Depression is expensive

Describing my past week or so to the therapist…

Therapist: “So…do me a favor and keep an eye on that, because that could be depression creeping back in.”

Me: “Um, nope. No, it’s not, because I JUST paid $85 to see the nice lady with the meds, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m paying it again before my next appointment.”

Time to see if I can “cheap” my way out of a mood disorder!

(I am not doing things I’m supposed to be doing, so I will endeavor to do those things. If it doesn’t help I will certainly go see the nice lady.)

Call Me By Your Name

Jesus Christ, book I’m reading. Just call me out by name next time, damn…

 

(The Year of Less, by Cait Flanders, if you wondered. I wasn’t expecting to feel so personally attacked by a book about saving money and getting rid of clutter.)

All the women, who independent, throw your hands up in frustration…

So, I haven’t mentioned that I’m moving again, probably in about 2 weeks. The rent in my generic, cookie-cutter apartment complex is going up to an amount that’s basically a mortgage. I COULD pay it, but decided to go see what else I could get for that amount or less.

Turns out, I can get the same amount of space but WAY cuter, a more walkable neighborhood, better food options, and closer to everyone I love, for about $400 less a month.

I made lists. I did math. I considered all my life factors and made a grownup decision. When I talked to my therapist, she told me it sounds like the perfect choice for everything I’ve said is important to me, including my budget and mental health.

NO one in my family is happy for me. Everyone got some shit to say.

Today my grandfather offered to let me move in with him, basically rent free, saying my new rent is “still a lot of money,” and my dad chimed in and said, “Yeah, can you imagine putting that amount in the bank every month? After 5 years you’d have, what, $60,000?”

Um…$60,000 for WHAT, exactly? My retirement to an institution because I haven’t had sex in 5 years and have gone insane living with a 90-year-old man who watches home shopping at full volume all day and lectures me about my sodium intake?

It’s a VERY sweet offer, honestly. I’m incredibly grateful. If I am ever in any form of dire life straits, obviously this would be a lifesaver. (Speaking of which, I’m not a total asshole — Granddad doesn’t need live-in help; his health is probably better than mine.)

But I know my family, and this is a goddamn trap. I love my grandfather, but dude IS the patriarchy. I’ve lived alone for 5 years, sir, sometimes unemployed, and the beauty of that particular soul crush is, you learn to fucking handle your bid-ness. I don’t know what kind of helpless, broke-ass princess they think they’ve raised, but I ain’t havin’ it.

I am going to live alone, and walk around naked, and stay up too late, and binge watch My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on weekends, and hopefully have noisy, raucous sex followed by salt-laden Indian takeout at the first available opportunity.

NOW. If you’ll please excuse me, I gotta go throw my hands up at Destiny’s Child.

Subtext Messages

Therapist: “So, if you’ve been able to decide you don’t care what your family thinks about your life, why can’t you apply that thought process to your romantic relationships, rather than reading War and Peace-complex subtext into every interaction?”

Me: “Ummm… because my family are Birthers, and the people I date are not, so it’s not that simple? Divide my bill into minutes — I want a refund for that question.”

Cost analysis of psychoanalysis

I’m going to my scheduled therapy session tonight, but only because if I bail last-minute I still have to pay them. But my brain is being super bitchy about it, presenting a compelling argument that it’s currently preoccupied with “too-busy-at-work stress” feelings, and we don’t talk about those, we eat and drink them, and frankly don’t even care to hear your stupid “healthier coping mechanisms.” Yoga won’t help, blow me.

For the money I’m ’bout to hand this broad, I could consume my weight in froofy martinis and fried food. I’m just saying, from a cost:benefit standpoint, we better fucking solve some big shit this session. I better leave with, like, NO abandonment issues.

Bring it, lady.

Making time for what matters

Texting a friend:

Me: “I just turned down paid overtime work for this weekend in favor of sex and ice cream. #priorities”

Friend: “Those are the clearest priorities I’ve ever imagined.”

No, really. These are things we can buy.

Obviously you’ll also need the $34 brush to apply it — you can’t just throw it on your fat face like a goddamn animal. So a “slenderized” face can be yours for the bargain price of $58!

Introducing Amazon Prime’s Asshole Plan…

An acquaintance shared this on Facebook:

I only bothered reading the first 20 or so comments, so maybe someone said it beyond that, but I didn’t see anyone suggest maybe, um…NOT lying to your spouse about your spending habits?

One of the comments LEGIT advised using Amazon’s lockers so the husbands wouldn’t see.

*sigh* You go enjoy your very healthy marriage. I’m single, so what the shit do *I* know?

Also, “HA HA HA, we’re women and we love to shop and we do so irresponsibly and then lie about it, HA HA HA FUNNY HA HA.”

(I know, I know — it’s a joke and I’m a buzzkill.)

#NationalJunkFoodDay / Popcorn Patriot

Co-signed, for tonight I shall bathe in movie theater popcorn, telling both my diet and my budget to go fuck themselves.

Via The Oatmeal:

Underground Railroad, Above-Ground Stupidity

The shit we BITCH about… She’s not SMILING?!

I can’t imagine why. The Underground Railroad seemed like a real hoot.

It IS a shame she’s not smiling, since all those white dudes on my money are happy as fuck. They’re ALL whimsy and shenanigans, sticking out their tongues, one’s got a friend doing bunny ears behind his head. And OMG, it’s totes hilar-balls how Franklin’s got one of those moustaches on a stick on the $100 — motherfucker was so jolly, Santa Claus asked him for pointers. In fact, Franklin advised Santa to get the reindeer. *nod* I think I read that somewhere.

Via The Guardian: ‘Cheer up, love’ – why is Harriet Tubman being told to smile 100 years after her death?