Tag Archives: OCD

And this is why I don’t leave the house much…

For the past few days I have been incredibly irritable, cranky, sullen, aggravated & sleep-deprived. No, I don’t have a newborn baby that I must care for, instead my body decided to birth the mother of all rashes all over my skin parts. That’s right… I’ve got it:

Poison Ivy.

And it’s EV-ERY-WHERE.

*****

I want to die.

-No. That’s not quite it.

I want to kill myself.

-Hmmm… close, but still, that sentiment isn’t totally fitting.

Ok, got it…

I want the rip the flesh from my body, soak it in acid & bleach, scald it in boiling water, pass it through an industrial strength blow dryer and have it re-attached all while I am under heavy sedation so I can catch up on the COUNTLESS hours I’ve not slept ever since Mount St. Hellish erupted all over my oh-so sensitive limbs.

What probably sucks more than the itching and discomfort and lack of sleep at night is the fact that I have no one but myself to blame for this debacle.

Am I unreasonably susceptible to toxic weeds with poison oils? Why yes, yes, I am.

Have I, in the past, contracted said poison oils simply by washing the clothes of another who came in contact with the plant, although I had not? Damn right I have.

As a child, did I come down with multiple horrific cases of ivy poisoning during summer months, so so SO so bad that I once got it inside my eye, causing my lid to swell to the approximate size of a golf ball, forcing me to spend the following days trying to slide a thin layer of tissue between my swollen lids to collect my miserable, unjustly afflicted, childhood tears? This scenario, sadly, is also all too true.

So then why, when warned of poison leaves in the area, did I not flee? Why did I not wave my middle finger in the general direction of my offenders instead of waving the wand of a weed-killing spray in their face. That same blasted wand that literally managed to blast the irritating oils of its plant host back onto my body and clothing?

Because I am an idiot and an asshole.

At least that’s all I’ve been able to come up with.

*****

Do you want to know an interesting fact that I read about poisonous plants? One of the WORST things you can do is to spray them with weed-killer for the exact reason I mentioned above. It causes teeny-tiny offensive poison particles to become airborne, and for those of us with extreme cases of what I like to call “new-born dermatitis” (Do you get hives from moderate alcohol consumption while sitting in the sun? What about from applying certain types of sun block mixed with chlorinated pool water? Then this is you and your life if screwed…) you are risking not only spraying vicious oils all over your skin but you may also end up ingesting them, thus causing a shit storm of shit you do not want to deal with. Trust.

The worst thing about this particular instance is the fact that I didn’t even know I had poison ivy until about 3 days after it first reared its ugly pimpled head. It wasn’t until I awoke one night last week attempting to saw off my own leg with my ragged fingernails that I realized that what I assumed were above average sized mosquito bites were in fact, much much worse.

The next day I noticed a rash had begun to form and spread and those once large circular “mosquito bite” sized blobs on my legs had begun to transform themselves into things that looked more like red sand tropical islands rather than innocuous rosy-red orbs.

It wasn’t until this past Friday night (mind you I contracted the “sickness” on the previous Sunday afternoon) that I realized I had not only entered my home that Sunday, while covered in the offending oil, sat on the couch (which seconds as our bed), touched numerous household items and the cat, before I realized that I was also sleeping on the same sheets since that day. The same sheets that I’d been rolling around in for the entire week wondering why this shit was spreading all over my body like wildfire.

Needless to say… it was too late. A week since I first noticed the rash I am still accumulating new patches of discomfort. I have washed my sheets & any and all associated materials I may or may not have (can’t risk it) touched since the incident twice over now and I am on my way to get a shot of steroids from my doctor because I have left myself with no other options.

The bee and I have barely said a word to each other in days, mostly due to the fact that my emotional range is either that of a crazed, hypersensitive crying lunatic, weeping at the sign of a new blister or bump or that of an aloof, angry madwoman whose main purpose in life is now to eradicate all toxins from my living space.

*****

I’ve seen a doctor, received a shot of cortisone in my arm and am currently taking steroids despite the fact that I was always told they give men breasts and women mustaches. This was a risk I was mostly willing to take and since I already have both breasts and a mustache. I think I can say I’ve won this round.

*****

It is now a day after the doctor and the welts have begun to subside but more than that my state of mind is slightly more balanced than it had been. To put things into perspective I have included photographic evidence from the day I first noticed the bumps arise:

I sent this photo in a text to the bee with the light-hearted comment that my “bug bites” resembled two giant nipples. HAHAHA!

That joke proved even less funny after my leg started to look like this:

if possible, please try to ignore the unshaven-ness of my leg. it’s kind of hard to drag a razor over your skin when your legs are covered in festering sores.

In short…

Happy 4th! Stay safe, have fun, and stay the fuck inside.

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I Can’t Write. Right Now.

I think about things to write about and then I think about them again.

Eventually I over-think it all until my thoughts and ideas and plans for written creativity are nothing more than over-processed pulp lying uncomfortably under the magnifying glass of my ever scrutinizing eye.

I like to write. I do. Better yet: I want to like to write. For a while now it’s felt less like fun and more like this is some daunting task that I must complete. I will near episodes of total breakdown before I finish a post and after I’ve poured my heart and soul (and usually countless hours) into it I just feel exhausted and doubtful that it was even worth all my tireless efforts.

I blame this on my being OCD. By the time Wednesday (because for whatever reason, the crazy in my head tells me that if I’m only going to post once a week then it’s got to be on Wednesday. Uh huh. Yeah…) each week rolls around I start the mental melt-down process where I panic about what I’m going to write. It almost always starts to come together; usually at the last-minute, but it gets done, nonetheless.

When I was working I needed this outlet to quell the mania that was sure to rise were I not to find some outlet to plug it into. My job was a vehicle for my unhappiness and in efforts to avoid a crash course for total self-destruction I would find solace in the written word. It wasn’t any easier really, probably a lot less so, but when I had something accomplished on my blog then I felt, at the very least, well – accomplished.

Nowadays, just being on the internet gives me a case of the howling fantods and I look for excuses to do anything else: Toilets need a-cleanin’! Who’s for a round of scoopin’ kitty litter?

The internet has lost its charm for me. At least for now. Don’t get me wrong; when it comes to the people of the internet I don’t have a problem. In fact, I love a lot of the internet folk I’ve come across in the short amount of time I’ve been active in this “blogger” function. It’s what the internet does to people (myself so totally included) that I don’t like.

Facebook and Twitter and Flickr! Oh – No.

Since I’ve had some time away from an office cubicle I find myself having more time to do the things that I never had time for in the past: going for walks, reading books, spending time with people (in real life!), cleaning more often than every other month, organizing my life (that’s the OCD again) and more than what the tasks are, it’s about the fact that it genuinely makes me happy doing them.

I feel like all this might sound a lot more dramatic than intended. I also feel like this is sounding more like a note to myself than to anyone else but I suppose it just is what it is.

I don’t really know what this whole declaration means other than I’m stepping back for a while. Indefinitely? I don’t know. The holidays are approaching and I must say that I anxiously await them, more so than I have in a long time.

To put it simply: life’s priorities have changed for me. My focus has shifted elsewhere for now and I’m just looking forward to a new adventure.

Wherever it takes me.

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Dining with Slob-zilla: The OCD Wackjob

At our house we don’t eat meals at the kitchen table.

We don’t even have a kitchen table. What we do have is a very tiny house and all that works as an eating surface in the kitchen is the countertop. Even when we did have a table and room for its existence in an appropriate space as we did in our old apartment, we rarely (MAYBE twice) ate a meal there.

Our meals, from breakfast to dinner and any and all snacks in between, take place in the living room over the coffee table and in front of the television. It’s like killing 3 birds with one stone. We get increased comfort, sustenance AND entertainment all rolled into one.

We are so fucking evolved it’s not even funny.

I’ve mentioned before how I’m not much of a cook  and I’m more than a little neurotic.

I have been late to work on numerous occasions because I simply can-not leave the house unless the entire living room is straightened up; blankets folded, throw pillows *just so*, all miscellaneous items returned to their proper place and good LORD! let’s pray there are no dishes on the drying rack because I’ll have to put those away too even if it’s 7:30 in the morning and the bee is still asleep and the sound of dishes being slapped on top of each other followed by the BANG! of the cabinets is completely disruptive to a sleeping bee and I. KNOW. THIS. but something deeeeeeeeeeeeeep down inside my inner sanctum tells me that the world will COLLAPSE if I don’t put that fork in the drawer before I leave.

Maybe you are like this too?!

Hey!

We should start a club!

We’ll just arrange for someone to mess up a room and we’ll all get together and put everything back where it should be for like an hour every Tuesday night!

How fun does that sound?

Here’s the part where I explain what an anomaly it is that I am the way that I am based on what exactly it is that I am.

(what?!)

You see, I am completely deranged into order and balance but I fear this is all because I am, in actuality, a complete and total SLOB-zilla.

I usually spend most of my time cleaning up after myself because I’m such a sloppy klutz. My clothes are always wrinkled and disheveled and just the other day I almost walked out of the lady’s room at work with my skirt tucked into my underwear.

True story.

Thankfully, another bathroom patron was kind enough to bring this to my attention before I embarrassed myself (more than the norm) in front of my colleagues. If I wore lipstick, there would certainly be more on my teeth than my lips, hence why I don’t wear it.

Yet, when it comes to any area of my life that I can seemingly control, WATCH OUT! because my obsessive need for order will likely overtake all else, leaving your own life’s needs/wants to be swallowed up by me and the need to sort things out MY way.

For instance…

To the great dismay of the bee, we can’t have a certain pillow/pillowcase combo on the bed because then it would throw off the balance of the bed. The really funny thing is I almost never actually make the bed (because WHAT is the point?). It’s just that were I to know that one of the pillows wasn’t the right weight/shape/consistency to appropriately match its “pair” then I would likely obsess about it until I had pulled out all my eyebrows and my teeth were ground down to a pulp.

Say we had 6 identical cups and one of them broke.

I would rather break another cup to keep the set even rather than have an additional, perfectly good cup ruin EVERYTHING by leaving the set with an odd number.

I love Häagen-Dazs. It’s probably the best ice cream in existence and it comes in containers sized most perfectly for just the right amount of over-indulgence.

Like a lot of people, I eat it my Häagen-Dazs straight from the container. The only problem is in order for me to finish I need to ensure that I have eaten the ice cream in an even method so that the surface remains flat, without dents or chunks missing before I put it back in the freezer. If there are dents? (god help us) I will have to continue to eat it until the surface of the ice cream is smooth once more. This is a highly delicious yet ill-advised technique because on numerous occasions I’ve been forced to finish an entire tub in one sitting because I couldn’t get the symmetry right which typically ends in midnight belly woes.

It seems like symmetry/balance is the real motivator to my madness (being a Libra, I guess it’s just meant to be) and come to think of it this would also fit the M.O. behind my recent haircutting massacre mishap.

I believe this post proves that I am not only OCD but, quite possibly, ADD considering I began discussing one thing and ended with another without really concluding either thought effectively.

Both (me) and this post are a mess.

I’m starting to think of it as less of a negative and more of an asset/major part of my charm.

Yeah, that’s it…

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It’s been all SORTS of crazy up in here…

I went mental over the weekend.

I woke up Saturday morning and just lost it.

My mind, that is.

I was all ornery and cranked-out and PMS-ing all over the place.

And when I say PMS-ing I mean cramped and crying + irrational, psychotic and hyper-sensitive about ev-ry-thing.

My boobs were swollen and started taking over my neck space which greatly pleased the bee but left me feeling anything but sexy. For those who just read that and thought: “Oh, that BITCH. Complaining about her giant boobs, why I aughta…”

Just hold it right there…

Along with getting monster boobs I also get the highly hot & sexy belly bloat which makes me feel like a beached whale too fat and useless to even be rolled back into the ocean.

You know what?

That’s not all entirely true.

My being mentally unstable and pre-m’d is spot on. It’s just that, in truth, it started getting this way about a week before Saturday and I still kinda feel that way right now.

Which is probably why I hate everything about this post and what I’ve written and if I could scribble all over my monitor and then crumple it into a little ball and heave it in a wastebasket only to hysterically pick it out 10 seconds later making futile attempts to smooth out the wrinkles and decipher what I’ve written under scribble marks and creases and the blueberry yogurt gobs now smeared throughout the page because I don’t always throw my food trash in the kitchen which is bad I know but I can be really lazy and even though the desk trash starts to smell pretty foul after awhile because of rotting yogurt cultures that have been collecting amidst miscellaneous desk debris and hair clippings (I’ll get to that in a minute) imma do it anyway and then I realize that I threw this piece of trash away for good reason so I proceed to stomp kill it once and for all before ripping it into a million tiny pieces and then throwing those god-forsaken pieces back into the trash except for the ones smeared with yogurt because I’ve just realized that it’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon and all I’ve eaten that day is 2 pots of coffee and a little bit of fiber couldn’t hurt at this point…

this didn't even happen and still a drew a picture

You know what you probably shouldn’t do if you are emotionally unstable/trying to grow-out your hair?

Start chopping away at it maniacally!!!

First it started as a means to get rid of a few split ends. Then I kept finding more and more and MORE until I was finally finished and it was clear that I now had a new, wildly lopsided problem.  

Trying to straighten some things out resulted in shorter, stupider looking hair that I basically hate.

So…

AWESOME.

Since I was already aboard the crazy train to almost balds-ville I took the next logical course of action:

I bleached a skunk-stripe in the front…

except it’s really not much to speak of.

Or see.

The bleach I used wasn’t very strong which was probably a blessing in my case given my track record for the day.

I call this one “Sadface/Duckface”:

FYI-

If, like myself, you have a major case of sadface then you should just go over and view the archives at antiduckface.com.

After looking through like 3 pictures you’ll at least be happy that you aren’t any of those people.

Or just feel worse than ever.

That all depends on your penchant for giving duckface.

So DON’T.

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Brokedown Carcass

I’m pretty sure a bug crawled in my ear and died. You wanna hear what’s even worse than that? It happened in October

wait for it…

of 2008.

personally, i think the sunglasses are a *bit* much

I even went to the doctor not long after I started having weird issues which included a rushing sound and then a *POP* when I would bend over. Also, when I would shake my head “no” I would get this rattling noise inside my head. The Bee suggested that I become more positive.

I didn’t think that was funny.

The doctor clearly thought I was nuts at my assumption that an insect had crawled inside of my ear and died. I know this because he told me so. Actually, I believe he used the word  “nut-job“. I told him he might be singing a different tune if he’d seen Brokedown Palace, because Kate Beckinsale’s character had a cockroach crawl in her ear and die while she was sleeping and it made her all crazy and I’m pretty sure that was happening to me and frankly, that would explain A LOT.

I always had ear problems as a kid. I would get swimmer’s ear from taking too long a shower and I couldn’t go into any body of water without using those god-awful silicone earplugs for fear my ear holes would drown in liquid pollutants. Those earplugs also did wonders for my social life. Not only did they look fabulous but I was always the center of attention since I was constantly repeating “WHAT?” and “HUH?” at high volumes until people realized that they’d need to stand an inch from my face for me to understand what they were saying.

And that tactic is what I like to call “How to Successfully Reel in Friends”

OR

“How to Successfully Alienate Yourself From Others and Become Publicly Mocked by Your Peers”.

It’s really a matter of how you wanna look at it.

Anyway, my left ear is all sorts of effed. Between the bug that crawled in there and DIED, which, now that I’m thinking about it, could be seen as a good thing since other pontential residents would likely see the dead guy in there and head for someone else’s ear hole. Because bug or no, who wants to set up shop in a place so filled with death? Oh, wait. This guy.

On top of that, I had a particularly nasty bout of tonsillitis, which I’m pretty sure I never fully recovered from, just months prior to the insect suicide, so now the left side of my body from the neck up is basically in need of replacement.

So here’s what I need:

  • left ear (refurbished) w/ all parts included
  • left throat section, including tonsil (non-smoker preferred)

And here’s what I can give in return:

  • left ear with bug carcass inside (in otherwise very good condition)
  • left throat section, mostly damaged (for donation to “science”)
  • my sincerest thanks

Also, if anyone has green eyes and freckles that they are looking to get rid of, I am definitely interested.

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Fallen Star (On The Rise)

Heh. Get this. Yesterday I was speaking with a colleague on a seriously overdue topic. During this conversation she informed me that in the office, I was known anymore as “The Fallen Star”.

Say it with me now: OUCH.

I guess this requires a bit of back-story. When I started at my job  I think my lack of complete and total incapability came as a shock to my superiors because they were used to dealing with a lot more ineptitude and a lot less consistency and determination from their employees. I know this sounds harsh on my co-workers and seems like I’m just painting myself as a brown-nosing douchette, but honestly, I’m just telling it like it is.

(not an actual falling star. I will let the artist explain here)

When I first started my job I was the only member of my team to have a college degree, which IMHO is completely overrated and plenty of college educated folks are nothing more than moronic automatons no matter how you slice it, HOW-EVER, the corporation I work for ranks having a diploma just below its celebratory view of nepotism. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you? Being the “college gal”, the expectations for my output were high, and only continued to grow as my performance began to match my credentials. This wasn’t a problem for me since I have always been a very focused (read: OCD) over-achiever (due to a cripplingly low level of self-esteem) and can’t help but give my all to any project I’m working on.

Needless to say, my bosses just loooooved me. I was the “go-to girl” for all inquiries and issues in my department. I’m talking people employed with the company for 20+ years were coming to me, ME, with questions on procedure or suggestions on how to better execute a plan. I was told that I “energized” the group with my positive attitude and general zeal and fervor for the tasks at hand. In reality all that excitement was due to my need to remain occupied in an otherwise boring boring BO-RING job. I figured that the busier I kept the less I would have to absorb of my surroundings thus denying the realization of how truly UN-fulfilling my job actually was.

This worked well for a time. Then one day all that positivity came crashing down around me practically knocking the marbles right out of my mind. For the span of at least a few months I would cry almost daily at my desk. Sometimes it would just be quiet tears, other times body quaking sobs which would cause those close by to furrow their brows and query “Is everything OK?” I might be a sarcastic bitch on paper but I’m usually pretty nice and composed when face to face so I would just politely nod and excuse myself until I could regain at least the smallest bit of composure to complete the rest of my work day.

I genuinely hadn’t a CLUE what it was that was tearing me up. I figured it had something to do with the job, just resenting how mindless and at times abusive it could be to my psyche. Now, I’ve mentioned this before, but seriously kids, Customer Service? DON’T DO IT! Even when they offer you an absurd amount of money to essentially answer phones and stare at a computer screen, you must realize THIS. IS. A. TRAP! You tell yourself you would be a fool NOT to work there what with all the medical benefits and paid vacation time. That is, until you realize that what you’ve traded for all that is your sanity and now you are left with a compromised mental state and prescriptions for medications you swore you’d never take again.

Anyway, it’s taken me months, close to a year, to figure out what it is that has been eating me up inside. This all goes back to that conversation with the colleague I told you about seemingly 20 paragraphs ago. She said she could relate as she was once The Star of the office and too learned early on that it’s most definitely not all that it’s cracked up to be. You see, The Star is rarely ever praised but behind closed doors. Sure, The Star is appreciated for all the hard work they perform and the trustworthiness they provide the team but it’s not as if they are given awards or monetary supplements, just more crap heaped upon their shoulders. Speaking of the team, they secretly loathe the fond affection The Star receives and retaliate by shirking their own duties and often slinging them off on said object. Are you beginning to see how this star lost her shine?

It became quite upsetting when I would be running around the office trying to get things done only to find one of my co-workers sleeping, you heard me right, SLEEPING, at their desk. If you’re wondering whether or not that person still works here: you better fucking believe they do. I was tired (not sleeping at my desk tired) of being what seemed like the ONLY responsible one, the ONLY one who seemed to give a rat’s ass about ANYTHING to do with our office. The same year I was hired I received an “exceeds expectations” commendation from management which they told me was quite an exclusive honor since I was the only one being awarded as such that year. I was really flattered, not entirely surprised, because when it came down to it, I fucking deserved that honor and probably more for just how much I had gone above and beyond my role in the short time I had been there.

I dealt with the fact that the recession had caused the company to tighten their purse strings and put the quash on bonuses for those who received commendations. I had never gotten a bonus before anyway so what did it matter? Right? WRONG. It started to get to me that the same people who were dragging the team down due to their frequent disappearing acts (30 minutes trips to the cafeteria for breakfast?) which, when your job revolves around being logged into a call center, really adds unneeded pressure to everyone else who is actually DOING their job, were the same people bitching about others getting up from their desk to go to the bathroom without alerting the entire team. I mean, ARE you kidding me?

So you wanna know what happened next? I. JUST. STOPPED. CARING. I figured why should I when no one else does? Why should I work HARDER than most people and make LESS than they do just because of some seniority issue? How is that in any way fair? In retrospect I should have just gone to my superiors and TOLD them of all the -ish that I was privy to, but I had never fancied myself a “snitch”. Little did I know then that it wasn’t snitching so much as standing up for myself. Instead I just made it seem like I stepped off the deep end and left everyone in the office questioning my sanity on a daily basis.

Instead of exhibiting any sense, I resorted to complete immaturity and started acting out. An obvious lapse in judgment, I know this now. I was depressed as hell, hating all things in my life and it was seeping out of my very being during each and every work day. I quit giving a shit about my banal duties. I started slacking majorly, using the majority of my work day to surf the web, pouring my heart out into emails and word documents, some sent, some never seeing the light of day and, TRUST, we are all better off that they didn’t. I truly thought I was losing it. I took on a defensive/morose tone with callers without really meaning to, it just became a part of the natural course of the way things were going. I felt trapped in my job and resentful that I couldn’t seem to escape the hell that it had become for me.

I have finally reached the stage where I know I need to just confront the issues at hand, however sticky they may be. I don’t like being the negative one, bringing bad news to the troops, but I’m past the point of giving a shit. I plan on meeting with my bosses within the next week to just unearth all the crap that has been going for good or for bad because however clichéd it may sound this year is about turning over a new leaf. This time I mean it. I’m not sure how much longer I will (or can bearably) remain in the job I have. I just know that if there is any possible way that I can, I have to quit silently suffering and start working the squeaky wheel angle.

What’s the saying? “The squeaky wheel gets the worm”?

Something like that…

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Code Red: Stress Level Rising!

So I’m doing this thing again where I pull my hair out. My hair is actually in the best shape it’s been in close to 10 years so instead of just breaking off like it used to when I would pull and pull and pull OBSESSIVELY, now I’m getting it out by the root. I attribute all of this hair pulling to my increased stress level over the past few weeks. I thought I was doing good. I THOUGHT I was taking things in stride and dealing with the upcoming move like a level-headed adult-type person. The hair pulling tells me something different.

I remember when I first started pulling my hair out. Not so strangely it coincided with my first diagnosis of clinical depression, though I feel this act is more indicative of my anxiety issues but WHAT-EVER. I would sit in class and just pull and pull and PULL out my hair, usually from the front until the lecture was over and then I would walk out of the room with little broken pieces of blonde hairs covering the front of my shirt. Another effect of pulling your hair out? Your hair looks like shit. I had unintentional “bangs” for years bc I couldn’t stop my compulsion.

This move is considerably simpler than the last one. We only have to travel 20 minutes down the road as opposed to driving 8 hours up I-95 praying the TV doesn’t crack the window of my hatchback. This is giving me little comfort right now. I’m freaking out about everything. I am a raw exposed nerve and I WILL snap your fucking head off. Just ask The Bee. He’s still recovering from yesterday’s dose of insanity. In short: I suck. I’m also not feeling so hot. Maybe it’s those damn raw nerves causing my stomach to want to empty its contents repeatedly. TMI?

Because I am feeling all sorts of craze this week, I figured this vintage Pixies clip was an appropriate and literal interpretation of my current plight. So enjoy! It’s either that or I can further entertain you with my “Tales from the Toilet“.

Yeah, I thought so…

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The ABC’s of Writing

glengarry

The Bee says I should just write and not worry so much about content or clarity or wherever else my rapid fire, neuropathic brain might normally take me. I think he’s right. He usually is. He’s an abundant treasure trove of good advice. Now if only I would listen. *sigh* So here I be, just writing away, seemingly about nothing but I figure a nugget or two of coherence should emerge in time (that sounded like a poo reference, but I’m really TRYING to be serious here, I swear!). Ok, so Bee says “always be writing” and now I can’t help but picture him as Alec Baldwin’s character Blake, giving me the Glengarry “Always Be Closing” spiel except (thankfully) my career doesn’t depend on it and I have no chance of winning a car or even a nice set of steak knives. So what is my incentive exactly?! Well certainly nothing monetary or even tangible for that matter. Every time I get started on a new rant, whether or not it ends up in a post, it reminds me of the control I DO still have over my life and that, my friends, equals peace for a very harried mind.

I tend to write the most while I’m at work. That either speaks poorly of my work habits or the nature of the job itself and I’m sticking with the latter. Anyway, the writing has been keeping me sane here in an environment that tends to provide me with more mental anguish than anything close to resembling a sense of accomplishment or pride. But I’m not here to complain about my job. At least not today. It’s just that I’ve felt a real lack of control over where my life has been headed for the bulk of adulthood. And if I don’t have the control then who does exactly? The answer is that I’ve always had it, I’ve just been too lazy or oblivious or defeatist in attitude to bother digging a little deeper to discover what I’m really all about. I’ve taken job after job just so that I had some way of supporting myself but I never stopped to figure out what it was that I actually liked doing; and that being good at something does not necessarily make one happy.

Writing has become my savior and my link back to a self who was too preoccupied with doing what I “thought” I should be doing ; i.e. battling it out in a corporate hell and becoming utterly miserable in the process. The passion was always there, I just hadn’t been utilizing it properly. The Bee would send me an email asking how my morning was going and I would reply with a 6 paragraph diatribe about every whacked-out thought & complaint that had entered my head from the moment I read the subject line. Poor thing. I still write pretty lengthy emails, it’s just now I’m writing other stuff too so my crazed and woeful responses have decreased a bit. When I write I can finally let loose all of the pent up frustrations lurking below the surface and in a much more positive way. Now when I go into work I look forward to the moments I will get to write a sentence here or there. The job is the same but my attitude is decidedly different.

Perhaps the idea behind Blake’s ABC rule are crucial for writing as well. There are usually so many thoughts and ideas floating in my head that I complain I need a to hire a little man (little, so he can set-up shop inside my ear, obviously) with ferocious touch-typing skills to take it all down. If you will “Always Be Writing” the majority of that mess can be captured and eventually some sense can be made of it. If you’re always writing then you are always succeeding at something, even if it’s just getting the thought out of your head and onto the screen or paper. Did I just compare closing a deal with the art of word manipulation? I’m not sure I was successful with that but I know there is at least one commonality between the art of writing and sales:

It takes BRASS BALLS.

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A Mild Case of the Crazies

I have a tendency to give myself a hard time when it comes to my own productivity. It’s strange that I do this since I’m typically a super busy, multi-tasker who, with or without set project for the day, will likely find something that consitutes as a project and embark upon it without thinking much about eating, dressing oneself or rest. My days off from work very rarely consist of any real relaxation. I’m constantly organizing, re-situating, researching, observing, pondering, dreaming, reading, obsessing (this is NOT a good thing and I’m working on putting a cap on it) and doing any and all things that I just can’t get to on a normal work day. There have been a few occasions where the Bee has had to tell me to just spend the day relaxing because I need to for whatever reason. The intent for that task usually works until I flip on the TV and I find my mind has already begun to wander to the ever growing, extensive TO-DO list that I’ve got collected on multiple pieces of paper as well as spinning around recklessly in my head. I just don’t know how to chillax for the most part. The fact that I over-analyze everything started to stress me out so much that it became A B U N D A N T L Y clear I really did have a problem.

I mean the problem still exists, I’m still a wackjob whose mind works faster than I can keep up with most days. This is probably why I don’t sleep well either. Hmmmmm… Back to topic: I have been learning to cope with my own neurosis, OCD, whatever you call it so that I can stop freaking out so much and just get back to enjoying life. I have been trying my goshdarndest to keep positive in light of negative happenings and have been using some of my passions and aspirations to keep me on that track. I keep telling myself that I will one day accomplish something that I will be proud of. Not sure if it will be through sartorial methods or music or writing or environmentalism. I just keep telling myself that If I want it to happen I firstly (firstly?) must believe that it will be so. Obviously this will all require lots of time, hard work & effort, failures, imperfections, missteps, etc. but without the dream there wouldn’t be anywhere to start. Right? I think my mind is wired to expect things done yesterday and to give myself the hardest of times for not already being perfect at life from the jump. I don’t expect these things of other people so why do I put myself through such total shit? This is a serious query. I’m really not sure what the answer is. I have theories but no substantial proof as to why I am SUCH a critic of my own abilities. I DO know however, that I can laugh at myself and for this reason I know that in many ways I am Delores Herbig, just “Getting Things Done…”.

 delores herbig

And if you’re not sure who the stunner above is you reeeeally need to watch more TV. Well you’ll have to rent the DVD since the show’s been off the ai… oh, just google her. You’ll thank me later.

 Editors Note:

Since originally writing this post, crazy level has escalated from mild to full-time resident of crazy-town and no, I’m not referring to the totally awesome and wickedly original band, popular in the late ’90’s which gave us this everlasting hit:

 

Rather, I am fully immersed in the depths of misery and despair once again, seemingly unprompted and without cause. Perhaps I should rethink my stance on prescription medication and professional counselling…

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