Isolated Madness

I'm not drunk. 

Let's just say I'm a little bit relaxed.  I was going to write a little about what's been going on just a vent a bit.  But let's face it, unless it's something really smart or really funny, it's not worth writing about.  Let alone worth reading.  Besides, who cares about your little problems anyway?

My work friend, Patti moved to the uttermost northern part of the country where it's still winter by our standards.  And I am left in a place where spring last approximately 12 days.  For real. 

I married a workaholic and I don't want to worry my mother so I really have no one to talk to.  I keep everything bottled up until one day I arrive home from the grocery store, slide down the refrigerator door to the lineoleum and cry for twenty minuets.  Or go into a small fury of rage and slam a cardboard box onto the floor over and over and over and kick it into the wall into it is no longer a box but a satisfying crumbled mass that says, "Misty was here and she was upset".

But I'm OK, really.  I tried taking on Liz, Patti's sister.  Oh how many times I've tried to be her friend but she's so frickin' slef-absorbed it's a wonder she doesn't have her own pull of gravity.  If you try to tell her story--about anything at all--she will immediately innturupt you with her story, which somehow fits in with what you were trying to say.  And you never, ever get to finish your story.  Ever.

Liz has called Jennifer The Show About Nothing, an ommage to Seinfeld.  This in relation tot he fact that poor Jennifer, as sweet as she is, can tell dozens of stories of go no where and end up being about, well, nothing.  If Jennifer is The Show About Nothing, then Liz is most certainly The Show About Me.

I have become very accostomed to being alone and it annoys me very much to be around people anymore.  Of course that could just be a sign of aging or either my own personality (which in fact, invloves hating pretty everyone and the sound of their voices).

My own personal hell would include a giant Wal-mart crammed with people and there would be no exit.  Also, the bathroom in this room of hell are disgusting.

I spent most of my birthday alone, frustrated and I had no grand dinner.  Shawn demanded that we go later in the afternoon but by then I had gorged on a gigantic Cinnabon (TM, of course) and I was so irritated that I wasn't the least bit hungry.  Although, that could have been due to the 1,000 calories or so located inside the said Cinnabon.  Life needs icing, indeed.

My 11 month old puppy suddenly refuses to go pee in the proper location after 9 months of training.  People said 2 motnhs was too young to begin potty training a dog.  I conjured up images of 1 year old children naming presidents and states when shown a picture or map.  My dog is as smart as most human babies I've known so it made good sense to me.

Unfortunately, my smartish dog has become a stubborn teenager who refuses to cooperate.  Also, she's gotten kind of fat and refuses to walk because it is immparitive that she sniff and tatse every single item along the sidewalk.  I was hoping to get the weight of before the concret is a cool Texas 100 degrees.  Don't see that happening.

I bought a pair of jeans just before Christmas because everything I owned had holes in them.  The pants fit in the store, I swear!  But holidays and birthday came and went.  Bouts of frustration and depression eating had come and gone.  Two weeks ago the jeans were snug, but doable.  Yesterday I litterally suffered as I walked around work feeling like a sausage being crammed into a casing much too small.

I dreaded using the restroom because it meant peeling the pants down sweat covered legs, then attempting to roll them back up and chunks of lard jutted out on either side of the legs.  I caught a glimpse of myself int he mirror.  I had hiked up my shirt and began to jump and down in a futile attempt to raise the pants.  My belly protruded from my body like a woman six months into a pregnancy and jutted out as though it were trying to escape my body altogether.

So I caught a glimpse of the tragedy in the mirror.  From the side.  "You are such a fat fuck," I muttered. 

Now, normally, I do not beleive in using the F word in written format (though it spews from my tongue too regurly) unless it's completely and utterly necessary.  To paint the ugly image of how I felt when I caught myself in the mirror, I do deem this necessary.

Some days I am fine.  Some days I wake up and wish I hadn't.  Some days I wake up crying and I allow myself to cry whenever I am alone so it doesn't come out in the check-out at the Wal-Mart.  Some days I merely throw things and some days I will myself to be mellow and say it just doesn't matter.  God created me for one sole purpose and that is to do for others.  That is, clean up after them, do the things they forgot, and take out the trash.  After all, someone has to get the poopie stains out of the suits of businessmen.

Alright.  I may be a little drunk