Deranged Shorts by Anxiety Girl

Daymares As Told by Anxiety Girl: Deranged Shorts

I have an overactive imagination and a tendency to pole-vault to the worst possible outcome in any given situation. I manufacture social paranoia on a cellular level. I secrete awkwardness like a perfume. Here’s what happens in my head and what transpires in the real world. Here’s me trying to reconcile the two. These are just a few examples, so enjoy this. It’s taken me many years, but I can laugh at this shit now.

I don’t wear heels very often even though I love the way they make me feel. They elongate my otherwise stubby legs and change the way I walk. They add a certain sway to my gait when worn. I also know they’re doing wonders for my calves and my ass when I wear them. I used to vacuum the living room in them. That’s not a joke. A friend of mine told me once what a great way to practice walking in them it was. I just figured it was working my ass and legs. It was also the safest way for me to wear heels. I’m not very graceful. In fact, if you’re special, you get to call me Grace. If you’re not, I’ll punch you. I’ll probably break a thumb in the process. 

And so begins our worst-case scenario daymares.

I don’t wear heels because I live on the 2^nd floor. At some point, I’m going to have to go downstairs. Lest I carry my heels in hand and put them back on at the bottom, my ass is going to have to trudge down those stairs one at a time. Precariously. Sure, there is a handrail, but it would be my luck that the fucking thing comes loose, and I topple over the side and end up in the bushes with my dress around my shoulders. Not so sexy anymore, huh?

There is always the chance that the railing stays firmly in place and I trip over my own feet. Maybe my own weight buckles the heel, I break my ankle, and I fall down the flight of stairs, drawing the attention of all the neighbors. Being embarrassed (as I would be), I would attempt to pop up and brush it off at the bottom as though nothing had happened. Only then would it become apparent that my ankle was broken. I’d fall forward and faceplant, breaking my two front teeth on the pavement. Teeth that I had only recently paid to have crowns placed on. Humiliation and 2k down the drain; sounds about right.

The reality is, I probably make it down the stairs with only a mild anxiety attack. I’ve only fallen once. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I was embarrassed. Yes, I lied about the injury. There was a scar for a while on the bridge of my foot. I told people it was a sex injury. Never straddle someone while barefoot on carpeted flooring. Rugburn is real and it’s happened before so I knew it would work.

Aggressive driving is problem for me. Don’t fucking cut me off. Don’t be an asshole. We’re all trying to get someplace. Why do you think you’re so goddamn special? Entitlement is a motherfucker and I really hate people who think or act as though their plans are more meaningful than my life. That doesn’t make it justifiable for me to speed up and make certain you know that I think you’re a douchebag.

In a perfect world, I’d be able to flash my lights at you and you’d pull over and I’d challenge you to a dance-off or some shit. Maybe I’d immediately be granted 1 free throat punch. That would be ideal. 

I don’t get off on hurting people, but I really think it would teach cunts a lesson about reckless driving. How many times do you have to get throat punched before you learn to merge onto your desired freeway entrance before it becomes a danger for other motorists? Those last-minute 15/78 splitters in the morning really make me want to throw flaming bags of shit. Human shit is fine, I don’t give a fuck!

Here’s what happens in my head though: I’m super confident that said twatwaffle will see I’m serious about my conviction and will back down. TW does no such thing and speeds up even more to make the freeway exit but at the last second slams on their breaks terrified that they’re going to tap the person in front of them. I end up rear-ending the jackass that refused to merge properly and in turn, I am rear-ended. My car spins out and I total my car. 

Dicknose doesn’t have insurance and I’m now out a car. I’ll end up taking the bus because my insurance won’t cover a rental. I’ll probably get mugged on the bus or be witness to some crime while taking public transportation. It’s not that I have anything against public transportation, it’s just how things play out in my head. Meanwhile, that prick is still doing the same shit the very next week.

Cannonballs in the pool: I don’t do them if it’s not deeper than 6 ft. Why? Because I’m 5’7” and even if I tuck my knees, I’m afraid that I’ll injure myself. What happens if I break my legs? Call the paramedics? Cool. They show up, assess the situation and haul me off to the hospital. 

Have you ever tried to get out of a wet bathing suit? Less than attractive. Oh, they cut it off me? Even better, then all my lady parts are all shriveled up like the California Raisins. Ever see a 39-yr. old woman, who breastfed, soaking wet with bathing suit titties? It ain’t pretty. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be the one to take my own suit off and preferably without any mirrors around; I’d like to be able to eat dinner later. 

I think finding a sympathy card for the paramedics who had to undress me would be difficult. Does Hallmark make one that says: Sorry you saw me naked?

There are plenty more Anxiety Girl scenarios. I’ll write more when co-workers aren’t looking for me to do what they pay me for. I have some other shit I’m working on currently also. Being sick really sucked. I’m getting back in the swing of things. Thanks for sticking around.