This post is not about crying.
Don’t worry– I made it another day. Sorry about the high drama. It’s just frustrating and humiliating when you feel like you’re so much further along in your healThis post is not about crying.
Don’t worry– I made it another day. Sorry about the high drama. It’s just frustrating and humiliating when you feel like you’re so much further along in your healing process– actually feeling like yourself for weeks upon weeks– and then you hit a low so low, out of nowhere, that it makes you feel you’ve travelled back in time. But you haven’t. Yet you still have to recover that ground, so you console yourself with the knowledge that it will be faster this time.
But I didn’t shave my head. I didn’t get new ink. I didn’t check myself into rehab. I didn’t shave my legs at a hotel pool while muttering over and over, “no one wants me.” I’m back fumbling toward the funny. So that’s something.
COMMENCE* POST:
For birthdays, Jordan has recently begun making special pick-a-six six packs for her friends. This is not only a delicious, tipsy-making idea, but also hilarious, for she custom-designs the six pack itself with Photoshopped pictures that would, perhaps, represent their recipient. For example, mine featured Ed Hochuli (big shock), Kristin and Stephen from Laguna Beach (see: my avatar), and the crow that lands on the bisected corpse in the Black Dahlia movie.
Let me explain.
Twice in The Black Dahlia does a crow land next to Elizabeth Short’s corpse** and CAW-CAW! ominously. Scarlett Johansson and Josh Hartnett (both lovely people) were so bad in this movie that I suggested nominating Crow for best actor in this picture, because hey, when Crow crowed, I FELT something. (Note: beyond simply the desire to get my money back that the rest of the movie induced.)
I CAW-CAW!ed, arms stretched wide like wings, on the Metro escalator on our way home, causing everyone to stare in wonder and awe at me like I was some kind of a beautiful, mystical crazy-dirty-subwaylady-on-the-verge-of-a-psychological-break.
Since then, it’s been kind of my catch-phrase whenever something ominous happens, like thunder rumbles overhead, or I see someone at the bar about to be cockblocked, or the waitress doesn’t bring our drink refills fast enough. I toss it around basically whenever something isn’t going my way. It’s charming. No, really, it is. Someone needs to alert those around her to danger, and I won’t have everyone’s blood on my hands. Unless, you know, they’re into that sort of thing.
Based on the text above, it should be clear that I’ve pretty much emptied the six pack.
Wait.
Six pack contents dwindling?
CAW-CAW!
*commence is one of those words whose meaning I could never remember. Is it end or beginning? Commencement: is it the end of the idyllic, relatively work-free, casual-sex-and-keg-party days of college or the beginning of an impoverished, futile, terror-inducing adult existence? Yes. Yes, it is.
** even after all the plot threads had been “explained” and this movie ended, I still had no effing idea what was going on. And I am a pretty good reader. So my apologies if I’m making all this up.