Doughnuts Go Nuts

I’m feeling hella burned out after a day of disappointment and rejection, and in preparation for a horrifying presidential inauguration. Thank fake Jesus for Yoga with Adriene, or I might have torn my adorable armadillo-shaped table lamp from the wall and pitched it from my bedroom window, with no regard to human, plant, or porcelain armadillo life. Also, thank fake Jesus for Elizabeth Warren, with whom, in my dreams, I am sister wives to Adriene, of Yoga with Adriene.

Is that weird? Is it as weird as this guy going into the subway at Barclays Center?

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If so, I really need to have a conversation with myself.

Actually, I don’t give a fuck. Rejection has a way of either constricting you into a more acceptable position or softening your shame muscles into a glorious man-spread of not-giving-a-fuck-dom. I’m being vague for job reasons, because this stupid fucking blog is public. Y’all know that if it wasn’t, I’d be talking some real shit.

Like the fuckhead at Google that left the GODDAMN seat up when he left the bathroom right before me! Like, he looked me in the eye as he left, leaving the seat up. How do grown men in their thirties and forties live their entire lives without learning the habit of putting the seat down? I started dating someone who liked the lid down when the toilet is flushed to avoid nasty-ass butt germs flying around the bathroom like disgusting, tiny hang gliders, and it took me like a week to develop the habit of putting the lid down. Why are men so fucking dumb and inconsiderate? And before you bang your chest and exclaim, “Not all men!” to no one in particular, calm the fuck down. It’s just your hormones.

After days like today and yesterday, I treat myself with a movie and popcorn for dinner, companion optional. I took the Q to get home, which means walking by Doughnut Plant, and I resisted getting a doughnut. I feel like I deserve a fucking Nobel Prize for that restraint. If I’m being completely honest with you, though, it was only because I got one from there yesterday and earlier in the week too.

When I Googled “eating doughnuts stock photo,” like you do, a significant amount of the images featured pregnant women. Is that a thing? If so, sign me up!

 

 

 

jk mom

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Try My Ideas (TMI)

Why the actual fuck did I stay up until 3 AM the past two nights? My literal nightmare.

My preference is to be in bed at eleven, reading my book or knitting while watching The Wire, every night of the week. And yet I had to go and get myself invited to a goddamn party. What am I doing wrong?

I have, however, had some time to reflect and immerse myself in gratitude for my current state of mind – despite some unfortunate side effects, my anxiety has been reduced by Lexapro. The difference is noticeable, and not existing in a constant state of tension has made life so much more bearable. I can glean humor out of the frustration of living in this city. I can complain sardonically instead of holding all my fear and panic inside. My mom always said that if she heard me complain, she knew I was fine. It was when there was something really wrong that I wouldn’t say anything.

For much of the summer I was afraid to eat because I would have stomach aches and nausea so often. Nausea induced panic, because I have a phobia of vomiting. I didn’t realize at the time that it was a cycle – being anxious would cause nausea; having nausea would cause anxiety. I saw a gastroenterologist, I changed my diet, I took Nexium, I stopped drinking alcohol and coffee, I kept Pepto Bismol with me at all times. Mostly, I lived in a constant state of fear. I didn’t have any way of blowing off steam because I was too scared to drink or smoke pot.

I’m not sure when I realized how closely intertwined the stomach problems were with the anxiety. I think it was when I drove back from a wedding in North Carolina over the summer and felt my blood vessels constrict as I emerged from the Holland Tunnel into the stark reality of the city. This happens every time I return to the city, but it doesn’t feel so present once I’ve been here for awhile. It’s like the frog in the boiling water or whatever.

It’s not just the city, either. I mean, I’m a millennial two years out of college working at a monotonous job, full of existential dread and rage over being cat-called and leered at all the goddamn time, trying to figure out what the fuck I want to do with my life. Also Donald fucking Trump is going to be our next president. I have to give myself a damn break sometimes!

Is this all TMI as fuck? It’s just become so clear to me over the past few months that everyone is terrified of talking about their own experiences of this shit for fear of everyone thinking they’re a freak. Well, fortunately everyone already knows I’m a freak. So hopefully somebody is reading this and is like “Whoa this bitch is just as psycho as I am! Hell yeah!”

Anyhow, the main takeaway here is that now I can eat ice cream without having a panic attack, and that’s all anyone really wants, right?

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Tuesday af

Today was an eat my feelings sort of day. I almost decided to take a “mental health day,” something I have never done because of Jewish guilt, but ended up deciding against it: a choice I regretted when I got to the train for the first time and realized I had to go back for my wallet, and regretted again when I got to the train for the second time and realized some of my less essential cards (student ID, old insurance card, multiple punch cards with only one stamp) had fallen out of my wallet at some point between my bedroom and the train. Were these cards integral enough to my being to retrace my steps? Was it possible that they had just fallen out in my room and I would be making a second trip back to my apartment, unnecessarily? These are all questions one should not have to ask one’s self when one is already late to work and depending on a train that only comes five times an hour on a good day. I ended up going with the more hopeful, and more impotent, option of getting on the train and hoping for the best. But since I was already feeling sensitive, I figured I might as well lean into it and listen to Michigan by Sufjan Stevens while gazing ruefully at the floor of the train.

I expected the eating-my-feelings situation to be more of a “crushed by the inequalities of the patriarchy and my part in it, both as oppressor and oppressed” kind of day and it ended up being more of a “splashed by a puddle projectile vomited from the road by an oncoming car in a comically stereotypical way” kind of day. That is to say, it was more of an “eat an extra cookie ’cause I deserve it” sort of day than an “eat a gallon of ice cream using a sugar wafer as a spoon” sort of day.

Isn’t it a pleasant surprise to be less nihilistic and existential than you expect yourself to be? It’s like finding a twenty dollar bill in your pocket, and also finding yourself able to disregard the destructive and illusory nature of capitalism at the same time.

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By the way, friends, on my way back from the train I found the cards that fell out of my wallet strewn across the wet sidewalk. Well, I found our therapist’s business card, a punch card from a salon I went to once, and my friend’s band’s sticker. All the cards that were actually worth something were gone, unsurprisingly. Some asshole is going to be getting into museums at a discount with my student ID. Fuckers.