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 OurTime.com and give them a helluva Girlfriend Experience.)

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

I makeup.

Whenever I make an effort and put on eye makeup, I find myself getting distracted when I look in mirrors throughout the day, because, “Whoa, whose eyes are THEY? I look amazing.”

Yet I don’t wear it every day. Not at ALL because I’m lazy, merely because I fear the world just can’t handle it.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

Narcissist for narcotics.

If there’s not already such a thing as a definitive height of narcissism*, I may have created it this morning when I took a selfie outside the therapist’s office.

In my defense, I looked really good — I wrapped up my Crazy all pretty.

* I assume the actual definitive height of narcissism HAD to have been established at some point in the Kim/Kanye merger, or surely by Presidential Candidate Who Shall Not Be Named.

Date night self-assessment

I know I’m finally ready to leave for a date when I look in the mirror and think, “Pssh. I’d bang me.”