Look, if this is the way the world is going to be, that’s fine. (Well, it’s NOT, but…)
But I’m gonna need some designated, socially accepted time for the ensuing breakdowns.
“Sorry I disappeared from my desk. I just needed a few minutes to cry about everything. I’m good now!”

“I just have a lot of feelings…”

I take the pill in a way that allows me to skip my period. But every so often my body just decides to spot until I let it happen, so I am, and now I’m about to cry at 10 a.m., and OH RIGHT, this is why I don’t DO THIS SHIT.

“And you’re gonna hear me”…blubber like a baby…

Just saw Katy Perry on TV, soundchecking “Roar” at the #DNC.

FUCK. I’m-a cry proud, empowered tears for the sisterhood tonight, aren’t I?

Sorry, Irish. Shit’s getting real later.

I definitely shouldn’t be as proud as I am of my ability to choke down sudden-onset Feels and get on with my workday, but my GOD, this time was impressive.

I deserve some sort of Irish medal.

But…tonight is pretty much earmarked entirely for a date with Fiona Apple, bourbon, and an Ugly Cry.

And hey, happy bonus of the nausea: my lunch is still sitting untouched on my desk. They’re diet feelings this time! Feelings Lite! 100-Calorie Feelings!

Ahem. There’s a line from “Friends” where Chandler introduces himself by saying, “I’m Chandler, I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable.”

P.S. I’ll be fine. Don’t call any hotlines.

Relieving emotional tension < relieving sexual tension. 

Between hormones and holiday stress, I just ended up Ugly Crying over something incredibly stupid, and now my brain is convinced I am unlovable and will die alone. So that’s always fun. I think these particular feelings will need to be handled via pizza.

I almost never cry, so storing it all up for the twice-yearly Ugly Cry is sort of like when I finally get laid — I never realize how long it’s been since I’ve done it, so I just explode from the catharsis of it all. It generally works out much better during sex, but the result is the same: I end up collapsed in an exhausted, lifeless heap. And I feel a lot better. And I demand snacks.


How to Care for Your Smug, page 17, section 6:

“In the event of a bad workday, allow your Smug to Ugly Cry alone, because she is emotionally stunted and can’t cry in front of people.

“When she calms down, apply one steak burrito with extra dairy products, and an order of Wendy’s fries with barbecue sauce. Repeat as needed.

“If possible, sit your Smug down in front of any Shonda Rhimes show (new or old) with any vodka-based beverage(s). This is her cognitive behavioral therapy. (See also: “Dance it out.”)

“Put Tipsy Smug to bed immediately with a George Carlin audiobook playing.”

I blow at my job which is thankfully not giving blowjobs.

I had a shit day at work and had finally calmed down enough to debate numbing my pain at the burrito restaurant, and actually thought to myself, “I highly doubt you’d be the first tear-streaked woman to walk in there and demand a hillock of cheesy goodness.”

Nothing major, I’m just terrible at my job and at everything and I should probably just go sell shrimp out of a van except I’m allergic to shrimp and am bad at math as well, so I’d always give people the wrong change and then my van would get shut down.

You know…typical Thursday.

The Catharsis of the Ugly Cry

I take weird pride in being able to — mostly — suppress anger or sadness. “Sorry, Brain, no time to break down right now. We have things to do, fine to be.” I don’t know what makes me think stoic equals strong, and I don’t think that of others, but it’s what I try for. Plus I usually need a little time to process things.

But obviously there’s a tipping point. Holding that stuff in for too long makes me tense, and when I finally blow up, it gets ugly (or amazing, if I’ve been suppressing sexual desire).

The upside? An Ugly Cry can be gloriously cathartic. Finally letting it out feels so, SO good, and then everything can start healing.

But I’ve been NEEDING to Ugly Cry for about a week, and haven’t been able to. It keeps trying to get me, like, on my way into work, and I have to put on my “fine” face and focus on things that need to get done. When I get time alone, there are movies and cookies and orgasms to be had. But I’m kind of starting to feel like a terrible person. Am I just dead inside, so easily distracted by baked goods and old movies?

Could I schedule a breakdown? Maybe take some sort of emotional laxative? (A disgusting metaphor, surely, but accurate. A Miralax for feelings — Feelalax. “Emotionally stunted? Ask your doctor if Feelalax is right for you!”)

Eventually I’m going to get hit with one of those sad animal commercials and just lose my goddamn mind.

Handle your business, Brain, or I’ll handle it for you. I’ll put on Up! and you’ll be weeping on the floor like a bitch 5 minutes in. Don’t think I won’t.

When’s the next “punching things” class?

I’ve learned that I can get incredible tension relief and clarity from both sex and an Ugly Cry. (Ideally not at the same time.)

If I discover the same is true for exercise, I’m gonna be, like, the hottest shaman ever by the end of this year.