therapeutic

Whoa, jeezus christ, is this still even a blog? It's more like a quarterly report.

It's not that I've been terribly busy, or that I've not had anything I can write about, it's that I haven't really felt like writing. There you have it plain and simple. I am blerg. All of you don't care, and the one dedicated reader I have is like, "NUH UH, I am not takin the fall for THAT too." To which I say DON'T PANIC.


I would be more original, but Douglas Adams needs a shout out about as often as I need to be reassured. Which is to say, often.


So, sit back, relax, take a deep breath, and allow me to safely, securely, vent my anger and spill my guts in such a way as to hopefully amuse you.



MOTHERFUCKING-BITCH-ASS-AX-MURDERING-SON-OF-A-CUNT-KIND-OF-WEEK.

GOD. DAMMIT. ALL TO HELL.

Three times this week I sat in my car and screamed with such ferocity that my heart raced and my face flushed. Twice this week my eyeballs were afloat with tears at work, and once this week I got unsolvimatically ill with Le Mien.



So, a week that creates this kind of running aneurysm-risk to a person with a considerable tolerance for stress really needs no other explanation/definition besides the symptoms of the victim. Which I just gave you in handy dandy lil 3-2-1 expressionism.


I turned my Med-School application in among all of this. Good idea? Probably not, but I have deadlines to meet and the med school bus, I have come to find out, waits for no one.


And to put the maraschino on the proverbial sundae, I am once again, chillin alone on my own deserted mind-island. I used to have company, but the stress of my mind-island is not for everyone. This is not some woe-is-me, you poor little girl, did you forget about the starving in africa, oh Ye of a million problems rants. NO this is one of my middle-class white female nobody understands me rants, and I am allowed one of these quarterly. Everything up until that last sentence was merely a stage-setter.



Am I obscenely unique? Is it too hard to get along with me? To understand my thought process? To be as happy as me? That’s right, get out your tiny violin and play for me the saddest song in the world. For fucks sake, I have a naturally delightful persona. Everyone I’ve ever worked with, notwithstanding the total aspergers jerks, has deemed me animated, happy and easy to get along with. WHY THEN is it so goddamn hard to be in a relationship with me? I keep to myself, have other interests, I have a nasty habit of caring for others more than I care about myself, and I strive to maintain a more-than-touchable body. All that is a bit ambitious, I admit, sue me.



Sarcasm, and my other defense mechanism, acting like I don’t give a fuck, overshadow those finer qualities of myself. EVIDENTLY?! The fact that I can analyze that statement as such pisses me off even more because the whole reason I created the defense mechanism of acting like I don’t give a fuck was because I was tired of having an expectation of care that was always, always shattered. You can’t feel hurt, and be told you’re being too persnickety or dramatic for bringing it up if you shut out the fact that you’re hurt (circular logic is always fun). I’m tired of having an unrealistic portrait of love painted for me and then jerked out from underneath me like a rug on hardwood. Can you blame me? Can I really be held accountable for a manifestation of my personality protecting me?


What scares and hurts me the most though, is that I had stopped doing these things. I stopped defending, because I believed that there was nothing to defend against. BUT, as it turns out being mentally overridden and pigeonholed into non-intimacy is something worth defending against, because I have been subconsciously defending against them for over four weeks now, or so I’ve been told. And it’s a crying fucking shame, because it’s only in response to feeling disconnected alone and unloved.




Solutions? Eh. Time? Eh. I suppose honesty, but I suppose a lot of things which are never taken seriously.



Patterns fucking disgust me. Hey, here’s a light-hearted shout out to the man who made this whole psychosis possible. Rick? Rick, stand up and give us all a wave, will you? Safely assuring your daughter would piss off all men in a 2 mile radius was a clever chastity belt, gotta hand it to ya man.




The title of this post when I started was 26 things. Cause there are at least 26 things that pissed me the fuck off this week that would have been worthy of writing about. Instead, as I wrote, the title morphed into therapy. Although, I’m not really sure it’s had that effect on me either.

Kitty OUT