Musical Masochism

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.)

“I can’t help it. I’m an emotional cutter.”

I heard “emotional cutter” on an episode of “Sex and the City” once, and at the time, I remember thinking, “Well, that’s a stupid expression that trivializes actual cutting.”

Nope. No, it’s not. It’s a sick, fucking compulsive form of masochism that can lead to crying in the ladies’ room at your office.

Ahem. Not that I’d know from personal experience… *sniff*

No. Fuck this. I am so much better than this. And there’ll be wine later. So much wine. (I take no responsibility for any blogging I do under the influence.)

P.S. Facebook is fucking awful.