Ouch. There is something wrong. The sharp pain runs quick through my hand. I drop the pile of papers I was stacking on to the table and inspect my injured appendage. Ah, the culprit. The ever annoying papercut.
Papercuts are the worst. I’d rather lop off a chunk of flesh that have a paper cut. At least if you injure yourself badly enough to require medical attention, you know damn well enough to leave it alone and be careful. Not so much with a mere flesh wound.
You always forget about it and it’s always the day you touch and handle everything you own that could possibly irritate it. Today you eat fish so you’ll have to squeeze lemon juice. You run out of room in the dishwasher and have to put your hand in scalding hot dish water. Everything that will make you remember that tiny ass little cut on your hand that doesn’t exempt you from getting out of any responsibilities.
Got a cold? No dishwashing for you! I’m not catching your crap.
Have stitches in your finger? No dishwashing for you! It might get infected. Let me squeeze that lemon for you. You poor thing.
Got a papercut from hell that you can’t tell where it is and have no idea why it hurts like you’re being tortured? Suck it up buttercup. Don’t be such a pussy.
In the beginning, there was girl who was not honest. Honest with herself, her family or her friends. She hid behind the lies and facade of someone or something else in hopes of just feeling special.
She hid behind drugs. She hid behind alcohol. She hid behind sarcasm and anger.
Then one day, slowly, things started to change. A change happened within and expanded all around like the flame of a candle that turned into a roaring bonfire.
She realized that she could say no. She realized that she could say yes. She realized that it did not matter what those around her thought of her. She knew she had a role in the world and did not see the need to prove herself.
With this newfound power, she slowly gained confidence. She became more powerful both intellectually and emotionally. She saw right from wrong. She spoke out with less anger and with more passion.
She is just starting her new found world. This is just the beginning.
Oh Mondays, you have the most glorious way of trying to ruin a perfectly good week merely by existing. However, should we really be blaming a day of the week?
I think we hate Mondays because we have to work on them. If the world had Sunday and Monday off, we’d probably hate Tuesdays. If we had Friday and Saturday off we’d probably hate Sunday.
Then again, Sunday’s the Sabbath and we’re supposed to rest. But!!! That would be mixing church and state and we’re not supposed to do that anyway.
Is it just because we had two days off and now we have to set our alarms and do the stand up adulty thing? Probably. Most people don’t like to put on their big boy / girl pants and deal with it. Which I think is everyday.
In all fairness and honesty, by the time we get done grumbling and complaining about it to anyone who’swithin earshot, the work day is almost over.
I thought I’d take up this writing thing again. Because the conversations I have with myself are really weird, And sometimes that weird just needs to be shared. After all, sharing is caring. Unless it’s used Kleenex or gum or something. Then it’s not so caring. It’s just awkward.
Who knows, maybe you’ll think I’m some sort of genius. Or even more crazy than you think I already am. Either way, I still have your attention. I think.
The fact is, I have anxiety and panic attacks. Yeah, I have some depression tossed in there too. I’m not afraid to admit it, nor am I ashamed of it. It’s just part of who I am. I can just be all bat shit insane and most people just accept that as the norm for me. Or at least I can say “I don’t know! It just popped out like BOO! No filter.”
You obviously do. You’re still reading this so far. Either that or you think there’s going to be something insightful further down the line. There might just be. I don’t know. Quite frankly, I’m making this up as I go along.
When I started writing the first paragraph I was super stressy. If stressy is even a word. Is it like dressy? I can get all stressed up with no place to go. That’s a good idea. I’m going to get dressed and stressed and just lay here. That works. At least I look good while freaking out. Maybe my antics will turn into the next big fad.
Now I’m all relaxed and calm, right back to my normal self. Whatever that is. On a scale of 1-10, we’re all fucked up somehow. Never say you’re a 1 because you’re just plain old Eyoreish. Never say you’re a 10 because everyone will want to slap the smile off your face. It’s ok to drift between the middle numbers. Being in the middle is cool. It gives you wiggle room in case you want to dance.
Sorry, I got distracted by my sloth snowglobe.
The sloth philosophy is greate for anxiety. It’s all like “Slow down man. Watch me. Do it like me. Slower.” Then your brain is all like “Woah, we gotta go!!” Sloth is like “Nah man, I was back there. What the shit is the hurry? You want results? You’ll get them. Sometime. Don’t rush me. I’m chilling, you should too.”
Don’t hurry, be happy.
I got to get all undressed now that I’m all unstressed. I’ve got someplace to go. It’s forward.