I Promise I’m not Crazy…
I really don’t know if I am writing
this blog to try to help you, entertain you, or make myself feel better by
drowning myself in my own babbling rather than drowning in my own tears while I
drink a bottle of Bailey’s sitting in the bath tub watching The Golden Girls. I
mean, not that I have done that or anything… Anyways…whatever reason you have,
thanks for reading!
If you spent a long enough time
looking through blogs on the internet to find this one, you may want to
reevaluate your priorities… or maybe like me, you are going through a mid-life
crisis when you are only twenty-one years old and you are desperately searching
to find someone who feels as crappy as you!
“Mid-life crisis” really does not
even constitute itself as a thing when you are only twenty-one. Then again, people
have always called me and “old-soul” and I actually hope they are right. See, if
this is not my mid-life crisis, I don’t really want to know what will happen
when I hit my real mid-life crisis. The first time I heard someone call me an “old
soul,” I was highly offended. I was like, “What the hell does that mean? That I
remind you of your great aunt Margaret who needs to pluck the black whiskers
out of her chin mole?!” (I didn’t actually say that, but I damn sure thought
it.) I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to be called an “old soul” more than once
in your life by a random stranger. It seriously concerns me as to why this is a
regular occurrence for me.
Maybe the wrinkly old prune that I apparently
have for a soul is learning some of life’s toughest lessons too soon, or maybe I
am learning them right when I am supposed to and just not coping with them as a
“normal young lady should” (just another thing I have heard about 30 million
and one times in the past two months.) Perhaps the best case scenario here is
that I am such an “old soul” that by the time I am thirty, my parents will have
to put me into an assisted living institute for the senile. Seriously, wouldn’t
life be a lot easier if we were just completely senile, wandering around
hopelessly, fascinated by every pathetically unimportant thing we laid our eyes
on? I would love if my biggest concern could be what color pants my nurse is
wearing, or why my one-hundred-three-year-old roommate, Elbert, is complaining
that he has no hair on his entire body while Melania Trump is sitting in her
Canopied-California –King-Sized-Memory-Foam-Koi Pond-Water-Bed, paying some
poor soul some serious dough to get the exact same “naked mole rat” look. I think
I would want to be so senile though, that I would be infatuated by the dust
flakes floating around in the air. Is that what they make hard drugs for?
Really the only serious concern I can come up with about living in a home would
be whether or not they cooked my daily helping of creamed corn in the same bed
pan I just watched Elbert take a dump in.
Let me try to explain my life to you
a little bit. I really am your average American twenty-something girl. I spend
ungodly amounts of money, which I borrowed for school, on make-up at Sephora
and Victoria’s Secret underwear that no one sees anyway. I live in my parent’s
basement while I finish my journalism degree at Colorado State University and
try to pretend that my education is the most important thing in my life. While
I have always done well in school, it has never been my priority. I have not
been single since I was 16. It’s been one back to back “serious” relationship after
another, more like “seriously screwed” relationship after another. Until
two-months ago, when I became single, without another guy waiting in line.
It was always me who did the dumping,
once one guy got boring, I would find someone new and exciting and run away.
Maybe I finally got what was coming for me. This time, I was the one that got
dumped, and I mean bad dumped. That had never happened before. By “bad dumped”
I mean I found my boyfriend (who I was convinced was my Prince Charming) in a
hotel with another girl. That’s not even the worst part. Most of you out there
would have dumped him then and there, but he still managed to dump me while I
begged at his feet for him not to. That kind of dumped. Please ladies, do
yourself a favor, and never make that kind of a fool out of yourself.
I quickly realized I have no clue what
I am supposed to do if I don’t have an egotistical walking penis who makes me
cry on a daily basis to occupy every waking moment of my thoughts. It’s like I
can’t be happy without some screwed-up relationship to drag me through a
roller-coaster-ride of emotions on a daily basis. I really developed an
addiction to dating men who treated me poorly and trying to force them to fall
madly in love with me. I may be young, but I damn sure learned one thing, that is
not how it works.
Okay, I’m about to go all Danny
Tanner on you. I suggest you start playing the sappy music in your head now for
full-effect. If you had any sort of decent childhood you get my reference. The
last relationship and break-up I had was awful, heart-wrenching, and really not
funny at all. The thing is, I have always known I had two talents: writing, and
making people laugh. After two-months of acting like a hopeless basket-case of
a woman that my friends would not be surprised to see me motor-wheel-chairing
(I just made that verb up) down the sidewalk carrying all my belongings plastic
in grocery bags, and wearing a giant hat covered in my deceased cat’s fur, I
decided to write. I decided I wanted to find a way to laugh and make others
laugh with me.
Trust me on this one, I have nothing
figured out. If you are looking for someone with insight and answers, it’s not
me, but I can tell you about ten thousand ways not to deal with a break-up. I
truly hope that some of you out there can relate, and perhaps reading about my
experiences will help some to not make the same mistakes. Hopefully any other
twenty-something women who reads this will think, “There is something seriously
wrong with this girl. I will never be that much of an idiot.” The thing is, as
we have all heard a million times, the past is the past. So at this point, what’s
done is done. I want to use my experience to make myself and others laugh because
sometimes that is all we can do. With this blog, I am trying to take the
hot-steamy pile of dog shit that is my life, and make a well insulated hut out
of it. Screw lemons and lemonade. Sometimes things go too far to be described as
innocently as “lemons.” Plus I hear dog poop is great for insulation.
I hope you at least some of you will
want to read more and hear some of the ridiculous stories I have to tell, and
keep reading my blog. Unfortunately, it’s two o’clock in the morning here at
Roosevelt’s Home for the Senile, and I wouldn’t want to keep Elbert awake any
longer. I also don’t want to be awake to witness his next visit to the bed pan,
so I better go. Good night all!
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