Hi. My name is Emma, and I’m a pain in the ass.
Hi, Emma, I imagine you saying in response.
Then I imagine crickets, eye rolls, and silence in its most uncomfortable form.
Thank you for the enthusiastic welcome, I respond to your response, all dryly and pain-in-the-ass-ly.
Have you seen my sense of humor? I think it ran off wherever Serotonin and Dopamine booked to. What a bunch of dicks.
This is an ongoing thing, chasing down my reasons to laugh while balancing my imbalanced chemicals sloshing through my brain wrinkles. I’m worn out. I feel very little. I’m empty, hallow. But not. Do you know what I mean?
Shit, do I know what I mean? Inferior, worthless. Yep, sounds about right.
Year One of the Big P saved my life (that’s Prozac for you non-depressed folks out there). Now on Year Two, I’m just not that into it, so to speak. It’s like a seven year itch, but instead of a marriage, it’s a pill. Instead of seven years, it’s two. It seems as though it kept me from killing myself quickly just so I can kill myself slowly, soul first, body second.
I want to write. I want to laugh. I want to paint and make all the sparkly shit I see on the Pinterest. I want to LIVE. I’m so over worrying and surviving and existing. I’m so fucking over the cubicle and the interpersonal dysfunction and the polyester dress pants and playing real life human chess with certain individuals in the corporate workplace where I work.
Look, I know that shit won’t change and I can’t change it I can only change myself.
lafcmp9w8iutkdjsfgvlkjshno,iow;rhmgjckhslkx,jf;lrkejtcksjhgkjldd,fgkxj (<—- me typing nonsense in proactive response to well meaning unsolicited advice that I can’t stand. I don’t need advice, I need a listener. Know what I mean, yo?)
Look, I get it. But gahdamnit, there’s something in me fighting to live. But it’s trapped. You see, I could make a joke about it being the source of the pain in my ass but I’m not going to. Why? BECAUSE I’VE LOST MY SENSE OF HUMOR.
See?! Proof. Told ya.