where have all the well-adjusted people gone?
I really hate when my paranoia comes true. Especially paranoias about certain boys that I fall stupidly in love with but I don't know how to talk to so when they ask me how I feel about them sleeping with another girl I say "Not too bad, but not all that great" and not much else but am way too quiet and bitchy for the rest of the time I'm with them, thus confusing and frustrating this boy and myself. (inhale) Yarg. How dumb. I really don't like these natural dumbass-girl tendencies that I slip into. I should be more mature.
I really don't want this to be a "poor me, send me reassurance and sympathy and chocolate" post, cuz I DESPISE those. I hate reading them, and dear god, do I hate writing them. It seems like every time I write a myspace blog, it's a whiny depressed piece-a-shite that serves only to alert people that I need extra lovin' this week. I'd rather do something constructive, but no, it's easier to just BROOD and lose sleep that I can't really afford to lose.
Speaking of which. When Ian told me about this, I actually did feel okay with it. But but but then the night rolls around and we are lying down in the same bed and I cannot sleep for the fucking life of me. He passes out with relative post-tension-relieving-orgasm ease, but I can't sleep for hours, then wake up much earlier than necessary. I can't eat all day. I manage to choke down a bagel and hummus with Julia (thank god she was there for processing over breakfast, or I might have just stolen away back to Burlington while Ian was still asleep) and tiny bits of dinner at his parents house to be polite (and cuz Julia kept nudging me).
Those of you who know me know that when I get depressed, I can't eat. Opposite of most women's reaction to devour all the chocolate in sight, I could barely force a salad down my throat.
Other coping mechanisms that happen when I'm depressed and don't realize it:
I can't sleep.
And I compulsively chop off my hair.
Did I mention that today I had a serious urge to shave my head? Yep. The mohawk might yet be revived.
I hate being the last fucking person to know how I feel. Why should this be such a mystery? Why can't I understand my own stupid brain and idiot emotions? Fuck fuck fuck fucksdkbfasfkjaf oy vey grrr scream blarg shit.
And as for Ian and me? I don't have a fuckin clue what to do now. I know I have to talk to him (and actually say what I need to say) but how the hell do you do that?
Suggestions are welcome. Minimal pity only, please. But any love and/or chocolate you do wish to send will be received with open arms.
I really don't want this to be a "poor me, send me reassurance and sympathy and chocolate" post, cuz I DESPISE those. I hate reading them, and dear god, do I hate writing them. It seems like every time I write a myspace blog, it's a whiny depressed piece-a-shite that serves only to alert people that I need extra lovin' this week. I'd rather do something constructive, but no, it's easier to just BROOD and lose sleep that I can't really afford to lose.
Speaking of which. When Ian told me about this, I actually did feel okay with it. But but but then the night rolls around and we are lying down in the same bed and I cannot sleep for the fucking life of me. He passes out with relative post-tension-relieving-orgasm ease, but I can't sleep for hours, then wake up much earlier than necessary. I can't eat all day. I manage to choke down a bagel and hummus with Julia (thank god she was there for processing over breakfast, or I might have just stolen away back to Burlington while Ian was still asleep) and tiny bits of dinner at his parents house to be polite (and cuz Julia kept nudging me).
Those of you who know me know that when I get depressed, I can't eat. Opposite of most women's reaction to devour all the chocolate in sight, I could barely force a salad down my throat.
Other coping mechanisms that happen when I'm depressed and don't realize it:
I can't sleep.
And I compulsively chop off my hair.
Did I mention that today I had a serious urge to shave my head? Yep. The mohawk might yet be revived.
I hate being the last fucking person to know how I feel. Why should this be such a mystery? Why can't I understand my own stupid brain and idiot emotions? Fuck fuck fuck fucksdkbfasfkjaf oy vey grrr scream blarg shit.
And as for Ian and me? I don't have a fuckin clue what to do now. I know I have to talk to him (and actually say what I need to say) but how the hell do you do that?
Suggestions are welcome. Minimal pity only, please. But any love and/or chocolate you do wish to send will be received with open arms.