Maybe I can downgrade to a Stage 4 Clinger…

Therapist: “So, this thing where you’re calling yourself stupid, and clingy, and crazy — where’s that coming from?”

Me: “I don’t know, I feel like I was pressuring him. He has anxiety and depression, too, and I know how that feels, to have someone demanding your time, another THING you have to keep up with. Honestly, I’m kinda psyched to have Sundays to myself again, so I get where he’s coming from.”

Therapist: “OK, I get that. But from everything you’ve told me — and obviously I’m your Person, so I’m biased — this sounds like it’s him, not you. Basically the only thing you asked him for was more sex. Maybe you could’ve been more direct about saying it, but that doesn’t make it clingy, or crazy, or stupid. Putting aside the sexual component, if you had a friend and communication with them dropped off like it did here, would you be concerned and check in with them?”

Me: “Yes.”

Therapist: “That’s not crazy. It’s caring about a human being.”

I LOVE paying people to tell me I’m right.

She told me it was fine to send him an email I’ve written offering a friendship, but the longer I don’t hear from him after the last message I sent, the less interest I have in that idea. I’m not that bad at taking a hint.

“Stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen. It’s not going to happen.”

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.

#WorldsWorstPatient

“Look at me, I’m skinny. It never stopped me from gettin’ busy.”

I would prefer not to be the kind of woman who gets a tiny self-esteem boost when someone asks if she’s lost weight. Especially when it’s accompanied by, “You look so skinny!”

Ahem… I would prefer not to be…

In my defense, I was getting a li’l rotund for 5 feet tall. So it’s good to hear all this fresh food/taking walks/ordering less takeout bullshit may be helping. (Don’t get it twisted — there’s still ice cream. I don’t hate myself THAT much.)

Also, a happy bonus of ADD is that drugs for it can suppress appetite, and dehydrate you so you drink tons of water and aren’t as hungry. They may also have crack in them. I don’t know. I’m not a scientist.

I would prefer not to be the kind of woman who gets a tiny self-esteem boost when someone asks if she’s lost weight. Especially when it’s accompanied by, “You look so skinny!”
Ahem… I would PREFER…
In my defense, I was getting a li’l rotund for 5 feet tall. So it’s good to hear all this fresh food/taking walks/ordering less takeout bullshit may be helping. (Don’t get it twisted — there’s still ice cream. I don’t hate myself THAT much.)
Also, a happy bonus of ADD is that drugs for it can suppress appetite, and dehydrate you so you drink tons of water and aren’t as hungry. They may also have crack in them. I don’t know. I’m not a scientist.

P.S. I know I’ve bitched about people commenting on my weight in the past, so to clarify, this was someone I’m cool with.

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?

Eat a dick, Monday

Sometimes when I have a terrible weekend, I can take a lovely, fuck-the-environment-long hot shower on Monday morning and leave it behind.

Then sometimes I try to leave for work and find out my car is dead.

And that’s fun, too. Like an extended dance fiesta shitty weekend remix.

P.S. Aaand of course the tow truck dude is incredulous that I “don’t have a guy” who can drive me to work while it’s being fixed. Thanks, man, ‘ppreciate that.

Not today, Satan.

Can someone please come exorcise this weepy bitch from my brain? I’m not sure how she got here, but she’s kind of an asshole.

Boosting morale and apparently also your dick

So, hey, Creepy Guy From Another Office in my Building to Whom I’ve Only Ever Said ‘Hi’ in a Small Talky Sense…

I have not “been on a diet.”

I have not “lost weight.”

I DO “look good,” but it’s pretty gross that you said ALL that while passing me in the hall. I realize I can’t get you to stop appraising my body, but it’d be SUPER great if you could stop reporting your findings aloud.

Worse, I said “Thank you,” because I’m an asshole, and am now wondering what kind of goddamn hambeast I looked like before. (I look fine, it’s just my dress — sundresses are very kind to my body.)

By the way, yes, I do think I’d be this pissy if it were an attractive man who said it. Because you brought my weight AND dieting into your “compliment,” implying my weight until today had been somehow suboptimal. So fuck you twice-baked.

P.S. By the way, dicknuts — depression, anxiety, and stress can also cause weight loss. In my case, so can being on drugs that screw with your appetite and hopefully prevent you from going crazy. But hey, I’m thrilled I’m able give you your Monday lunchtime semi. I’ll go find out who I speak to about adding “fluffer” to my business card.

The “P” in “PMS” stands for “pugilistic”

Apparently I’m so much of a flirt that men think it’s my default setting?

I’ve been texting with an OkCupid guy for a couple weeks. Today’s conversation began with him saying he hadn’t texted yesterday because his work life had been turned upside down, and then he found out his friend had been diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic.

I told him I was sorry, that sucked, and I hoped the weekend treated him better. He asked how my week was going, and I said, “Pretty good, no complaints,” because that is the answer to that question.

Then he asked if I was “still being a proper lady,” a joke I’ve been making about trying not to flirt too much before we actually meet.

Uh… Sorry, my bad. Didn’t know “paranoid schizophrenic” was supposed to affect my panty places. Should I have said, “Bummer. So, hey, how’s your dick doing?”

I told him it seemed odd to respond with smut, and he seemed pissy and said, “I was just explaining why my attentions had been elsewhere. But the turbulence has cleared and I’m back to blue skies now.”

OK. Well, sorry again. I didn’t notice the sun shining out of your ass, and didn’t know I was obligated to taste your rainbow whenever you feel like flirting.

I started composing a response, but everything I typed just sounded cunty. I put the phone down so I could think before I spoke.

My level of irritation caused me to go do the math on my menstrual cycle, because this bitchface felt prescient. And yep, should be any day now.

When I hadn’t answered an hour later, he followed up with, “Did I offend?” Yes. Yes, you did, but I don’t know if it makes sense that you did, or if I’m projecting issues from a previous “relationshit.” I need a minute. Plus, hi, there’s this new thing called work? I waited a day, you can’t wait an hour? No. That’s not how this is gonna go. <– Oof. Yeah, now that I write that, it’s related to past events, for sure. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be offended, but I should take it into account.

When I told him I was, “Just confused, and also working,” he said, “You’re supposed to stop working when I text you. I thought you knew that. 😛 Sorry if I confused you, though I’m not sure how. I hate text, you can’t convey tone well.” Hey, you know what didn’t just help your case, even with that bullshit “:P” after it…? (<– And that’s different baggage.)

He asked if he should stop texting me, and I said, “I might not respond right away, but you’re welcome to if you want.” He said he was afraid to, that the conversation was “colder than the air outside,” and that he was going to “retreat” and I could text him whenever I was free and felt like it. Again, the fuck? And again, Bitchface McMenses.

Also? I give ZERO fucks if you don’t text for 24 hours. We haven’t even met. You’re under no obligation to communicate with me every day, nor to explain yourself when you don’t.

I’ll stop this saga now. I think I just need to get some sleep. And maybe take my Midol before I come to class.

Fuck you, football.

My ex’s sister is still on my Facebook feed, and she just posted a photo of her husband and their two kids all jerseyed up to watch Sunday football.

Why am I suddenly verklempt about what a great father my ex is going to be and all the cutesy photos we’d take if we’d had kids?

Goddammit, brain. Your problem was never that having children wouldn’t be totes adorbs on Facebook. Knock it the fuck off.

On the first day of Emo…

My brain is no longer tormenting me after Nine Days of Emo. (Sort of like the 12 Days of Christmas — equally shitty music, far less tinsel.)

Sshhhh! Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting equilibrium.