Go see a star war

I was unable to take my Lexapro twice over the weekend because my garbage can psychiatrist didn’t get back to me in time, so I’ve basically been a black hole with legs this entire week so far. Hairy legs, to boot. Good thing it was fucking gale-ing outside like the whole goddamn world was ending (which it is). Just the cherry on top of my shit sundae.

I’m only now starting to feel like I did prior to the weekend and missing those doses, and my gratitude for having access to this medication has been deepening throughout the day. Was that how heavy everything felt before I started the Lexapro? I think perhaps I’ve been feeling a combination of that, the inauguration, and my frustration at work.

Plus, everybody else is all fucked up, too. Since the inauguration I’m certain I’ve seen less patience and more desperation in the people around me. I didn’t think New York could become a more suspicious and self-serving place, but it feels as though it has done so. Or perhaps I’m projecting onto the people around me.

Either way, there are a million things going on and I’ve barely been writing at all. I thought of turning this into a once-a-week blog, but I’m not going to. I’m supposed to be writing every day as a rule, not an exception. I should be writing about that dude that lit a cigarette next to me on the subway and the mom and daughter tourist duo that ogled as everyone else on the train actively ignored him with nonchalant intensity, like only New Yorkers can do. Or my thoughts on the women’s march and those who attended, many of whom had never marched in a protest before. Or how I went to see Star Wars and the dickheads behind me chatted the whole time like they were raised in a fucking barn.

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I wanted to make some joke about “alternative facts” but everyone else has already done a better job. Good luck out there, all of you.

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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Santacon

Today is Santacon, the day when a bunch of dumb fucks from Staten Island and Jersey come into Manhattan and make everyone hate it even more than they already do. It starts at ten AM (aka before I woke up) and ends when everyone is passed out in a gutter in Midtown. Thus, I will not be heading into Manhattan today. Not like I was going to anyway. God, I’m a curmudgeon!

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I think I’m feeling grouchy because of that age-old catch-22: I feel like shit when I don’t do anything, but I don’t want to do anything. Instead of going to a party in Queens that would set me back twenty-five bucks for a cab home last night, I vegetated with bagel chips and Law and Order: SVU until 2:30 AM. It wasn’t even the good ones with Stabler in them! Netflix only has the most recent few seasons. Somehow Ice T is still on there though, after fifteen years of his only line being “That’s messed up.”

It also doesn’t help that the weather is on a steep incline from “bearable” to “Rip Van Winkling myself until May.”

By the way, after Wikipedia-ing “Rip Van Winkle” to make sure I was using that reference correctly (my blog should just be called “commentary on Wikipedia“), I’ve discovered that the whole debacle was caused by Rip Van Winkle being lazy as fuck and wanting to get away from his “nagging” wife, who was basically just like “Can you please work so we don’t die of starvation and whatnot.” What a piece of shit.

Well, I think that’s enough complaining for today.

 

 

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.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

I’m moving right along with Little Women. It’s so fucking charming that it makes me want to bake a whole goddamn cake just for funsies. Or maybe just eat one.

google_sketchAnd this is the Google Doodle today! It’s like I have ESPN or something.

Seasonal Affective Disorder, whose acronym seems so on the nose that it’s almost inappropriate, is actually less SAD and more APATHETICFATIGUEDBOREDANXIOUSLISTLESSHOPELESSSEDENTARY. For me anyway. For example, it’s taking me literal actual hours to write this fucking post.

We’re singing Beethoven’s Ninth in choir which I was really excited about, but as it turns out, singing it brings about this unfortunate paradox in which your throat is somehow dry while simultaneously fifty percent of the air in front of your mouth is filled with spit. The piece has no chill whatsoever. But neither did Beethoven. I mean, look at him:

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That dude has definitely spent some quality time with a Fleshlight.

Speaking of Fleshlight, I just Wikipedia’d that shit (if you only knew the internet spirals I’ve descended into over the years) and learned this:

“In 2011, the company that manufactures Fleshlight sent a complimentary package of its products to the members of the SEALs team that killed Osama bin Laden.”

I’ll let y’all meditate on that. Enjoy this shitty-ass weather, friends.