Thursday, January 20, 2011

Anger for Long Life and Happiness

There’s this familiar feeling I’ve been carrying around lately, and I finally recognized it . . . what am I, 15? It’s that old darkness I used to surround myself in as I listened to Morrissey, stayed up all night reading, and refused to talk to people I didn’t know. No matter what I used to think I was doing, I withdrew because I didn’t feel good enough for the world.

We all carry around little pieces of ourselves from the past, but I was surprised to find myself all the way down there again. It’s like getting a pimple when you have wrinkles – unacceptable. I worked so hard last year and have lots to show. I feel healthier and look better than I have in years. I’m getting recognition at work. If I can’t find something more substantial with benefits this spring, I am set from June through January. Until then, I will probably be able to piece together a few things to get by and enjoy the luxury of time.

This week, I got mad. It was the liberating kind of anger, not the wounded-animal brand. So, no more of this I’m-not-worthy bullshit. That mindset has only brought me down a rocky path. Time to stop hermitting out and get back to the people who have reached out recently. I love my usual suspects, and new people can be so high maintenance, but I’m really not 15 anymore. It’s got to be someone else’s turn for the Life-in-Crisis Crown and Magic Emo Wand. Speaking of someone else’s turn . . . Ladies, I finally found the bag of plastic penis accessories and Bitches Hate Me/I Have Sex with Reptiles tank you pampered me with at my bachelorette ten years ago. Living with children is the same as living with nosy parents, and I only have so much uphigh storage space . . . who wants ‘em?


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