Poor Panda.
I rolled in way too early this morning.
There was a hungover girl on our couch.
I tried to be quiet.
I failed.
Woke ‘em both up.
She had been up drinking last night and did leg day at the gym yesterday.
Shoulda been the good roommate/hostess and made them coffee, fetched them Advil, listened to their misadventures from last night.
Well, I did do those things.
Then Panda asked how I was doing and I couldn’t hold back that high-pitched, keening wail that I do when I go full white girl and cannot even.
I know it scares the shit out of her and I couldn’t stop.
Funny enough, I was speaking completely rationally through the sobs.
I am being emotionally blackmailed by my uterus right now and it is making me feel like a crazy person.
Rational me knows this.
Irrational me is imagining Doomsday scenarios.
The trip switch has been flipped and I just gotta ride it out.
I realized something, and articulated it through my hiccupping crying jag.
I write shit down in here to bury it.
I make it into a story so it doesn’t hurt me anymore.
Until…
Remember that scene in the Mummy where the expedition guide dude yells out “You must not read from the book!”
He is not wrong. Bad idea.
The seas are about to run red anyways and I went and triggered the other 6 plagues of Egypt.
I have called this blog a giant coffin, named my heart a graveyard, I admit that I am haunted.
I am the white people in the horror movie that hear ghosts whisper ‘get out’ and I stay anyways.
I opened the Necronomicon. For reasons unknown I thought it was safe to say shit out loud.
It ain’t.
“Oh for a moment of forgetting, is a moment of bliss.” Peter Gabriel
I got 11 days of forgetting and it was bliss.
I was so scared that I had hurt someone that I went and ripped all my bandages off, showed all my scars, explained how I had been hurt…and fuck, it hurt.
“I had feelings for them and they left me and it really sucked.”
And just like that, inner peace shattered.
90% of the time I have a handle on all this.
Everything is temporary, everything is as it should be blah blah Buddha blah.
Then I remember.
I wrote an article called “Open Letter to my Exes” and I fucking thanked them.
Seriously?
Admittedly I am really happy with who and where I am, but come on. I am not a Saint nor a martyr.
So on that note…
Seriously, fuck you guys.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you.
I am so fucking hand-shy now I start waiting for them to leave before the second date.
Fuck you.
Every plan beyond a day or two later makes my stomach roll with fear. I should have butterflies dammit. But nope. My hopes go up for a split second and I have to smash them down. I’ve heard that before. I have heard all of it before.
Fuck you.
This uterus of mine has me feeling ugly and worthless a few days a month. These exes of mine have me feeling ugly and worthless every time I think about when they left.
I know this will pass but for now I’ll write it out and bury it.
Maybe this time it won’t come back to haunt and hurt.
