This particular cycle just got a little less vicious.

My mother, re: a woman on TV: 
"She shouldn't even be wearing that dress, because look at it around her chest, it's pulling."

Moments later:
"I would never buy that because it has horizontal stripes."
"Some people like that, Mom."
"Pfft. Skinny people..."

This is where I came from, you guys. I swear it's a fucking miracle I can even leave my house.

Thankfully I have better influences now, though, because even in tight-around-my-chest horizontal stripes, my pudgy ass is adorable.

The 40-Year-Old Fadeaway

I just realized turning down a second date (Elbows Guy asked) is completely outside my skill set. Apparently even with someone I don't think likes me very much, what with my hideous dry elbow skin and my terrible grammar and my relationship projection issues. Wait, why DOES he want a second date? I must be an amazing kisser. [/ego trip]

Have I REALLY never done this before? If I have, it's been about 13 years. And why do I care about being polite?

I'm trying not to be a big, fat coward who does The Fadeaway, but it's hard to argue its lifelong proven efficacy. And I don't want to bitch out and say I met someone else. Even if it would make it easier, it's not true.

"I'm going to pass on a second outing. I had a nice time until I realized I don't like you. And you don't like ME apart from my shortness, the fondling, and your superiority. I don't want to waste our time or my makeup, and I certainly don’t want to get your douche all over me, you Summer Rain motherfucker…”

There Will Be Alcohol.

I have dates. Two dates, with two different guys. Dates I probably won't end up canceling when I find out the guy has an STD or wants to take out his fake teeth before he goes down on me.

As I told Therapist and my friends, I understand this is a good thing. Aside from just testing my capability for interaction on a date, the last person I kissed was during The Year of Poor Life Choices (2013), so it's been FAR too long. Therapist tells me if I end up kissing one of these dudes, that may be good, because maybe I'll no longer be giving Bad-Life-Choice Guy mental significance as "the last person I kissed."

But Jesus Christ... DATES...Plural... 

You can die of anxiety, right? 'Cause I'm going to. Just so you know. Kissing won't be an issue if I have a heart attack. Hopefully the kissing will come first.

If I die, it's been a pleasure writing silliness for you all.

This all seems totally reasonable.

Sometimes I'm recapping therapy in my private journal and I find myself amusing, so I'm posting this excerpt:

"The therapist asked what I'd want from my next relationship, and I told her, 'I don't think I'm ready to be a Girlfriend. That would have to be an incredibly slow progression, like I almost feel bad for the guy and the baby steps he'd have to take to get me there. I should have a sign that says, 'Commitment issues may be closer than they appear. (You'll get laid, though, don't worry.)'

"I mentioned the guy I'd been 'dating' who brought pancakes to my door uninvited and unannounced the morning after we'd, um...'dated.' He texted me from outside my door to announce his presence. So I took the pancakes -- I'm crazy, not stupid -- but didn't let him in because I was SO caught off-guard by him being there. It got a little Sheldon, like: "You're in my house. People can't be in my house," even though he'd just been there IN MY BED the night before.

"So I guess I'll let you fuck me but pancakes are too intimate?

"So I told the therapist I want, 'Someone who'll have sex with me, but only with me (because diseases, and what if the other women are better in bed than I am?). And they snuggle me for 5-10 minutes after sex and then get the hell out. And they're not my boyfriend, but we go on dates, and also, they should be at least smart enough to know, like, how Velcro works.'"

"I do not find this at ALL unfair or unreasonable. (Except the Velcro. Come the hell on.)"

The Asshole Files, Entry (...ew...) 1.

OK, so remember yesterday's "asshole" warning? Let's start easing into some of that...

I know this is partly my fault for letting so many "little things" go and stifling my feelings and then exploding (go Irish!), but I wish people who claim to know me understood how far they had to push me and how much they had to hurt me for me to NOT talk to them.

I WILL talk, eventually, because I'm generally too lazy and forgetful to hold a proper grudge -- I have better uses for brain space. But for the moment, something you've done has shut me down, and I Basic Bitch "just can't" with you. You broke me; I need to "breathe and reboot," to think things through before I blow up on you. And that's always the time people are in my ass, setting up tent cities and trying to talk like we're just cool now.

No. You should've talked before. Right now, fuck you. You're picking a scab, making the wound worse, and giving me, like, emotional MRSA. I just need a minute.

(Or, OK, in extreme cases I've needed...10 months and [not-that-I'm-]counting, but A. That person should've known better, and nudity/trust were in play, and B. Right now it's just my family I'm having issues with.)

Unloading some family issues

One of the platitudes I resent most is, "You'll miss your family when they're gone."

I have no doubt I will, and hey, thanks for making me feel like a dick, but the fact that I'll miss them eventually doesn't change the fact that right now, they're being assholes. Not everyone is the Cleavers, people -- some people have issues.

I've been in therapy for months and we've barely gotten into my family. Yes, it's likely that's where all my shit comes from*, but two things:

1. I am a grown-ass person and don't want to blame Mommy and Daddy for my ineptitude or unlovability (I KNOW, I'm just being petulant today).

2. My issues are so textbook I feel like it'd be almost insulting to the therapist. Not even textbook, it's fucking "Cat's in the Cradle." I'd explain what's wrong and the therapist would be like, "Really? You want to pay me to fix this? Go listen to some pop music and Google some shit -- you're smart, you'll figure it out." (My therapist gives me an inordinate amount of credit -- she's super impressed when I take out the garbage and thinks my navel-gazing introversion is a good thing -- she calls it "self-awareness," I call it "narcissism.")

* I have a friend who's like me in being a complete stubborn ass about therapy, like we KNOW we need it, but UGH. Because I can't speak for him, but "my problems aren't real problems, I should just learn to deal." So when I told him my therapist was a LMFT -- licensed marriage and family therapist -- and worried if that was really what I needed. And my FELLOW STUBBORN ASS says, "I don't know... you have a LOT of issues with your family." So... I guess I can take that to the bank. Or to the therapist. FUCK. I have to talk about real shit and not just "stepping out of my comfort zone" by attending a burlesque class. Tell you what -- I'll do burlesque FOR A LIVING if I don't have to talk about my family. (<-- That sentence right there? Part of my patented Prostitute Starter Set. Thankfully I'm too old to be a profitable prostitute. I CAN, however, troll the dudes on OurTime.com and give them a helluva Girlfriend Experience.)

...I've lost control of this post so I'm going to go get more coffee.

These egg rolls are medicinal.

Email to friends:

"I'm Googling therapists near my office, mapping their locations, and there's one near work that's also near an ice cream shop, a cupcake place, a liquor store, a Starbucks, and a great Chinese restaurant.

"I feel...somehow drawn...to their, um...clinical philosophy... I feel as though they can really help me face my issues. And by 'face,' I mean 'fried rice IN my,' but I'm sure therapy will be good, too. 

"(I know, I know -- #ThisIsWhyYoureFat)"

Faith in love = ruined. Desire for Hamm = all-time high.

Not that I had much faith to begin with, but it's ruined now.

Though, does that mean the Hamm-shank (Jon Hamm's majestic penis) is available to fuck random chubby chicks with issues?