Day 63: Therapy

My recent spin-out is definitely PMS. I feel my ovaries being dragged by a pitch fork through my fallopian tubes right now. Soon my entire innards will be wrenched out through my uterus. Then I'll feel better. Nothing like a good bloodletting to feel like new again. I guess it's like the morning after drinking from a broken beer bottle for you boys out there. You know what I mean. Glad I didn't get angry at anyone this time and leave fiery bags of poo on doorsteps. By the way, nobody suspects the carry-on. Or the matching luggage with pretty floral designs and florescent pink baggage tags. Just make sure someone else's address is on the tags. You'll only make that mistake once.

The great thing about venting to family and friends about your pathetic life when you're PMSing is not that they make you feel any better about your perceived dire circumstances, it's that they can always top your story with something a little more sad or gruesome. My Easter weekend was actually spent at my friend J's place, watching him cook (boring), because that's all he does, and that's why I typically avoid his place. Not that I don't like his cooking, he's a brilliant cook; But after 2 hours of prep time to smell a little less homeless for the evening, it's disappointing to ultimately end up smelling like a meatball. Which, by the way, lasts the entire evening and into the morning. The smell, not the meatball. Sunday night was crazy pasta (I didn't recognize it, it wasn't Mac & Cheese, it's therefore crazy). Monday night was thankfully cookies after convincing him that I wasn't hungry for anything without sugar or chocolate. I couldn't see pasta or meatballs tasting good with either one of those ingredients. However, I could be wrong.

Anyway, therapeutic it was. I'm fired. Still fired. Jobless. Rootless. Directionless. Thoughtless. And obviously ignorant to the fact that the world does not revolve around me (ha, what a revelation). It is now apparent to me that I'm not the only person with difficulties. I get angry and call someone's mother ugly and get fired, I get unemployment checks (eventually, 3 months later, when the credit card companies have cut me off). J gets angry and tells someone constructively how to remove their head from their ass (please and thank-you are almost always added to the beginning and end of the instructions, it's smooth, almost as good as a marriage proposal), he gets fired, he gets deported. My father died 3 years ago. His father died a year ago. My mom lives a lifetime away in Ontario. His mother lives 2 lifetimes away in Kenya. And so on. I won't elaborate on the gruesome stories as I do remember crying when he mentioned someone's eye popping out. No details, sorry, too painful to talk about...

Anyways, just when you think your life is bleak, stop and think, there's always someone with a bleaker story. I don't want to say pathetic. J is far from that, he's a machine. Well oiled, at that. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I'm convinced he'll be a big shot someday, and never compromising what makes him, well, him.

Me, I am a weak human being, I admit it. Emotionally unstable. But very, very entertaining. I lick things, alot. I think I mentioned that before. I like to dance to Madonna. I say whatever comes into my head and apologize later for it. Sometimes. I think in abstract, although I don't know how to paint or draw or smoke opium. That's why I write. That's why you don't always understand what I write. Just crawl into a child's mind sometime (metaphorically speaking again, OF COURSE), one with A.D.D. and O.C.D., and a bedwetting problem, and that's me. I'm rambling now...

So, I guess it's time to stop crying in my beer. I've got my limbs, my life, opportunities I just don't know about yet, and hair. Some people don't have hair. I do. I also have good shoes. They don't always go so well with my hobo wardrobe, but one day, one day I'll have pants again...