I’m going a little bit crazy today.
Sent off the application for one course.
Have to hand write the other one. Oh dear sweet mother of left handed computer nerds, I can’t do it. I can’t hand write. My handwriting was frozen at age 12, it sits there forgotten and no one ever asks to see it, and then sometimes I have to leave a note and people see it and think how sweet, you got your baby sister to write the note. Such good spelling. But no, that’s me. I was a bad penwoman then, and 12 years of lightning fast delivery of Times New Roman’s inoffensive uniformity has done my illegible scrawl no favours.
I have the whole thing typed up and ready to go, I just can’t write straight, it looks like a joke,
like a small retarded child filled out my application. The spelling is of course impeccable but it may as well read
“Wen I groe up I wana bee a teachair”
I wish I could pay someone to write it out for me, but maybe they will then see my handwriting when I’m on the course and know i cheated… but then they can’t throw me out because of handwriting?
And while you’re sitting there thinking, oh, that’s today’s crisis, oh well at least it’s not about men or sex or something, this is a practically solvable existential connundrum.
I have another crisis too.
So today and yesterday I have woken up so goddamned, enviably skinny… why always when I’m home alone, why always when it’s raining too hard to get away with a bikini, why when there’s no man to admire me, when there isn’t even a dressing room mirror involved?
WHY am I getting a skinny day today? Everyone told me at my mother’s wedding, I looked so fucking skinny. Oh the figure on ye. Yeah but no, I did look skinny compared to my previous incarnations but I still had a big ole wine n food bump. A food baby, I joked. But today I’m like, I’d even look good in a tank top, which is I think a short top where your midriff shows underneath. In fact I walked around my apartment (all three metres of it) in hot pants and a short top, admiring myself regularly. I looked damn good.
But then, because I can’t be happy for too long… I remembered. Isn’t this meant to be my fat n bloated week? Amn’t I supposed to be crying into the fridge as I extract cheese because what’s the point anyway, what’s the point if I’m just gonna be fat all the time?
I’m supposed to be getting my period. I’m supposed to HAVE my fucking period. And I know, I know I took the morning after pill like a week ago so that can mess up your period and make you get it late but it doesn’t matter how much I KNOW that’s why I’m late…. I still feel the panic of oh fuck yeah, I’m not in control of my own body and what if the pill didn’t work? What if this is finally it, my first pregnancy? Obviously, obviously my answer would be abort, abort. Abort mission. No way is it sacrifice myself on the altar of motherhood time. But then I also know that pregnancy makes women go crazy too and oh god no it can’t happen to me, I don’t need this.
But of course I’m not pregnant it’s just the pill making me late.
It’s impossible to rationalise this fear, because it’s a pretty fucking big fear.
And I would ordinarily take great pleasure in inflicting this on my current partner, or partner in crime at least. I like to freak them out too because why should I suffer alone? Also it’s worse for them because they can’t even know what I’d DO with the thing if I did get knocked up. Super panic. So I would love to WARP this boy’s mind with this one, really fuck with his head, serve him right for making me fall in love with him and then trying to turn us into the greatest Vulcan love story that never was. But he didn’t reply to my “hey!” yesterday, and I think he left for Greece today, I vaguely remember him talking about some holiday there in a few days after I left, I wasn’t paying attention really because I was extremely horny and it didn’t interest me as it was not regarding sex or a compliment. So I am very pissed off now because if he thinks he can swan around recessionsville in the sun with not a care in the world probably having just finished his dissertation, while I languish at home with a handwritten thingumy to write out in handwriting, and worry about maybe being pregnant because of HIS GODDAMN TASTY PENIS, then that is just bullshit.
I will not stand for this.
I have gone a little bit crazy.
Today I had a few little episodes, imaginary conversations between him and me when I tell him drammatically that I might be knocked up and he says
“no your period is just late because of the pill, I read the packaging”
and I respond, bellowing, furious, and gloriously naked, maybe with a daisy chain around my swollen belly (it’s not actually swollen, it’s very flat as I mentioned)
“Oh that’s RIGHT, Mr. FUCKING SPOCK, let’s LOGIC and REASON our way out of this one too! WHAT do you know, you piece of shit MAN! Am I not allowed to feel????? to FEEL? I AM A WOMAN. I must be witnessed!”
And I collapse on a chaise longue.
Or else I give a sort of solliloquoy about my rights to love someone in my own way, and how does he dare, and I never asked for his love, I never asked for anything! I never asked for fidelity, I never asked him to be my boyfriend, I never asked for A-NY-THING! And if even that’s too much for him, he can go, go and never look back! But mark my words, you will regret this! You’ll never meet a woman like me again, NEVERRRR! And you’ll never get another chance with me! MARK MY WORDS, AGAIN! NEVERRRR! This is it, I’m gone…
But then I think, shit, what if he does regret losing me and then he wants to beg for me back but he takes my “never again” seriously and doesn’t try to get me back? So no, I won’t say any of that. I wouldn’t want to make it seem difficult to get me back again. Sheesh.
Door’s always open, loverboy.
But I’m all over the place. One might hope it’s because I’m pre-menstrual, another might fear it’s that I’m another “pre” word. -gnant, I mean. Both those people are me. I am crazy woman, see and hear me roar.
And also maybe I’m flipping out over this because it’s a really legitimate procrastination tool, the old, what’s goin’ on in my uterus today? And is all that gear even functional? (Hey, I never got any complaints. Hee hee. Sorry)
Anyway. I just can’t write this thing in my handwriting. If only I could just type it out…
and also, how long is he going to be in Greece on his bachelor holiday while I slave over the ink stand and vellum, cradling my worryingly flat belly and telling it, don’t worry, I’ll make dada feel shitty and worried about this when he gets back, don’t worry…. Even if I HAVE got my period by then. He can fucking sweat a bit too.
I do realise that by playing the crazy maybe pregnant lady card, I will send this boy running farther than if I had said “hey, I like spending time with you, how about we see each other some time maybe?”
It’s so the wrong move to play with this one… but I’m reckless. That’s what I am. And he’s just too delicate, I can’t tiptoe around this shit any more, it’s stifling. I feel smothered by it. Sabotage time…
Or I don’t know, maybe I’ll play the long game. I’m just feeling very crazy today. Up is down, down is up, and I watched about 15 episodes of Seinfeld which hasn’t helped.
You know I had never seen the finale before? Weird, huh. I just didn’t have those episodes. I might watch some more now and go to bed, work in the morning… maybe just eat some cheese first and worry about pregnancy and look into French paternity laws… kidding. Kidding. I’m kidding.
He does have excellent bone structure though and blonde hair. And full lips.
Our babies would be so freaking hot. Or maybe they would go the route of Demi Moore and whatshisname’s kids. Bruce Willis. Inherit the worst of both.
They could have my thin lips, his eyes which aren’t bad at all but they aren’t as good as mine, my pale skin and freckles and nose, his giant vagina that he uses to make decisions about love.
No, please don’t let me be preggers with a half French Rumor Willis.
Please not that….
Also don’t let me be infertile either because thinking about it now, I do have some pretty sweet genes that could do with passing on. I just need to find a guy with a nice nose and we are GOLDEN.
And also, he needs to be a grown up. With money.
End of rant.
I’m off to do the purple rain dance.