poopy depressed
I’m having a day. As in A day. The day you have when you get Bad News, not bad news, BAD News. A bad day, or a terrible day, or a depressing day. Whatever. I’m having it.
I don’t handle ‘A’ days well. I don’t handle Bad News well. Bad News makes me feel guilty, and I don’t handle that well either. It makes me frustrated, but eventually that turns into a low grumbling anger, because that’s my default. Anger. And it’s taken me years to get that under control, to grow my previously short fuse to a more appropriate length. But I still don’t know what to do with it. A day like today is a complete waste to me. I should have woken up, worked out, called in sick to work, popped a Lunestra and slept all day. I’m useless and angered, which makes me I do stupid things. Like accidently smash the coffee pot into the refrigerator handle, blowing a hole into the bottom. Then standing there as the half-full pot of water gushes to the floor, on my feet, making a huge mess. Or like yesterday. I got off the phone with my Ma, who had the unfortunate role as the bearer of Bad News, immediately went to the gym where I commenced with the obliteration of my lower body through a series of never-ending squats and lunges with 60# barbell, hamstring curls, deadlifts, calf raises and way too much ab work. My legs are screaming, I can barely hold myself upright and don’t even ask me to take the stairs. That was a smart move.
I wanna throw a very non-adult-like tantrum. Do a series of things that people will review and say, those are BAD IDEAS, that is SELF-DISTRUCTIVE. I wanna blow my money at a casino, or on expensive shoes or a piece of extremely gaudy and flashy jewelry. A big fancy eye-catching ring to embody my outrage. Or chop off my hair and dye is the lightest blonde fathomable. Eat fifteen apple fritter donuts and gain a massive amount of weight. Pound gin martinis and spill my guts to some poor unfortunate bartender. Get into a bar fight. Go to a club, demand they play Flo-Rida’s “Low” then dance like a ho. Then get all defensive and indignant and beat the piss out of the first guy to hit on me and my slutty dancing. Chain smoke. Quit my job and become a vagabond. Pack up my things and move anywhere. Go to Vegas and get married at a seedy chapel. Conceive a bastard child.
But I also have the craving to perform big unnecessary gestures of my love for those that I do love. A diamond encrusted NY Giants collar for the Rabid Beast. Buy that Ferrari or Lamborghini that the Man fondly admires, to show them “SEE! I do love you, and this is how I show it.” With material items. I’d get Hopie a brand new kitchen and build my dad a sweet ass wood workshop. Stuff that the objects of my affections would look at and say “What the hell is wrong with her? I mean, yea, we know she’s crazy, but this crazy?”
But I’m not self-destructive, so I went to work. Or hobbled ‘cause my legs hurt so bad. And I keep trying to do work, but I’m distracted and I wanna wallow. I wanna do something that will distract me from my distractions. Like shoot some pool, or karaoke every Madonna song from the Immaculate Collection, or watch every Lord of The Ring movie subsequently, without breaks because I haven’t and it just might captivate me. Or maybe a Tales from the Crypt marathon. Or a roller rink. I used to love the roller rink. But those things won’t happen either. So I’ll go home and be sad that I don’t even have an involving book to read, so I’ll sigh really loud and collapse on the couch, all distracted and disappointed, and turn on the tv and watch three shows at the same time, because I just can’t stand commercials. One of the shows will probably be 30 Minutes Meals with Rachel Ray and another will probably be Law and Order and maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get home in time to watch the final innings of Mariners baseball, which would be my third show, except the Yankees are probably on. Which ultimately means I won’t be watching my three shows, I’ll be watching the Man’s Yankees. So I’ll sigh the sigh of resignation and drink some water and watch Yankees baseball. Which is better than staring at m y foot for a few hours.
Poop.
