Productive day. Well, it is if you call seeing “27 Dresses”, laughing and sobbing heartily, and then leaving and having an awesome panic attack a shining example of productivity.
The movie was delightful. But it’s not your movie … oh, no — it was written, produced and filmed for ME and no one else. Katherine Heigl’s “Jane” was so busy attending to everyone else’s every need that she neglected to realize that she had any needs of her own.
Everyone took advantage of her generosity and grace — they came to depend on it and take it for granted. (Hmm, does that sound like anyone we know and love who, say, authors this blog?) And being forced to organize the wedding of the love of her life — a wedding that was NOT to her — well, *gasp* and *sigh.*
I’m going to can it right here and now, lest I write my own movie in this blog post, although one can argue that the movie WAS written with me in mind. 😉 But it makes you wonder whether — if you find you might be able to be with the person about whom you’ve dreamed — the magic that you expect will be there, well, WILL actually be there.
In any case, I’d told my friends that I had three things planned for the weekend: eating, seeing this movie, and dying. The order in which those happened, however, was optional. And now that I’ve knocked out two of three, the last can come at any moment now.
Actually, the last moment almost came when some fuckhead in a big, ugly truck changed lanes and almost killed me. I was laying on the horn and high-beaming but I couldn’t slow down because everyone has to live up your ASS on the highway, so I practically got run off the road.
I ended up jamming on the brakes as fuckwit came over into my lane and actually went over one more so he could turn left. Motherfucker. (There was a great scene in the movie where “Jane” went outside to scream “Motherfucker!” to release some steam, and she ended up realizing she had stepped into someone’s 50th anniversary party. Hah. Perfect. That’s something I would do/have done!)
Anyway, when I got cut off, I screamed my usual, “DIE! IN A FIRE!!!”
And I realize I need to stop saying that. Someone pointed out to me yesterday that I am under so much stress lately that the perhaps-not-so-major things are fair game for my rare-but-colorful, full-on conniption fits. OK, so maybe it wasn’t fair of me to suggest at a very loud volume that someone deserved to be anally prodded with prehistoric artifacts and then beaten with them. But in my mind, the reaction was an equal and appropriate response to the undue duress caused to me.
Almost everyone I know is falling apart, healthwise. We’re in our 30s and comparing maladies and meds. Moreover, we’re all coming out of the doctor with the same advice from them: “Reduce your stress levels.” I’ve been on medication for a (physical, thank you very much) condition for over three months and guess what? THE PILLS AREN’T WORKING. The doctor’s assessment: “It’s a stress-related condition. And losing weight wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Um. Stress = stress eating. Stress eating = ass fat = more stress. Ergo, more stress eating.
In other news, I renewed my lease today. Thank you, bastards for the $75/mo. increase. It sounded nicer when they said it would be a 5% increase. Hah.
But yeah, when I turned in my lease extension, my grumbling to myself was, “Here’s to another year of total bullshit.” The home I have grown to hate because it offers me absolutely nothing in the way of comfort, privacy or peace, I’ve just agreed to pay more for, and for another 14 months. How FUCKING special.
No wonder I had a panic attack in the middle of 355. I am accustomed to moronic drivers. Fuck, this car has cost me so much money, go ahead and dent it or steal it. Shit, I had it at the mechanic’s this morning — unlocked with the keys in the ignition for the two hours it took them to get to my 9 a.m. appointment (at 11 a.m. Shit).
The panic wasn’t that I was going to die. The panic was that I have to suffer through another year, fiscal quarter, month, week, day, hour, MINUTE with this sandbag that’s standing in for a heart. That all my problems are happy to sit on their asses and make themselves at home for the long haul while I’m suffocating at not having a moment without something that feels like wrenching your asshole down a double-dong that’s void of Astroglide.
There are days when my faith comes easily. There are others in which it comes eventually. Tomorrow, I am going back to church after my one-week hiatus. Mostly because someone wrote to me and asked me specifically about meeting up afterward. I had written back that I was a little concerned from the prior week, that if I can’t spare the time to volunteer for the church, then maybe I’m not the type of member they’re looking for.
So help me, I cannot take on another commitment. I mean, I FELL ASLEEP IN A MEETING on Friday. Awesome. Nothing says “polished professional” like FALLING THE FUCK ASLEEP at a conference table.
So, we’ll see how tomorrow goes. But I’m telling you right now, it’s like Amway and they’re no doubt looking to get me involved. And right now, they’re not on my “If I Could Murder 10 People and Get Away With It” wish list, because the top spots are quite secure, but I could very well change that “10” to an “11” (or “50”) without a second thought. …