Not sure what I’m doing here today. Not sure I should even be writing on WP today. I’ve already received one too many ‘you’re irritated because you’re trying to quit smoking’. That ranks right up there with ‘are you having your period’ or ‘is this a menopause thing’. Complete denial. Complete diss. Complete fucking bullshit. So let’s make this clear. I’m not fucking angry because of trying to quit smoking. I’ve always been this fucking angry. The smoke used to mellow me out. As I smoke less, I will become more and more enraged. Welcome to my fucking brain, fuck wits. If you can barely stand me at four Js, like I held to yesterday, than get the fuck out of my way because baby, this is gonna get fucking worse. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
And yes, right now I’m willing to toss any friendships or acquaintances right out the fucking door if they’re not gonna hear me. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Can I be more succinct? How about this: grasp yonder lengthy dildo with wonderous strong grip, bend ye at the waist with trousers down, and in thine anus thrust the dildo’s length fully and with force.
Nothing makes me want to clam up and stop talking more than that kind of shit. How do you expect me to be honest when as soon as I start to get hot under the collar it’s fucking blown off because I’m trying to quit smoking or I’m bipolar or I’m a woman so my fucking hormones do/did a fucking number on my body?
Next question on the block: have you taken your meds? I know I’ll get that. Why not? Every fucking thing else has fucking been shoved in my goddamn face since day fucking one on this shit wipe planet. Fucking hell. If I’d been born a minority I’d probably have killed someone by now because I couldn’t take one more DISS on my feelings, my person, in this fucking shit hole life.
No fucking wonder I put my writing out under a man’s name from time to time. Just to experience once or twice NOT being fucking dissed because I’ve got a fucking vagina. And yes, getting mail addressed to my male personas is the highest goddamn compliment I can get with my writing. It says I don’t come off as a ‘woman writer’, nor do I write exclusively ‘chick lit’. It says, in short, that my work is as solid and well built as anyone else, and my SEX has nothing to fucking do with it.
Four goddamn hours before I see Heike today. Good. Good that I’ll get out of the house regardless of the rain. Good that I have an errand to run downtown, and between that, my appointment, and travel time, I might be able to eat up three hours away from my temptation. Good that she’s gonna see me on this edge. Fucking shit! They need to see this fucking edge. No it’s not smoking bee-yitch. And that’s the first goddamn thing I’m gonna say – I’m angry and it’s NOT because of not smoking and if you say or suggest it is I’m gonna jump over this desk and rip your face off… Okay. So I won’t threaten her. But she’s gonna get the message just how fucking pissed off I am.
I don’t understand how anyone can walk around this planet and not be angry. I mean, you guys aren’t blind, right? You’re not deaf either. So you can see the destruction and hear the cries and screams. And then you turn away like nothing has happened and go back to watching The Last Man on Earth or My Name is Earl – guaranteed to fucking rot any brain cells you may have had. Jesus fucking Christ. Yes, I said it. I wrote it down and I’ll say it and use it again – JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. When it happens to you I’ll make fucking sure to take a goddamn snapshot with my smart phone and tweet about right away. Just don’t expect me to fucking lift a goddamn hand to HELP you. Tit for tat, mother fuckers.
…Enough. Focus on now. Ignore that which pisses you off. Find your breath.
I suspect everything will be a challenge today. I suspect long lines at the station to put extra money on my card. I suspect the metros and trains will be full. I suspect wet and cold and general disgruntlement. This is what I’ll need to combat. Not killing anyone will be a start.
Fine goddamn aspirations today.
If I put up a wall, it’s to protect you. If I say nothing it’s because I have nothing nice to say. If I walk away it’s because I’m close to physical violence.
Please fucking understand.
And say nothing.
I need that on a goddamn shirt.
Me. Here. Now. Not fucking happy. Too fucking mixed up to figure anything out. Just holding on, best I can. I don’t want to hear the cheers; my arms are tired and I don’t need the added pressure of feeling like I can’t let you down. I don’t want commiseration; this is a solo gig and there ain’t no back-up singers to cover up my fuck ups. I just want to sit and cry. And cry, and cry, and cry. I’m trying to keep myself from getting another one of those headaches I’ve been getting when I cry. It doesn’t fucking help.
This is not a get over the addiction and the fall apart will stop scenario. This is a take away my crutch and you’re gonna see how crazy I really fucking am. It’s what I’ve been afraid of. It’s what I want to make clear is going on. The rage that’s starting to surface used to be my daily succor. Heike only has to deal with this for half an hour once a week. Yoda gets even less; one hour once a month. I’ve got it every goddamn minute of every goddamn day.