authorized retailer or a franchise store, that might affect what they can give you.”
*looking around* Um…I AM literate, right? To read makes my speaking English good? I’ve had a cell phone for 15 years. I think I got this. Also, I am a grown woman who’s worked in retail and shopped for things allllll by myself for a good portion of my life. I know sales BS when I hear it, and I CAN do math (if given enough time and a pencil and paper). Under the T&A, I promise there’s a fairly functional adult. True story: they let me drive a car and everything. I am going to a store to get information. If the information pleases me, I will make a purchase. That is how shopping works.
Sidebar: my current phone is possessed such that I don’t care about Black Friday. I will spend money to guarantee I’m NOT phantom dialing obscure contacts without touching the phone. (Thankfully I deleted all my ill-advised “dates” from the phone, so it can’t call anyone dangerous, but it’s still not optimal.)

Unloading some family issues

One of the platitudes I resent most is, “You’ll miss your family when they’re gone.”

I have no doubt I will, and hey, thanks for making me feel like a dick, but the fact that I’ll miss them eventually doesn’t change the fact that right now, they’re being assholes. Not everyone is the Cleavers, people — some people have issues.

I’ve been in therapy for months and we’ve barely gotten into my family. Yes, it’s likely that’s where all my shit comes from*, but two things:

1. I am a grown-ass person and don’t want to blame Mommy and Daddy for my ineptitude or unlovability (I KNOW, I’m just being petulant today).

2. My issues are so textbook I feel like it’d be almost insulting to the therapist. Not even textbook, it’s fucking “Cat’s in the Cradle.” I’d explain what’s wrong and the therapist would be like, “Really? You want to pay me to fix this? Go listen to some pop music and Google some shit — you’re smart, you’ll figure it out.” (My therapist gives me an inordinate amount of credit — she’s super impressed when I take out the garbage and thinks my navel-gazing introversion is a good thing — she calls it “self-awareness,” I call it “narcissism.”)

* I have a friend who’s like me in being a complete stubborn ass about therapy, like we KNOW we need it, but UGH. Because I can’t speak for him, but “my problems aren’t real problems, I should just learn to deal.” So when I told him my therapist was a LMFT — licensed marriage and family therapist — and worried if that was really what I needed. And my FELLOW STUBBORN ASS says, “I don’t know… you have a LOT of issues with your family.” So… I guess I can take that to the bank. Or to the therapist. FUCK. I have to talk about real shit and not just “stepping out of my comfort zone” by attending a burlesque class. Tell you what — I’ll do burlesque FOR A LIVING if I don’t have to talk about my family. (<– That sentence right there? Part of my patented Prostitute Starter Set. Thankfully I’m too old to be a profitable prostitute. I CAN, however, troll the dudes on and give them a helluva Girlfriend Experience.)

…I’ve lost control of this post so I’m going to go get more coffee.

Fingerfucking my habitat.

Between the clutter blog and the “erotic gifs,” my Tumblr feed can be very disorienting first thing in the morning.

“Right. Make my bed. LIKE AN ADULT.”

“Oh, wait… A hand in my draw’s? Yeah, we’re doing that. Maybe I’ll make my bed after. (I won’t.)”

I think even the clutter blog would agree that particular excuse is not boring. 


Fun with regression

Surprising no one, I’ve once again made a giant mess of dating and adulthood. That’s it, I quit. I’ll be in my blanket fort eating Kraft mac & cheese. Boys are stupid and they have cooties. (Alternately, I’m an asshole.)