You make me bitchy! I think right back at him.
I make me bitchy.
Everyone makes me bitchy.
I try to smash my self-hatred into the corners of my mind, especially where my children are concerned because I don't want them to feel like me when they're adults: a shell of a person, someone slowly suffocating herself with a constant internal dialogue outlining all the ways in which she sucks. But I'm probably fucking them up a million ways to Sunday that aren't to be realized until a 17-year-old Violet reveals them to me in a tearful barrage after I won't let her go to Mexico for her senior class trip.
I am not depressed in the traditional sense. Overall life is really good aside from those 3am wake-ups wherein I itemize every bill that needs paying and then move onto ruminations on the cancer I probably have and what happens when we die. This is more of a slow burn, the fire ignited many, many years ago. At birth, probably. Guilt, hatred, anger. They're like a pack of those annoying yappy dogs, Chihuahuas, constantly nipping at my ankles.
Each meal I stuff in my gaping maw brings a side dish of self-contempt because I usually overeat, continuing to shovel it in even when I am full. Swallowing beer means swallowing guilt. Each episode of The Real Housewives viewed is a syringe of shame injected directly into that big fucking artery in your arm, the brachial, I think.
Same thing when I buy those goddamned magazines and fill my head with a bunch of useless celebrity information: all the celebs are too fat or too thin, on their way to the top of the heap or free-falling into the gutter and I stuff that in my big, stupid face along with a shame bag of Doritos.
Amanda Bynes did what? Has Kim Kardashian announced her baby's name yet? Nigella Lawson's husband choked her in public? Michael Douglas says he got cancer from oral sex? Do I really need to know this? And I kind of want to swallow the cool steel of a revolver and put myself out of my misery but then I have another beer and tell myself the entire world is this way and what kind of fancy pants am I to turn against the tide? Am I one of those "We don't own a TV?" people? Hardly. I've got three of 'em. And DVRs to match. I can watch all of the things all of the time. Society needs me to do it. Someone needs to sound the alarm that signals Teresa Guidice and her husband Joe need to be put out of their misery. And by that I mean stop casting them in the series. Or someone could cut their brake lines. Either one is cool.
My mind is full of unnecessary nonsense, celeb statistics coming out my ears and yet I do nothing to remedy the situation and that causes the most shame of all. No, wait. No. The most shame is caused by the hours I spend on my rapidly expanding ass sucking down nonsense on the Internet. I once spent an hour reading YouTube comments in horror. Are these people for real? They are walking among us? They should also be put down like tumor-riddled elderly dogs. Guidices first and then anyone who ever left a racist, homophobic, hateful YouTube comment. After reading the YouTube comments I had to spend an hour cleansing my soul by watching people with cochlear implants hear for the first time and then there went my whole Wednesday.
Don't even get me started on my CNN obsession. News is just as bad as a trash mag addiction. Worse, probably, because we've generally viewed news as respectable, okay, not respectable, but it's generally considered to be a rung or two higher on the journalism ladder than E! News but I'll be damned if CNN isn't Entertainment Tonight only instead of featuring the latest Hollywood noob they're featuring the latest political douche. Also? do I really need to know about all of the bad things all of the time? Give it a rest, CNN, is what I'm saying.
The whole world is making me bitchy.
Basically I have the tortured part of the whole tortured artist thing down pat. It's the artist part that escapes me.
Know how people do all that spring cleaning and throw away all the shit they've been hoarding in the dark nooks and crannies of their homes? I want to do that with my body and mind. I want to puke it all up like a bad dinner of shellfish at a questionable restaurant. Hours and hours of heaving until I am weak but relieved.
Except I have no willpower. Probably I am trying to fill a void with all of this shit. What void? I dunno. Doesn't everyone have some kind of void at least some of the time? Are we all fulfilled all the time? If you say yes you're a liar.
Tomorrow: beautiful photos and self-affirmations, I swear! Okay, fine. One completely, totally life-affirming photo to tide you over: