If people were only characterized upon whether they were a cat or a dog, I’d be fucked. I’d be a mutation of the two, but not a cute one like a cat that’s as big as a dog or a dog as graceful as a cat. No, I’d be the fucked up runt with floppy ears, long snout, judgmental cat eyes, and the uncanny ability to misjudge distance between platforms and jump and fall to the ground. It would be disappointing to say the least.
The reason I bring up comparisons to feline and canine breeds is that I realized that I literally have zero cool. I like to think I’m cool, I LOVE it in fact. I’ll occasionally have a good face and hair day and rock the perfect set of sunglasses and feel ready to take on rathtars. Then shit like today happens:
I posted a photo on instagram of myself goofily holding up Jenny Lawson’s new book, Furiously Happy, up to my face to make it look as though the lower half of my face was a maniacal smiling raccoon. My anxiety stared and muttered, “You’re such a loser,” In a deadpan tone, but I didn’t care at that point. I’d had a damn good day, thanks to my introversion I’d avoided paying a locksmith $300 to unstick my car key from the ignition (see my last post if you’re out of the loop), so I celebrated with wine, pot (I live in Washington, it’s legal!), voracious reading, watching Miranda with Susan, and going to the market to buy more wine.
I was in line at Walgreens, bottle of chardonnay tucked under my arm holding doritos while holding my phone in the other. Suddenly, my home screen glowed and I saw this message:
My internal voice was complete white noise, I was having a total out of body experience. I was vaguely aware of someone screaming “THE BLOGGESS APPROVES!!!!!” but because I was out of my body I swore up and down that it couldn’t have possibly been me screaming, I was out my body at the moment! Unfortunately, my body was being rude and continuing on without me. My anxiety was standing outside the store looking in at me from the window mouthing, “LOSER!!!!!!!” To me. Mortification set in as I returned to my present circumstances, I paid for my things without looking at the cashier and scurried out and into my car.
I sat and stared for a moment, the mortification still coursing through my body as my anxiety smoked wildly in the backseat remising the good old days when, “You could enter a store and buy alcohol without screaming non sequiturs out to the general public. You’ll never be able to go in there again, you know?”
I couldn’t even muster up the energy to tell her to fuck off, Jenny Lawson not only saw my photo but SHE LIKED IT! That may mean nothing to a lot of people, but BOY did that mean something to me. I mean this blog was inspired a lot by her writing and her boldness to be out and proud about her mental illnesses. My heart swelled and I drowned out my anxiety’s bitching as I took a screen shot and furiously began typing on my phone.
“What are you doing?” My anxiety droned from the back seat, puffing out some smoke as she eyed my furious thumbs.
“Posting another instagram.” I murmured
“What th-NO! YOU ARE NOT POSTING A SCREENSHOT!”
“HEY! The account has MY name on it so I will post what I damn well feel!”
I posted the screenshot explaining what had happened in the store and posted the photo, tagging Jenny again in hopes she’d see and get a laugh out of the little fuck up (I mean really, I think she of all people would appreciate my moment(s) of insanity).
I was pulling into my parking space at my apartment when anxious smoke suddenly surrounded me, “You’re so desperate for attention you posted a screenshot of a person liking a photo. You’re like a dog that annoying jumps and yips for attention.”
I groaned and rested my head on the steering wheel, “But it’s a funny story and I want her to know and laugh!”
“You do this with everyone,” the bitch purred, blowing smoke right into my face, “Every time someone you like shows you a little bit of positive attention, you lose the fake ‘cool’ act and become a bitch in heat, rolling over and showing your belly. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I paused my breathing, refusing to breath in the smoke and let it cloud over me. I closed my eyes and opened the door quickly, grabbing my things and marching up to my apartment, “I’m spreading smiles and chuckles and fun. What do they call a girl who tries to pull people down to her level to make herself feel better?” I smirked at my waning anxiety, “A bitch.”