This more than likely makes me a bitch, but whatever…
My therapist is trying to get me to stop saying I’m white trash, but today I learned my father proposed to his second wife in an IHOP in 1985, and she ACCEPTED. So when I talk to my therapist tomorrow, I’m looking forward to seeing her trying to therapize THAT, and tell me white trash is not in my DNA somewhere.
Wait, do those 23 and Me kits test for white trash? That’d be amazing — get some SCIENCE on this shit.
One of the things I hate most about depression is… OK, fine, I COULD be. I’ll allow it. But has anyone considered that everything actually IS boring and shitty, and that staying in bed IS, in fact, the solution?
Sometimes my brain is an asshole and tells me awful things, so the therapist has been encouraging me to “reframe” my perspective to something more positive.
To that end, I am NOT single because I am “boring,” or “stupid,” or “undesirable.”
I am merely on Dick Sabbatical. *nod* Sounds scholarly, right? Like I’d been researching dick so zealously for such a long time that one day I went to the board and I was just like, “Naw, man, I need a break — I have cock fatigue.”
Text to friends, based entirely in fact and science:
“They put me on the pill and said I could start it whenever, so I did, but I think my body was already preparing its regular PMS festivities, and when I added bonus hormones I fucked up its groove, because now I hate goddamn everything except you guys and Egg McMuffins.”
It’s one of those menstruation days on which I’m so irrationally exhausted that I’ve become suspicious of the entire process, as if my body is somehow shedding things it shouldn’t, like…”No, no, we NEED that, what are you doing?!”
Before I left the house today I just threw a bunch of pills in my face and chased them with a bucket of coffee. Screw it, it’s bound to fix something.