My first waking thought yesterday was, “and THAT is why I’ll never do meth.” Must have been a hell of a dream.
I padded down the stairs and blearily poured myself a bucket of coffee. I was out of Redbull, so I made it with water. No wings for me, I thought sadly, as I started to try and piece together something to be offended by. Motrin Moms was so last year. Groupon was too easy. We are PRANKSTERS. We needed something like John C. Mayer, but better, I thought as I rubbed my tongue across my teeth.
Furious George had merit. Furious George Takes Over The Internet. Furious George Cuts Bob Ross. Furious George...wait…what the hell?
My tongue encountered something unexpected. Sharp, even. A popcorn kernel? That wily bastard!
I stumbled to the bathroom to floss (not remembering, of course, that it had been awhile since I’d had popcorn) and looked in the mirror.
What.
The.
Shit?
My tooth was missing.
Or, I should say, a big chunk of it.
I had somehow managed to crack a tooth while sleeping.
I’m notorious for ridiculous injuries. I broke a toe making a sandwich (it wasn’t even FOR ME). I broke a door carrying a diet Coke (24 ounces of swinging death, baby). I jammed up my ankle walking down the stairs (not even saving a basket of cuddly puppies from a house fire). I cut my eyeball at a wedding on my birthday (I can’t begin to explain this one). I don’t know how Lassie makes this shit look glamorous because I sure as hell don’t.
But my tooth. Broken. While sleeping. This takes fucked-up to a whole new level of awesomely dumb.
I got it fixed, of course. I can’t be a toothless blogger. Lord knows someone might actually see me someday.
So if anyone asks, I broke my tooth chewing the bones of my sworn enemies. Like John C. Mayer. And Mark Zuckerberg.
This will be our little secret, Pranksters. Just you and me and the Internet.
Also, uh, don’t do meth.
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What’s the stupidest injury you’ve ever gotten, Pranksters?
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Blah-blah-bloggies. I’ll do something humiliating for you guys if I win. YOUR CHOICE.
I spent a good deal of time yesterday trying desperately to be offended, Pranksters. I looked everywhere. We needed a CAUSE. A pet cause! Something to be Furious George about. Everywhere I looked, Bloggers were angry – really mad – about things.
We had nothing. HM. Maybe that’s a good cause.
(I’m still thinking. Maybe a Furious George Campaign? Fists of Fury? Something SUPER AWESOME that we can all link up together like the John C. Mayer thing)(Holler if you think of something)
Well, I had this, a memory I’d long repressed, thanks to years of painful flashbacks. Another example of how stupid I used to be before I simply shut my own whore mouth and kept my opinions to myself.
Scene: Movado jewelry store, circa 2005. Movado, if you don’t know it, is a fairly fancy watch maker, who also makes modernish, interesting jewelry. It’s like Tiffany & Co, but way better.
I’d gone in with a friend of mine to buy something ridiculously expensive. My taste in jewelry runs from the stuff you have to ensure to this, which I wear most days:
It’s hit or miss.
But that day, I was buying something fancy-pants. I was chatting with the salesperson, who was my age (25) and relatively hip. She brought up engagement rings, something I cannot speak with any authority on, unless you want to talk metal (platinum) or size (big). The minute you start going on about clarity and grading, my eyes glass over. But she and my friend were having a grand old time. They pulled out engagement rings (much to my dismay) and started trying them on, cooing over each of them.
I was bored shitless so I opened my stupid trap.
“Phew, at least you don’t have any HEART-SHAPED DIAMONDS. THOSE THINGS ARE FUG.”*
Now, I love hearts. Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday because I love hearts so much. Hearts = rad.
But for my engagement ring, something I’m (presumably) supposed to wear every single day? Not so much. I like those uh, circle diamond ones. Whatever they’re called.
(I just got my vagina-license revoked)
Anyway, back at Movado, Girlfriend cast a WITHERING look at me.
She snapped the engagement rings back from my friend as she sputtered out, “MY MOTHER HAS A HEART-SHAPED DIAMOND ENGAGEMENT RING.”
Then she flounced off.
I’d found and managed to offend the only 25-year old in Oak Brook who loved and planned upon owning a heart-shaped diamond.
THAT took talent.
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Okay, it’s your turn, Pranksters. I need some embarrassing stories from you guys now. I’M STILL UPSET ABOUT THIS ONE. I hate hurting people’s feelers.
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Bloggies? Vote? PLEASE? If I win, I promise to do something incredibly embarrassing.
*I wear a necklace with my name on it. NO one should be offended by my taste in ANYTHING.
This morning, once again, I woke up with my pillow soaked with tears, the sobs still fresh in my throat. I wiped my face off with my sleeve, as I sat up, trying to remember what dream I’d had, what had made me so bitterly sad that I’d wept in my sleep loudly enough to wake myself. Nothing. My memory banks came up with nothing.
I sighed as I changed my pillow case. Normally I dream about new and exciting ways to mock John C. Mayer, and although John C. Mayer could have been the reasons for my sobs (Hey, “Your Body is a Wonderland” is a terrible song), I don’t think it was.
This is the fifth time in as many days I’ve woken up with a wet pillow case. On the rare times I can fall asleep (a hearty fuck you goes out to insomnia), this is what I’m repaid with: night terrors.
Amelia’s appointment yesterday with the EI evaluators went as expected. She’s ahead in some areas, behind in others. It’s the medical equivalent of a push and it’s certainly not something that keeps me up at night, her inability to perform quadratic equations and properly discuss string theory aside.
I’ve managed to buy her a birthday present and pink cupcake mix for her birthday on Friday (still haven’t done anything for a big blowout bash), both of which should delight her. I’m thrilled that she’s going to be thrilled by this. Everyone should be so lucky as to have pink sparkles on their birthday cuppity-cakes.
And yet I’ve spent the last couple weeks talking through clenched teeth, the most minor of infractions setting me off, sending me into a blind panic. A dead weight has settled onto my chest there’s an omnipotent feeling of cosmic not-rightness. Everything feels wrong. Nothing is wrong, yet everything feels wrong.
My feelings make no sense to me.
I know what this is. It’s PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I hate to even write those words out because I see them and I know some assjacket is going to be all, “YER NOT A VET, YEW WHOR,” and then I’m going to feel worse because I’m already feeling guilty about feeling the way I do. I have the Girl That Lived and still I have PTSD? Certainly, I do not have a right to those feelings.
And yet I do. I’m as entitled to my feelings as the next assjacket.
Really, I liked it better when I pretended I had no feelings. I think sociopaths have that part down. Feelings are kinda bullshit. Unless we’re talking about my love of Bob Ross and Richard Simmons. Or any white guy with an Afro. White guys with Afros are most certainly NOT bullshit.
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