The only thing worse than feeling sorry for yourself is when you want to punch yourself in the face for feeling sorry for yourself. Nothing ruins a good sulk like the little voice inside your head saying, "but really, you have it pretty good. And there are people in Africa starving. And think about Iraq. And shit, you even have it better than some of your friends, you SELFISH WHINY BITCH."
All that aside, I will temporarily remove myself from the hierarchy of pain to indulge in the most self-indulgent thing I could possibly do: blog about how hard it is to be me today. Try not to throw up in your mouth.
1. It took me one hour and fifteen fucking minutes to get to work today. Otherwise known as going 5.76 miles per hour.
2. I'm the fattest I've been in years. My clothes don't fit right. I feel like a hovercraft. Like the Koolaid man. Like a whale with a glandular problem. I mean, sure, there are literally thousands of people sitting at the DMV right now who are fatter than me. But I live in thin-land and all my friends are pocket-sized people and I walk, on average, three miles a day and how the fuck did I gain seven motherfucking pounds in three months? HOW? And have I mentioned that I'm hungry all the time so me on a diet is just fucking delightful? If you thought I was moody before, take away my food and I'm really, really, really 'pleasant.'
3. I apparently can't sleep like a normal person anymore. I now sleep roughly six hours a night. Fuck you, mind.
4. I'm a mediocre copywriter.
I wish I were a man. No, a raccoon. No, maybe just a jellyfish, adrift, blissfully unaware and boneless; my tentacles waving as I made my way under the heavy covers of the sea.
All that aside, I will temporarily remove myself from the hierarchy of pain to indulge in the most self-indulgent thing I could possibly do: blog about how hard it is to be me today. Try not to throw up in your mouth.
1. It took me one hour and fifteen fucking minutes to get to work today. Otherwise known as going 5.76 miles per hour.
2. I'm the fattest I've been in years. My clothes don't fit right. I feel like a hovercraft. Like the Koolaid man. Like a whale with a glandular problem. I mean, sure, there are literally thousands of people sitting at the DMV right now who are fatter than me. But I live in thin-land and all my friends are pocket-sized people and I walk, on average, three miles a day and how the fuck did I gain seven motherfucking pounds in three months? HOW? And have I mentioned that I'm hungry all the time so me on a diet is just fucking delightful? If you thought I was moody before, take away my food and I'm really, really, really 'pleasant.'
3. I apparently can't sleep like a normal person anymore. I now sleep roughly six hours a night. Fuck you, mind.
4. I'm a mediocre copywriter.
I wish I were a man. No, a raccoon. No, maybe just a jellyfish, adrift, blissfully unaware and boneless; my tentacles waving as I made my way under the heavy covers of the sea.
4 comments:
I really think the bus will solve many of these problems:
1. No slower than the drive
2. You'll feel better about yourself...most days. Some days you'll feel horrible for watching someone in a wheel chair get on, ride two blocks and get off, and all you can think is how inconvenient it is for you.
3. You can sleep on the bus. Sure, on your route you might wake up with a creepy techie feeling you up, but fuck it, everything has a price.
4. Are not.
Unnumbered: I am very glad you are not a man or a raccoon, or a jellyfish. If you could be a dolphin or a sea lion though, that might be kinda hot. And we all know I'd be fine with you being a seal.
What to write, what to say ... So many things to refute.
Do I recount my own inadequacies to make her feel better? Or indulge her in sugary praise?
Maybe I should tell her to indulge in a coconut gold bar? No, that would be irresponsible considering #2.
No, I'll just tell her she is one of the most amazing, fair, talented people I've had the privilege to know and that I would love to have her as a pet raccoon.
I'm sorry you're in a funk. But I have to say, if you're going to be mediocre at any kind of writing, copywriting would be my choice.
It's all lame anyway.
I think you're rad.
And if you ride the bus, like hombrelibre suggests, you might see a woman feeling her tiny baby cheez whiz straight from the can.....and that will make you feel better about your own existence. right?
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