Sometimes, my need to be noticed and applauded overtakes my desire to be honest.
I've been on the edge of a giant flood of emotion for days now, and I've been unable to express it properly here. Instead of attempting it, I've simply averted the whole matter, sticking only with insipid and banal entries designed primarily to avoid (for me) and amuse (for you). I don't know what's finally making me tackle the matter, if a matter it even is. Maybe I just need to babble freely and come undone for a while.
Frankly, I've no idea why I'm feeling this way. The monthly hormonal annexation of my brain has ended, so I'm not really a victim to my own self anymore. Just to make sure, on Sunday night I watched Moulin Rouge, ensuring and accomplishing a fabulously good cry. Jaysus, but I sobbed my heart out. There I was, curled up on my sofa, wrapped in 2 blankets and surrounded by over-stuffed cushions, with a jar of cashew-raisin-peanut-dried pineapple trail mix and a box of Kleenex at the ready. And the wonderful thing about Ewan and Nicole and the Belle Époque... I don't just water up. I don't soundlessly let teardrops roll fetchingly down my cheeks, like Demi Moore did during 65% of Ghost. I bawl like a baby with a wet diaper and a rash. I weep and I wail, lamenting like a chorus of be-kerchiefed Mediterranean-type women at a funeral.
So, yeah. You would have thought I'd have got it out of my system. Instead, I find myself on the edge of tears over long-distance carrier commercials and episodes of Judging Amy. Frankie Goes To Hollywood made me well up at work, when The Power of Love came through the radio-phone on my desk. My mother and I started talking about the will that she and my father just had made, which of course made my throat become stopped up with emotional phlegm.
I'm... on edge, and I don't know why. The most worrisome part is that I really feel the need for change, for difference, for drastic variation, and I'm fearful that my slightly unhinged mood may lead to silly decisions.
Like... the other night... I was this close to getting a tattoo. Oh, I know. I've been this close for about 5 years now, so it's obviously not something I'm going to rush to do. Really, I'm not a tattoo kind of girl. In fact, because every Tom, Dick and Mary have some form of india ink on them, I've resisted. Plus, my tolerance for pain is on the approximate level of the average doorstop. And I've never wanted something that would show in an evening dress, and if you can't show it, then why get it? See? See? The list goes on and on. I've got so many reasons detailing why I'm NOT the girl to get one, and nothing at all that's really pushing me into the local Tattoo-o-rama.
Except... except... somehow, this time it's different. I find myself not just wanting to talk about perhaps getting one... but actually wanting to get one. I find myself scoffing at the little voice in my head that for five years has stopped me from permanently inking my body by saying, "What the hell do you need a tattoo for?". I'm scoffing at my own little voice! Isn't the little voice the one you should listen to? Isn't the little voice the sound of your gut? Or your heart? You know, they say, "Follow your gut instinct" and "Listen to what your heart tells you", so I'm just assuming that Little Voice belongs to Mommy Cardio and Daddy Gastro-intestinal, and therefore, I should just pay attention to the whole Conscience-Gross Anatomy family and cease with the scoffing.
But see, again with this whole emotional obstacle I've got building up inside of me. It keeps threatening to tumble down in jagged little pieces, and I'm afraid that it's going to land squarely upon the place in my brain that keeps me from going a little angsty-crazy. It's also halting the flow of easy conversation between me and Little Voice which, as I've already pointed out, is an unsettling state of affairs.
I'm not sleeping easily; it's been a week now where I toss and turn for at least an hour before I go to bed, and then I wake up several times throughout the night. My dreams are actively bizarre, surreal and too real. I haven't bothered with Operation: Mini-skirt at all for about three weeks, and I don't know if this is cause or consequence of any possible anxiety. I feel guilty when I eat carbs, and incredibly sad when I've got to stay away from them. How am I supposed to deal with this?! I'm having little occurrences of heart palpitations again. It's not aspartame this time, either. And I've got a goddamn ulcer, for Christ's sake! Each thing by itself isn't much to make me pay attention, but it's all happening now, right now! What the hell am I doing to myself?
I swear to God, I'm happy! Really, I am! Right, ok. I could do with losing a few more pounds, even though I'm thinner now than I've been in about 15 years. And sure, I could do with a significant other, rather than the insignificant others that have cropped up of late. And hell, work could be more satisfying, although I know I'm currently proving myself to be forward-thinking, and envelope-pushing and all those other new-age hyphenated terms that turn on the corporate world to no end.
I don't know. I don't know why I feel so unsettled. It's like... well, you know that feeling you get when you eat at The Olive Garden, and all that garlic powder they use in their fake Italian food makes everything repeat on you, so that you can't digest properly, and you keep letting out these putrid burps to make yourself feel better? Well, that's kind of what it is, except it's all going on in my head. Somehow, some maggot of a thought caught itself in my tangled web of a frontal lobe, and started spreading it's foul, little garlicky self all over the place, refusing to make it's way into the mental drawer of forgotten thoughts, and instead is repeating it's own reeky self, over and over and over again. And somehow, I've a feeling that my brain will want to burp out little bouts of hysteria before I start feeling fully digested.
And I'm not sleeping, dammit! It's not letting me sleep, and it's poisoning my mind against Jiminy Little Voice.
Jaysus. You don't need to hear this. Tomorrow, I'll talk about the merits of a good manicure versus proper clitoral stimulation. Which is more important, and which takes more time? Tomorrow, on Indulgence with Mare-Ingenii! And now a word from our sponsor...
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