Option 1:
Curl up into a ball and go into a catatonic trance only to be broken by an IV of vodka.
Option 2:
Maintain visible composure and think about Option 1.
Option 3:
Turn it off. Why are you doing this to yourself? Seriously.
Curl up into a ball and go into a catatonic trance only to be broken by an IV of vodka.
Option 2:
Maintain visible composure and think about Option 1.
Option 3:
Turn it off. Why are you doing this to yourself? Seriously.
There are literally a hundred things I could be doing, but instead I choose to do this. I choose to sit here and feel bad about… wait… I’m feeling bad about feeling bad? Cyclical and obsessive. Totally unimpressive. Giving recognition to this bizarre turn of psychological events doesn’t make it stop. More than anything, it seems to be propelling the process. I have, within the confines of my own head, diagnosed myself with the first ever case of kinetic despair.
Perhaps the best thing to do at this point is properly season myself with wine and herbs as to create more enjoyable dining experience for my psychosis. I have always been a bit of a people pleaser…
Or I could just, you know, turn it off…
How is it possible that I could fuck myself up this badly, and not fix it? You’ll hear people say “Wow. That’s really fucked up”. Have you ever once heard anybody say, “Wow, she really un-fucked that up”. Sure, you can turn things around, change directions, recover to an extent – but you can’t un-fuck something. Some things really can’t be undone. Sure, if you break something, you might be able to fix it, but really you’ll always know that it was broken.
For Christmas, I have gifted myself with the knowledge that I am functionally broken. Glued back together, but if you look closely you can see the slight crackling where the emotional bonding agent has been applied and pieces have been forced back into place. In a heated environment, you hope the adhesion holds, but it’s unpredictable. If you glue the handle of a coffee cup on, you can certainly still use it. But please do the world a service and don’t act surprised when the cup drops off the handle one day and unloads ten ounces of second degree crotch burns at your door. You signed up for this shit.
