Sorry to all you hopefuls lookin for a chuckle, I’m about to write another sadsack post. If you keep reading, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
It’s the first day of My Flow, (oh hey there, Internet), so I keep crying over unnaceptable things like when the song track for Les Mes comes on unexpectedly, or when a YouTube ad features Neil Patrick Harris (hot) telling me it gets better (kind)….(hot+kind+rag=tears). In case you’re a guy who’s never indulged a girl on “what its like to have a period” here:
It is a million invisible knives stabbing you at any given moment. It waits until you’ve found that perfect moment after your first sip of tea. STAB. Oh, you’re flirting with a guy for the first time in 2 months? STAB. You’re crying and eating chocolate covered ice-cream at the same time, eh? STAB STAB, cry harder. And no dose of Midol can fix you, because you’re BMI is lower than Calista Flockheart’s and even 1 tablet makes you high enough to feel like there are holes in your personality.
There, you can no longer claim ignorance.
I’ve noticed this thing about most people, and allow me to sound 14 for one sec: They treat my like a dirty ballsack. Dirty ballsacks aren’t generally treated well, btw, otherwise they’d be clean. Sorry about my gross metaphor, but if you’ve read this far, you can deal. And this isn’t a man-hating rant, I have just as much, if not more, trouble with women.
Multiple people, of varying closeness to me, have told me that I have “something about me” that gives me the heads up to go ahead and stomp all over my heart and deflate my dreams. They smell blood, I think. Human nature, right?
I’ve put solid effort into a bitch front to avoid this problem. Andrew called me Bitchten for a while and laughed with slight annoyance when I screened his calls. That lasted for about 2 months.
I’ve tried asserting myself. For some reason, this is extremely tough me. It’s hard for me to do because I usually really dislike infringing on other’s wants and sometimes I’m even unsure of my own. I actually have a habit, and maybe you know it, of listening to other people and then talking myself into their ideas. It’s like an inversed form of denial or something? Anyway, I’m just as fucked as the next person. Back in the day, Andrew and I used to order pizza at Anthony’s (before Gay’s Gullbladder busted up our fatty fun), and every week they would pry my order out of my indecisive head. It took us forever to place an order, and I’m pretty sure I permanently shrunk my stomach because I really, truly, hate/am afraid to say what I want.
Anyway I have actually said what I want a few times since. I tell people not to fuck with me. I know exactly what I like on my pizza (hot peppers, bacon and regular pepper or more bacon, thx). I proudly assert that Ke$ha is a genius in disguise and that I love people who speak with their eyes.
But somehow, i fall into the background of almost every friendship I’ve ever had. To most people, I’m actually as disposable as a cloth diaper to many of the friends I’ve had–good for a couple uses and then totally trash-worthy. And I don’t know how I do it. I DONT KNOW WHAT IT IS ABOUT ME. it’s like my friendship IQ is 12 or something. Thats the worst part. I’m 26 and I still can’t figure out how to stay close to people and teach them to treat me right. And man, it’s not for lack of trying.
i’m gonna go drink wine and watch old videos of Miley Cyrus twerking. I think if I focus, my tongue will grow to be like hers.