It’s the End of Neuroticism as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

To some people, their current lives are the result of one “AHA” moment in time when they say, “Enough’s enough. My life is going to vastly change from this second on.” For others, it is a back-and-forth battle with tears and much boob sweat, orgasms and sucker punches. Usually the second kind of people are suffering from mental health issues, or are born under a Libra sky. Whatever the case, I would most definitely agree that I am of the second and (in my opinion) more interesting sort- and yes, I suffer from both an indecisive Libra birth and un-medicated mental health issues.

You all know by now that of my own volition, I have been married, divorced, been called a cunt, accepted barrenness, and have made a few friends (and enemies) all while writing about it occasionally and refusing to seek treatment for my shoe and book addictions. I must admit, immediately after my divorce, my Rockstar was right to accuse me of “neediness and instability.” In my defense, after a twelve year relationship, I had every right to suffer these inadequacies. Still, I am pleased to announce that while not completely healed of my self-inflicted scars, I have accepted my faults, and since people still believe in my general awesomeness, it seems, released them.

Throughout my three year relationship with my Rockstar, it’s true that neuroticism and anxiety has reigned supreme. Perhaps it was because I was worried he might not have feelings for me, or perhaps it was because I was afraid I might be wasting my time trying to become an acceptable step-mother figure, or perhaps it was just because my Rockstar was too male-minded to realize what he’d not have if I decided to leave. I understand his irritation at tears I may have shed, as well as I understand the reason for the tears themselves. It’s taken me awhile to notice that sometimes, guys just don’t get it.

After talking to an old acquaintance the other day, despite the fact that I despise my job and sometimes my apartment, I was pleased to discover that all is right in my world. I have found the strong and independent woman who decided to leave her husband all those years ago even though she knew it would hurt, and I am perfectly content with my Rockstar, whether he will admit his Lovedom of me or not. It seems he has accepted my histrionic disorders, and tries his best to cater to them though he might not understand.

I know, you ask- “What little consequence is it to us, your readers,  that you have finally become instability-free and happy? Write about something interesting already!”

To you, I say- Without my anxiety, there will be many more delightful and witty posts for you to read. And anyhoo, this is MY blog, bitches! And while the entire world is maybe not always about me, my blog world most certainly is. So there. XOXO

Who Are You?

“Who are you?”

That was the first question in

Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself.

Ironic, isn’t it,

that a book that’s supposed to

help you find yourself expects you to tell it

who you are?

I could write my name in the blank line,

but I’m sure that’s not what Mcleod meant-

since there are seven more blank lines.

I look up at the ceiling,

pondering.

Who am I?

I wonder aloud.

Just then,

I notice the sparkles on the ceiling I’m looking at.

I’ve lived here for three years and never realized

I’ve been living under an artificial Home Depot sky.

I come back to the task at hand.

I put pen to paper-

the handwriting I hate that is mine comes out in a

beautiful fuschia gel shade.

I am a person who talks to herself,

gets distracted by sparkly things,

and is, at times, completely un-observant.

I nod, satisfied.

I think Mcleod would approve.

I continue.

I am terrible at making decisions.

I pause.

But once I make one, I do not change my mind.

Not entirely true,

since I was once married,

and am no longer.

What Mcleod doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

That reminds me.

I am someone who cheats.

No.

I am someone who cheats. I have cheated in past lives, but not in this one.

Much better.

Now on to the nitty gritty.

The thoughts come faster than I can write

and I forget a few.

I am a mother, but have no children.

I long for a father, but refuse to forgive the one I have.

I love alone time, but am terrified to be abandoned.
I work hard, but am irrevocably lazy.

I believe in God, but I think He can be an asshole sometimes.

I want to be a writer, but find every excuse not to write.

I am amazingly stubborn, yet I compromise more than anyone else I know.

I am the saddest girl there ever was,

yet everyone that knows me say,

“How happy she is!”

That’s the one that always gets me.

Unforgettable, cunt, beautiful, odd-looking, sexy, dorky, talented, loser, amazing,

These are all words others have used to describe me;

I cannot help but wonder who it is they are talking about.

When I look in the mirror,

I am just me.

I read everything I’ve just written.

Contradictions, every single one.

I toss Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself on the floor, irritated.

How are you supposed to know who you are when

everything about you is a paradox?

I look back up at my imitation stars.

I think a moment,

about all that I have done,

the people I have known,

the lives I have lived;

then resolutely, I pick up Mcleod’s self help book.

I scribble a little on the corner of a page

to make sure my fuschia pen still works

before I write one more thing.

I am Love.

 

 

 

 

 

A Life Not Lived

So you probably all know by now that I was married once upon a time a couple years ago. Throughout the duration of my marriage, I devised a plan of what I would do if I was not married. (that may give you a clue as to how unhappy I was). Anyhoo, my plan actually became known as my Divorce Plan. (in the off chance that I was to get divorced.) Little did I know a guy known as Rockstar was going to come along and derail my little plan. Here is the extent of the life I would have perhaps had if my Divorce Plan had been executed as expected:

As soon as my divorce papers were final, I planned on selling every item I owned (I hadn’t decided about the books yet) taking the money I accrued and making my way to Las Vegas. I thought, “Hey. I’ve been a waitress before. I bet tips would be great in Vegas.” I planned on getting a job as a cocktail waitress at the Venetian, because they had the most fabulous uniforms. (Poofy skirts and heels) If I was unlucky enough to not land a job at this grand hotel/casino, the Flamingo was my backup. (Because it’s pink.)

In my mind, I always prepare for the worst. And so, I had resigned myself to working at the Bunny Ranch as a hooker (I KNOW I would make good money there…) when I couldn’t land a job at the casinos of my choice. After making millions, (or at least hundreds of thousands) off of my stellar pussy techniques, I was going to move to New York and become a writer, making even more money off of my memoir entitled simply Whore. It would then have been turned into a movie or a mini-series (Showtime, not HBO) in which I would have played myself, (because no one could play me as good as I) and I would have won an Emmy, or an Oscar for my performance. (Because my lifetime of pathological lying has made my acting quite superb)

I would then land a recurring role on Law and Order SVU as Stabler’s new partner.(because Mariska decided to have another baby and stay home) My character would be able to banter wittily with Richard Belzar’s Munch character, and her utter little-girl-lost personality would compel Stabler to divorce his wife and marry my character because of his macho I-must-save-you personality.

After filming SVU every day, I would give Chris Meloni a booby squish goodbye, and then go sit by the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park. I would watch all the interesting people walking by, and make up stories about them in my head, until one day a very handsome man, (or a very beautiful woman) came and sat next to me, and asked what I was doing.

We would immediately feel a spark, and never leave each other’s side. The royalties from my books and acting career would be enough that I would then buy a castle in Ireland, (complete with a library and one of those rolly-ladder thingys on which I would swing about and burst into song) where my beloved (him or her) and I would live happily ever after, procreating (or adopting) 5 boys,  and accruing 3 mastiffs and a Ford Mustang. And a goat.

(Chris Meloni would be devestated when I quit the show.)

I guess all that seems a little bit too dramatic. I guess I’ll stay here and have sex with my Rockstar…