You know what? No.

My therapist told me to pay attention to my feeeelings and ask myself “Why?” when I don’t feel like doing something, and “I don’t goddamn feel like it and you’re not my mom” is not an acceptable answer.

And this is where mood stuff gets dumb. Because what’s she’s saying is that depression can look a lot like “being a lazyfuck garbage monster,” and we have to determine which one I’m doing, and, like… Lady, it’s COLD out, and dark at 4 pm. No one wants to do anything. I am not depressed. Have you looked around? Everything just blows. Motivated people are the problem — medicate THOSE weirdos. Leave me to my blankets.

There is less white trash at a cotton ball factory.

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.

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.)

“Dying alone is fine.”

Therapist: “So, how’s dating? Have you written anyone back on the apps?”

Me: “Of course not, don’t be absurd.”

Therapist: “You know, if you don’t WANT to be dating…”

Me: “It’s not that I don’t WANT to. It’s just… Like we’ve talked about, I want someone who’ll fit into my life, which is pretty decent with just me — well, minus the depressive bits. And I’d SUPER like to have some sex. But about once a month I’ll hear something terrible about a man and I’ll think, ‘Ya know…I don’t really need one of those. Dying alone is fine.’ So I guess I’m just not in a hurry.”

The City of Brotherly Leave Me the Fuck Alone

I wonder how many men have ever felt the need to re-route their walk home because, while it’s LIKELY the creepy subway dude who’d referred to them as both “honey” AND “baby” had the same simple, innocuous thought they did, and decided to walk the mile back to their mutual neighborhood rather than wait another half hour for the next bus, the fact remains he WAS walking a short distance behind them for a bit, and they can really never be SURE…

Also, what the hell? My therapist ASSURED me my emotional walls were so high that men couldn’t even see me. Aside from that one dude, I’d been walking no more than 5 minutes before two other men felt the need to say “hi” to me.

Um… Did I get hotter? Or, more likely, did my self-esteem dip a little lower today and y’all can just smell it? Jesus Christ, leave me alone.

The rare and elusive Psychoticunt…

Father’s Day is interesting when both you and your sister are mad at your father for being a passive-aggressive dumbass and — let’s be honest — for always choosing his other family over you. Especially when you don’t feel welcome in his home right now, anyway, because his wife is a psychotic cunt. (Psychoticunt?)

What’s good, Hallmark? Where’s my cute, clever card for this?

The therapist said it’s perfectly acceptable for me to just text him, so…score.

Sorry, man, but…ya know — cats, cradle, etc. For once I gotta choose me instead of keeping peace. You’re both already pissy with me — fuck it, I might as well get a relaxing Sunday out of it.

P.S. My therapist didn’t know “Cat’s in the Cradle,” and I’m honestly stunned they don’t teach that shit in therapy school. That and “Daddy Wasn’t There.” Y’all need to re-examine your curriculum. Music education is important.

Bumble Rumble

I spoke to my therapist about my anxiety in talking to men on dating apps, and she said, “Well, if you don’t want to, you don’t want to, and that’s perfectly fine. But all the other things you said might be holding you back, you don’t seem sure you don’t want to. And the only way you’re going to be sure is if you try.”

So I wrote to FIVE entire Bumble guys, including Hot Chef, and of course everyone except Hot Chef wrote me back. *grumble* FINE.

But also, and this is the important part — they wrote me back, and then, after 24 hours of still feeling like I might throw up every time I tried to respond, I DID respond.

Full disclosure: It REALLY helps when it’s early and all you have to do to “respond” is copy/paste what you did over the weekend. But I DID it, is the point. So hopefully I’ll have an answer, an orgasm, or at least some quality first-date stories, soon.