I'm not sure if you've noticed, but it's been almost two weeks since my last rant...er, I mean, post. It crossed my mind, "Hmmm, what if this isn't just angry uterus..."
What if I'm being completely unreasonable, irrational and emotional for absolutely no reason? What if I'm jumping down throats of friends and strangers alike, just because I'm an angry person?
And then, just like clockwork...just like every single month for the past 21 years...with the exception of roughly 10 months almost 6 years ago...my hormonal madness was completely justified.
It's been almost two weeks and I feel no different. Well, that's not completely true. I was settling into feeling sad and sorry for myself, until it changed into deep routed anger. However, 'deep routed' would insinuate that I knew what I was angry about.
Ha. That would be nice.
I'm just angry. I'm angry at everyone. I'm angry at no one. I hate going to work. Going to work is a reprieve from myself. I'm lonely, but I find solace in being alone. I'm tired all the time. I want to sleep and I do, like 10 hours or more if Q is at his dads.
I'm angry at Mr. Dog Park for being old and unavailable. I'm mad at myself for falling in love with someone who was old and unavailable. He haunts my dreams at night, and plagues my thoughts during the day. I can't seem to shake his memory.
And Oh. My. Goodness. you'd think I was a fricken brain surgeon for all the stress I'm going through at work right now. It's effin' mail, people. If it doesn't get there today, it'll get there tomorrow. And it's not rocket science either. It's a pretty simple concept...mail, that is...what comes in, must go out...the sooner, the better. If you can't grasp that, then I don't even know how you're capable of leaving the house in the morning with your knickers in the right place.
I'm angry that after working from 4pm to midnight every week day for the past two and a half years, I officially have no life at all. While every one in the world is out cavorting and having fun, I'm stuck in jail. It feels like a death sentence. I haven't seen any girlfriends for ages. It's gotten to the point where I just don't respond to their invitations. It's the same old, same old.
I decided to read this "bubble gum" book...by which I mean that it's like super easy to read, doesn't take much thought process, and when you're done you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I picked this one called "Rachel's Vacation" by Marian Keyes. It's about this woman who OD's on drugs, her family all "over reacts" and send her to rehab. She goes along with it, only because she can't wait for two months in a spa with massages, facials and yoga...maybe even a famous person, if she's lucky...but certainly not because she's an addict. Only for her to discover she's stuck in this horrid place with no saunas, no celebrities and no way out for the next two months. It's fairly tongue in cheek, as Marian Keyes is a Brit and she's got the "AB FAB" air about her.
Only it wasn't so much bubble gum because it made me realize something about myself. I have the personality of an addict. Not because I'm addicted to drugs, or alcohol (although if I weren't so shit scared of everything in the world, I just might have become one). I'm all about the instant gratification. I'm addicted to the rush of NOW. I don't want to have to wait for anything. This kinda sucks, because not much in my life has been instantaneous. Instead of being taught the power of waiting for and working for something, I'm even more pissed that I can't just have a horse shoe stuffed up my arse and sail through life with it stuck there firmly.
Mostly, though, I'm just mad at myself for being sad. And angry. And for not having the energy to do anything constructive about it, except rant and rave and snap at anyone who gets in my way.