On the trials of womanhood…

I got my period last night. Fucking A. That gives a whole new perspective on why I’ve been so depressed.

Is it just me or is WordPress being fucked up for everyone? I tried to save and continue editing a long entry and it just freaking disappeared.

Woe is me. That’s just the way it is. I am woe, hear me roar!

This sucks! I had a whole great post written and somehow I lost it. Poopy. Today is not my day, I suppose. My internet is being wonky to boot.

I’m very down today. The weather is crappy, I was waiting for a friend to call to go the mall and she never did, my mom and I are not getting along that well, and the online public doesn’t seem to be appreciating my writing (my entry at AvonFanLit). Liza likes it, but I’m suspicious that it’s just because a) she’s my best friend and b) she doesn’t read a lot of romance novels. She does, however, now have an in to the publishing industry, so maybe that’s something.

Anyway, you could say that today I’m just plain old-fashioned depressed. The reasons why don’t matter as much as the fact that I just want to curl up and cry cry cry.

I saw my therapist today and she thinks that part of the reason I’m so depressed is that my doctor is trying to wean me off Cymbalta. Ah, the joys of anti-depressant withdrawal! My doctor wants to put me on some new all natural deal that is supposed to have less side effects, like, you know, making me grossly obese. Anyway, my therapist says that while the withdrawal is not creating these feelings, it is making them more intense. No shit. I feel like ten kinds of shit.

On a tangent: What is up with people saying, “You look tired.” I mean, seriously, what the fuck? I’m trying here. I’m not tired, or ok, I am tired, but it’s because I can’t get to sleep without taking two anti-anxiety pills and a sleeping pill, but you know, I’m trying to look nice. Please don’t tell me I look tired. You just crushed my hopes that I was passing for normal.

But yeah, I was depressed BEFORE my dad died and my house got flooded and I half dropped out of college. Now? I’m lucky if I can smile at all. It takes effort, people. So please be nice to me.

I had to just get up because my dog was making these horrible crying noises and then she started barking like a crazy person. So I go over and there, in our front yard, are the Pomeranians from two houses up. And I think I saw one of them poop! Gross. Anyway, Dog totally hates the Pomeranians. She thinks they are pure evil. (My mom and I think they are cute, which they are.) She thinks that she is bigger (she’s not), better behaved (except for the whole pooping thing, totally not), and cuter (that I’ll give to her, but I’m biased). She’s part Pomeranian herself, so this hatred is rather inexplicable. In fact, I don’t know who she hates more, the Pomeranians or the Evil Neighborhood Children, which is saying something, because the ENC are her mortal enemies.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, I was whining.

Obviously no one would even want to hang out with me. They’d have to be out of their minds. That’s probably why K hasn’t called. Not because she has to do something else or didn’t get my message or forgot she was supposed to go to the mall with me; no, because she doesn’t like me after all. (She’s a relatively new friend.)

Okay, I think I’d better wrap this whinefest up. I have several options for what I could do now. I could: crawl into bed and take a nap/cry, try to make myself feel better by getting my adrenaline pumping and doing some excercising, or playing with Dog, who is quite upset herself after the Pomeranians’ visit.

I’ll try not to take the crying option.

More anonymity?

Hmmm, maybe this isn’t anonymous enough. There are some things I don’t know if I even want Liza to know…

I feel dirty.

Black Friday, or something like that.

Today was another gray and ugly day. I woke up hungover and stayed hungover. I’m wicked depressed, and I don’t know if it’s because my doctor took me off my anti-depressant (seems the obvious answer) or because my life just suck majorly and this is my reaction.

Fuck this, I should just give up the ghost. I’m beginning to think that things will never get better.

Off to cry myself to sleep.

It’s much easier to say this kind of thing anonymously. When people I know see me and ask me how I’m doing, I always lie. I say I’m doing fine, so’s my mom, everything’s fine fine fine.

Fine is a line. The smile is fake. All I am is a dark hole of sadness and grief and I just want to burrow further into my hole, into myself, away from the world.

My mom would never show to me but I can hear her cry at night and I know she feels the same. We’re just two holes, that’s all that’s left of my family.

Every day I miss my dad. I keep thinking it will get easier, but it never does.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow we’re burying my dad’s ashes. I don’t know what to say now, and I doubt that I will have figured something out by then. It’s been four and a half months since he died, and somehow I’m still in shock.

I worked an eight hour shift today. I’m hoping that I’m tired enough that when I hit the bed I will fall asleep immediately. I don’t want to think, don’t want to end up crying myself to sleep.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this.

Dear R.

Dear R:

Here’s the thing— you left me feeling even more like shit than I did already. Maybe you didn’t mean to. I don’t know, you probably didn’t, but I don’t have the energy (or is it the courage?) to ask you, and I don’t really want to listen to whatever response, whatever excuses you have to give.

M says you didn’t mean to hurt me, but he still thinks you’re kind of ugly, and an asshole, and I’m one hundred times better than you. I don’t trust him on this one because he’s never liked you that much. He says when he talked to you about “it” (about us), you said you don’t want to put any effort into a relationship.

That’s just fucked up. You say a want a girl to be “independent.” Well, that’s fine. I’m a fucking feminist. I’m pretty damn independent. I paid for myself whenever we went out, except those few times when you bought me drinks, and goddamnit, you offered. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I wouldn’t mind a guy who’d pay for me on dates, who’d call me without being prompted, who’d initiate the relationship.

At this point, I want to be courted. I want to be taken care of. And maybe that’s selfish, but it’s not, because if we had worked out, I would have taken care of you, too. Not financially, and don’t think it doesn’t piss me off the way you’re so obsessed with money, but emotionally and physically. We could have taken care of each other.

And now I don’t even know what to say to you. You’re mad because I didn’t say hello to you? I said hello, a hundred times. You just weren’t listening.

Will we ever be friends again? Were we ever really friends? I think maybe just casual acquaintances. I feel like I told you so much about myself but never learned anything about you, in spite of the fact that most of the time, all you ever talk about is yourself.

So, yeah. Friends? I don’t know. Maybe. But it’s not going to be like it was. I don’t want to touch anymore, I don’t want you to hold me. I’m not a friends-with-benefits type of girl, and I’m sorry if I connect physical intimacy with emotional intimacy. Right now I need the latter desperately, and I’m afraid that I’m going to confuse it with the former. Hell, that’s what happened with you.

I’m sorry if I’m not cool enough, or punk enough, or unique enough for you. All of our friends said it would be a mistake to fall for you, and they were right. (They also said I’m too pretty for you, and I want to believe them.)

Sincerely (Not Love),

Miss Representation

P.S.— Kissing you was entirely uneventful. I didn’t feel anything like excitement, just hope. Hope that it would get better, because I wanted to be with you, with someone. I don’t know if it’s because you’re a particularly bad kisser (I don’t remember the details of your technique) or just that we had no chemistry. The only chemistry you have is with yourself.

P.P.S.— You breath stinks and your teeth are really yellow. Invest in a better toothbrush, please. Maybe your punk rock girl doesn’t care, but if she doesn’t? I bet she hasn’t tasted you yet.

An Open Letter To My Customers

*First, I wish to say, crouched in my anonymity, that I am in no way affiliated with any major retail chain. In fact, I probably don’t even work at one of them. And if I do, note how I’m not saying which one? Anyway, please don’t sue me or fire me or if you’re a corporate bigwig and you chance upon this little letter.*

Dear Customers,

I love you. I really do. It’s not an act, I’m not being fake when I smile and look pleased to see you. For the most part, I really enjoy interacting with you. I love the variety of people I meet. I like talking to you and making your shopping experience more pleasant.

That being said, I think that this relationship, like any good one, needs a few ground rules. I promise to respect you, to treat you the way I would like to be treated, and to ring you out as quickly and efficiently as I can. In return, I’d like to ask a few things in return:

1.) Please don’t talk on your cell phone while I’m ringing you out. If it rings, could you wait the few seconds until we’re done before you answer? If necessary, let it go to voicemail.

2.) Please don’t think that I’m a babysitter. Just because you’re filling out a check doesn’t mean I can watch your child. They don’t listen to me, and it’s not my fault if they attempt to make a run for it while you’re otherwise occupied.

3.) If you have coupons, let me know. Don’t wait until the transaction is over to yell at me because I missed the coupons you didn’t give me, or shoved somewhere on the register in hopes that I would find them.

4.) Don’t take your hangers. I understand that sometimes a person needs extra hangers, and these are free, but if it’s at all possible, refrain. You may think it makes it easier for me if you just take the hangers; this is a falsehood. Clothes are a heck of a lot harder to bag when there are hangers sticking out of them.

5.) Just be decent, okay? I’m a person, too, and I’m trying my best to take care of you. If I ask you how you are, you don’t have to say you’re doing well; you don’t have to lie if you’re having a bad day. But you don’t need to take it out on me. Say hi. Respond to me when I talk to you. Be as pleasant as you have it in you to be.

See? It’s only five rules. No, not rules even. Suggestions. I think that if you help me out here and follow my advice we can both be much happier.

Thank you and you have a great day!

Your Friendly Cashier

And so it begins…

I’m starting a blog where I can hide behind some anonymity. Where I can say whatever the fuck I want. Yay for the internets, eh?

I don’t know if I’ll post actually blog entries, or poems, or stories, or whatever. Right now I’m open to all possibilities.

At least this is one place in my life where there can be a new beginning.