So, I’m sitting here angry at crackers. This is how you tell you’re way too stressed out for your own good.

I should be happy, for all intents and purposes. I’m going to see My Chemical Romance tonight, giving me an excuse to dress up, and the ticket wasn’t even on my tab– it was a gift. And yet, I almost started yelling at an inanimate object because it, though no fault of its own, kept breaking when I tried to eat it, getting crumbs all over my keyboard.

Thus, I decided to start blogging. All of that looks a hell of a lot more absurd in text than it does when I’m on the verge of tears because I seem to keep spilling everything, because I perceive my cat staring at me as I eat as her judging me (in reality the little fluff ball just wants the tuna I’m eating), and NOW the goddamn crackers won’t stay together long enough for me to eat them and finish my pathetic little fucking lunch of sadness and despair because I’m afraid to eat anything else because if my stomach is upset at the concert tonight, I will be in hell. I contemplated just not eating at all today. I have contemplated not eating all together, not just today, but for the rest of however long I can manage it, because I’m tired of feeling sick. I may be crying from hunger, but hey, done that before– and that way I won’t bloat up so much my pants hurt me! YAAAAAY!

See all of that? That makes perfect sense to me right now. You guys are probably scrambling to find my IP address so you can send someone after me to pick me up for the loony bin. And if they arrived, right now, I would invariably reason my way out of it with this fucked up logic of “Well, I just keep getting sick when I eat– I’LL JUST NOT EAT FOREVER” as though it’s possible. I am the person who whenever I cannot speak correctly and keep stumbling over my words, will physically hit myself in the head. I am not reasonable. I am not sensible. And in my fucked up world where the crackers are just crumbling all over my keyboard because the universe believes I’m too fat and shouldn’t eat anyway, it makes sense.

However, I have a solution. A sneaky secret plan that will work even against my own mind. I can never shut up when I’m upset. I just have to tell someone. So I’m telling all of you and doing it in print. Verbally, the words disappear. In print, I read back through this and go “Fucking hell. Calm down. Things are going to be fine. Vindictive crackers? Time to go watch some cute cats for a while or something, jeezus fuck.”

Suddenly, because I’m telling you, my stress level is dropping. Suddenly Ginger is just the fat little fluff ball that wants my tuna, not some horrible being going “WHY are you eating THAT?” Suddenly the crackers were just damaged in the bag, not pre-broken by some conspiracy to spite me. And suddenly, I’m just another person with a strange pseudo-IBS WTF that my doctors are trying to diagnose and my stomach is testy in the meantime, not someone who should just never ever eat again.

Suddenly, things make sense again, and the tears are of relief. If I can do this, I actually am finally getting better at all of this.

So you know what? It’s okay that I’m doing this instead of the paper due tomorrow right now. It’s okay I’m not going to get home until three– I have my report drafted out, it’s just a question of piecing things together before 12:30 P.M. tomorrow. This benefited me a fuck lot more than trying to work on that in this head state would have.

Now, I’m going to go dress up as a Killjoy, stop worrying, and pick out what crazy ass make-up I’m going to wear.

Suddenly, I’m Miss Punk Rock, star of stage and screen… And I’m never coming back.

I look back at where I’m from,
Look at the woman I’ve become,
And the strangest things seem suddenly routine…”

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