Chronicles of Madness

and i'll say it again.

(by the way, i feel no need for capitalization right now, be forewarned)

but i was that kid in the back of the class, with her head always stuck in a book, that never paid any attention in class but almost always had an answer if called on.

truth? i skated by with the ability to catch on quickly and stop listening early.

so, i was not, the class clown, the goth chick, or the metal head. i was the one that tried to blend in with everyone and the only ones that knew me to be funny, outrageous, and not nearly as brilliant as everyone assumed, were my best friends.

kudos to them for trying so hard to get past my shell.

i'm all worth it and shit.

=)

but, one bad thing, is that even though i'm completely over all that shy bullshit and can now handle crowds without vomiting or going half blind from a migraine, is that i still have shit for social skills.

complete and utter shit.

i'm fucking horrible at it.

so the other day i ran into my cousin's friend at the bank. now, i know her, and i actually like her. there's a running debate on whether or not she likes me back, but who the fuck cares? i mean, the girl's funny, and she's never said anything mean to my face, so what do i care?

she says hello.

i say hello.

and here's where it all goes to shit.

i break eye contact and start scanning my purse. why? we're in a bank. it's rude to talk to someone when they're in line at the bank right? i mean, there's all that privacy shit, and what if it was just a polite hello? how was i supposed to respond?

i really don't have a fucking clue.

but, from her facial expression, i could tell that i had just committed a minor fuck up. gah.

anyway, so then she finished at the teller and exited without saying good-bye.

yep, i definitely fucked up.

gah.

i've been doing the same thing with a guy that dated my ex-best friend for about three years now. i never know how to approach him, so i just don't. or, i see him entering the group just as i'm about to leave, and as i don't know how to handle polite chit chat, i pretty much just sprint for the door the moment i see him. and, here's the funny part, i totally took his side in the break up, which he doesn't know, and completely pissed her off. so it's not like i don't like him.

i'm just a complete social retard.

Easter's my favorite holiday. In fact, it's the only holiday that doesn't make me mildly choke on my own bile.

Well... that's not true. I also get President's Day off from work, and since I mostly spend that day out of town somewhere nursing a hangover I guess you could say that I enjoy that holiday as well.

But Easter is different.

Easter is filled with family, making eggs with the children, photographing them hunting for eggs, covered with candy, held by aunt's and grandfathers. I simply love Easter.

But this year I have the Irishman. The Irishman works six days a week. He's a workaholic. And while at first I admired his work ethic I now occasionally wish his office would find itself the victim of arson, for although the Irishman could work from home, he chooses not to.

Now don't go applauding his ability to separate work from home. The man is just ass backwards sometimes. He's a slave to the fucking office.

This year he looked at me and said, "Although I could work on Easter, this year I choose to spend it with you."

Gee, THANKS!

What this actually meant was, "I have two days off from work, let's get the fuck out of Dodge."

Except... I LOVE Easter! Conundrum. The Irishman and I were desperately feening for time alone and a weekend away. What to do?

Finally a plan was set. The plan was simple, Saturday was to be spent in Lake Tahoe. Sunday morning Church, then head back for my family gathering.

One small problem.

Snow fucking city. In the middle of April. Sunday we woke up to a winter wonderland. It was beautiful but bad for commute.

I started to freak out, what about Easter?

The Irishman started to freak out, what about work?

Cue the six hours on the road before I talked him into a motel, and ONLY because he FINALLY let me turn on the weather station to discover the highways were closed.

DUH!! WE HAVEN'T MOVED IN HOURS!

By the time we snuck the dog into the room I was in a quiet fury. The kind where I watch the tv silently while he rages that his career is going down in flames and this is why he fucking hates Tahoe and never goes there.

In the morning he made me breakfast and set out my towels in the bathroom just the way I like them. I am borderline OCD and when it comes to all things house they need to be just so.

My glasses are stored upside down, always.

My towels folded a certain way.

When exiting the shower the floor should NEVER become wet.

Looking at all of the things he had set out for me I remembered that life is about compromises. Did the Irishman have any idea that I came with such a complicated set of rules when he first met me? Hell no. I am fucking positive that he had no idea such a complicated person could come in a package that he would be willing to converse with daily.

So holding my warm cup of tea inbetween my hands I crawled back into bed, kissed him, and when he said he was sorry, I said okay.

There's always Easter next year. His business will wait one day. And we will both flip out over the smallest things. These things are constants.

So we cleaned the snow off the car, let the dog play in the snow, and joked the whole way home.

Which, by the way, took six fucking hours. But we had this, and I'm sure that makes it worth it.

I'm sick, and PMSing, and you are wondering why you care.

You don't, and don't worry, I don't think you do. The point is that all of this may be contributing to why I've been looking at the IrishMan through slit eyes for the last couple of days.

He's all, "blah blah blah blah."

And I'm all, "Hrm" arms crossed in front, cue random looks around the room. Really, I just want to talk about me. The only time I want to talk about his work is in the case that he intends to spend some of the money that he's making on me. If not, well then, hrm.

I feel restless.

And itchy.

This is bad because I tend to break things just for the sound of something different. So last night I was bored when almost automatically I began sifting through the evenings conversation to find a new topic. What did I pick out? Oh, something that would most definitely get us into an argument. I started the convo off with a smile.

Cue his unsuspecting answer.

And somewhere in the midst of his rambling I became aware that I was trying to pick a fight.

Cue self deflation.

Sometimes I'm so irritable that the sound of people talking, breathing, or even thinking within ten square miles of me pisses me the fuck off. It's like, "GAH! GO EXIST SOMEWHERE ELSE!"

I was in fact so irritated last night that I abandoned my plan to crush his self esteem.

For some time I've been planning to obliterate his self-worth. Really, he has entirely too much of it. I'm an attractive female, I have OPTIONS, he's clearly unperturbed by this. And that bothers me. What I would like for him to do is realize how fucking lucky and unworthy he is. I am sure this would trigger small idol worship from which I would benefit. So far, no such luck.

no

such

fucking

luck.

Fuck.

...

if that person you hate still reads your blog?

Yeah, me too.

But let's just assume for a moment that they don't, you know all about her, and we're in mid conversation.

***************************

God.

I'm glad she's gone.

Aren't you?

Did I tell you about the time she got knocked up and the guy told her he was hoping for a 'punch-the-baby' pregnancy?

No?! What's that?

Oh. He threatened to punch her in the stomach in the club and run. I guess this was based on the fact that they were always clubbing, pregnancy wouldn't slow that down, and he's such a piece of shit that he was in her bed laughing when he said it.

I know, why in the fuck was I even friends with her anyway?

CHUH - RASH.

(sip coffee)

What? Oh, her. Yeah, boy now SHE was a piece of work.

She's pregnant, did you hear?

Yeah, some fucking loser, they're planning on getting married.

Naw, it'll probably go through.

So what she hasn't told anyone that they're engaged? You know those two losers, they'll be threatening murder and break ups right until the 'I do's'.

Mmmm huh.

Did I tell her about him cheating?! Hell fucking NO! You think I want to get in the middle of that fucking mess? Shit. HA! I forgot about that ugly chick he tried to bang at the club! Shit, you have a better memory than I do. Oh my god, such ugly belts, she was always trying to look so cool. And remember, no ONE wanted to have sex with her unless they were too drunk to get it up and SHE turned HIM down!

HA!

So, technically, he didn't cheat. Because, he couldn't. Also, remember he said that he would cheat if he could just get some girl to go along? So maybe he never actually has.

Oh that's right!!!

I forgot about the time she found him hanging out with all those gay guys!!! Shit. See, she doesn't even care.

Hey, to each his own. Let's just be glad it's not us.

I hate doctors, I've hated them ever since I was sixteen and my family physician diagnosed me as a hypochondriac.

Fucking quack.

Fucking can't diagnose a cold correctly quack. I wanted to smack him upside his god damned fucking head.

Now that I'm older I know that I internalize stress. I run around pretending everything's fucking dandy until my body starts to fall apart. I get strange rashes, blinding migraines, crippling stomach aches, blah blah blah I'm a fucking train wreck. But since I was sixteen I've refused to go to the doctor's unless I was unable to stand.

Yep.

That's pretty much my checklist. Can I stand. Yes? Good, no doctor then.

Besides all that, really unless you're pregnant, have a disease or internal bleeding, doctors are a waste of fucking money anyway. News-fucking-flash, the common cold has NO cure! Go get fucking dimetapp. Also, the flu? Wait it the fuck out. Turns out IT GOES AWAY.

So last year when I stepped on a nail I thought, big fucking deal. Okay, so it hurt, well what doesn't hurt? Then a couple of weeks went by and it still hurt. WTF? So I opened up the wound and disinfected it.

Yep, you guessed it, it still hurt.

And I don't know, what with everything else going on it was just never on my high priority list of things to do. I mean, I can stand. I can walk, no problem. Besides, it's not the pussy kind of infection, it's just the 'hurts like hell and won't heal' kind of infection. It's on the ball of my foot and for the most part I just ignore it.

So last weekend I decided I should probably take time out of my BUSY schedule (because I am so fucking important) and go to the doctors.

Which is when I remembered what fucking morons these people are. The lady doesn't think I have an infection, she thinks my muscle is inflamed. Oh, yeah. That's why it hurts RIGHT WHERE THE FUCKING NAIL WENT.

And that skin discoloration?

Completely unrelated.

GAH YOU FUCKING MORON!!! So I gave her a dirty look and said I disagreed, now she's making me go to a podiatrist. What the fuck ever. Look lady, I don't have TOE FUNGUS! I don't have an ingrown NAIL! I stepped on a piece of metal! Get that through your fucking head!

You know what the worst part of this is? I'm so FUCKING CHEAP (and broke. don't forget broke, those two often go hand in hand) that what I'm most pissed off about is not all of the wasted time spent in the waiting room (wait, that does piss me off too), no, what I'm most pissed off about is the fifteen bucks I spent on the unproductive doctor's visit. I so want my fucking money back.

Bitch.

(Okay, the fact that J Love's dog looks exactly like mine might have had something to do with it)

Now, this, THIS, has to be the best magazine EVAH! It was so beyond stupid that I purchased it. I paid 4.99 for the pleasure of viewing pictures of dogs in bikini's, reading the 'pet psychic' column, and boning up on whether or not dogs have PMS.

Like, for SURE!

There's even a section called, Puparrazzi. What is it? That's right! Pictures of dogs with their celebrity owners!

And did you know, you can purchase a replica fire hydrant for several hundred dollars? The Irish Man informed me with a sneer that he can get one from the city for free. I had to tell him that that wasn't the point. The point was that someone was actually paying for this crap.

Wait, best section ever?!!!

Queer Eye for the Scruffy Dog.

Doggy make-overs!

You know what I fucking love? Liars! They are sooooo hot. Like, Paris Hilton Hot, like, eat a fucking burgar on top of a car while getting hosed down hot.

Fucking losers.

Fucking wishy washy can't pick a fucking side, democratic, republican, undeclared, will NEVER EVER fucking make a decision LIARS.

Ok. Here's a clue, when I ASK you if you've done something or not, it is probably perfectly okay to go ahead and admit to that. Especially considering the fact that I have ALWAYS demonstrated the fact that I will not get mad at confessions but rather at LIES.

Want a second clue? When we have a fight, don't immediately go post a personals ad that my girl friends will find and tell me about when we are once again dating. News flash, I know they don't lie to me.

Whatever. This is so Ross and Rachel screaming, "we were on a break!"

Best when ridden into the ground and then discarded promptly.