Crafting happiness out of horseshit

It’s rare that I wake up and turn all my hostility inward. Normally, I like to direct it at you sorry sons of bitches. I relish catching you off guard with a well-timed insult or some other form of comic relief, usually at your expense. Today, however, I’m stuck in some time loop where I keep putting my own boob in the vice grip for some twisted home mammogram where the results always come back terminal and the doctor makes fun of my tits and my outfit.

I’m not sure what happened or what caused this piss poor mood I’m in today, but I wish it would find someone else’s ass to crawl up. If it could find Stacey from 6^th grade, that would be amazing! She was super fucked up to me and I’m still resentful about some of the friendships that bitch stole out from under me. I’ll pack a little food poisoning snack and maybe even a yeast infection treat in a gift bag for my bad attitude to take along with it; I think that might cheer me up.

I woke up this morning dull. Not dull like stupid, so shut your face! I mean dull like lacking the brilliant shine that I’m known for. My sparkle was gone. [I’m laughing even as I type this. I wish you could see this.]  I searched everywhere for glitter before realizing that I don’t DIY craft ANYTHING and I’m not in any off-Broadway plays. I’m also not a stripper, so there’s that. It appears I’m fucked in the glitter department. I need to create my own shine. Not easy to do for someone whose wardrobe consists primarily of black clothing, pajamas, & workout apparel. I’m either going to bed, the gym, or I’m in mourning; there’s very little in between.

I settled on a skirt. A very long, black skirt. I thumb through my closet for anything that doesn’t scream “cutter” or “Marilyn Manson fangirl,” and there between my onesie pajamas [yes, I hang them] and my 49ers jersey is this cute little pink blouse with black cats on it. It’s cheerful, I think. This ought to work. I throw the outfit on, blow-dry my hair, make a half-hearted attempt at make-up application, and I’m out the door. I’m dressing my way into happiness, or so I thought…

What I hadn’t counted on was that it would be hot and humid today. I’ve also managed to run over this piece of shit skirt no less than 5 times with my desk chair, getting it caught in the wheels twice. Now, I’m not in the best frame of mind, so when I start sweating, and my thighs start sticking together, I begin convincing myself that it’s because I’m a fatass and if only I hadn’t eaten that piece of steak last night, none of this would be happening to me. The steak is to blame for all my troubles today. Hell, maybe the steak is to blame for that shit that went down with Stacey in 6^th grade, fuck that girl! I hope she chokes on a piece of steak while sweating in her living room wearing a pair of shorts and a Marilyn Manson t-shirt. Or, maybe a Creed t-shirt. Oh…I’m starting to feel better. I should keep this up.

So, while the backs of my knees are sweating, my thighs ARE their own slip-n-slide, and my bra has become a super absorbent maxi-pad for my boob sweat, the work phone rings. This is just what I want to do right now. I want to answer the phone and talk to someone, anyone really, while I uncomfortably try to wipe away moisture when the dudes I work with aren’t looking. Ever try that? Inconspicuously tend to your unruly body with others’ present? It’s hard as fuck, you guys.  

The lady on the other end of the line is pushing all my buttons. No, lady, I don’t automatically know who you are. I introduced myself when I answered the phone. Looks like you have the advantage here. Want to reciprocate, or nah? This is just my day job. I make mad grip afterhours playing with crystal balls and tarot cards, reading the fortunes of drunk college girls and lonely housewives. How about you tell me your name and where you’re from and I’ll decide if I want to help you, or if I’d rather just listen to you rattle off your demands while I twirl my hair on the other end of the phone like some kind of moron. Hold please, boob wiping in process.

What did she just say? *scrolling Amazon for pet products*

I’m pretty sure I didn’t hang up on her, but I’m also certain that was not my best customer service call. That’s okay, she can call the office manager and get it all straightened out tomorrow. Oh yeah, that would be me. Good luck with that shit, lady. Go take a seat next to Stacey.

So, in closing, I’ve learned the following today: When I feel bitchy, I probably just need to write. When I feel fat, I probably should wear something that prevents my thighs from saying hello to each other. When I feel like I deserve a raise, I ought to revisit this blog entry. Finally, I seriously need to purchase *and keep* glitter on hand in my home. All this bullshit could have been avoided.

I'm not sure why I needed this glittered ass in my blog, but I figured it couldn't hurt my case any. Throw that glitter around!