I'm a Mess

Here are the reasons I'm tempted to just go to bed right now and forget this day and try again tomorrow. 1. I've got this weird thing on my right arm. It's a little hard patch the size of my finger tip and on top of the hard patch are six really hard shiny round things. Sometimes they itch. They hurt when I poke at them. I cannot stop poking at them. 2. My lower legs itch. Really bad. Fortunately, it hurts so much to scratch them that I have not scratched them. There seem to be a few random hard shiny round things on them, too, but they don't map up to the itchy parts. 3. My face itches. Well, just my cheeks and my forehead. I think this may be the sunburn remnants, so I'm not too concerned, yet. 4. Work called and wanted me to deal with some mess. That ate up two hours. 5. I've done no dishes or laundry. Instead, I've played Roller Coaster Tycoon and sat by the dog and cried about how cute she is. There's no reason to cry about how cute she is, so clearly something internally is fucked up. Perhaps whatever alien insects are living subcutaniously in my arm have a soft spot for really cute dogs with big brown eyes who curl up on the couch and snore softly while you're trying to encourage 3,000 people to visit your amusement park. 6. The fucking door and, to that end, my completely ridiculous response to the Boy Scout's rational suggestion. Yes, America, I keep hoping someone will ride in on his white horse and rescue me from my shitty self. Yes, I know that's utterly stupid, but fuck it. I'm entitled to a shitty fantasy or two. 7. Me. God damn. I used to write about things that scared the shit out of me here, because it did me such good to name them and drag them out into the light of day and just get them out of me, because they sit in here, these things I fear, and they spoil on me in ways that are really bad for me. But I've been pretending lately that I'm all competent and together and smart and thoughtful and tough and strong and I am those things, don't get me wrong, but because I really want you to think of me that way, I've been writing only about those things. Part of it has to do with losing my anonymity--not that most of you didn't already know who I was. I keep telling myself that, that you knew who I was anyway. But it still shook me. Knowing that you have a name to put with these words made me want to put my best self forward to you, instead of my most honest. Before, I felt like I could say things to you because I could draw a clear line between how I presented myself in real life and how I presented myself here. I'm still angry that someone else got to choose to conflate those two things and not me. And clearly, it a move intended to scare me and knock me off my game and I'm pissed that it worked. And I'm pissed that it's taking me so long to get back into the groove of really enjoying writing here, because being able to write here is important to me. How can I know what I think if I don't sit down and think it? So, here's the thing. I'm jealous of people who have people they can count on, who can just call out "hey, I need help with the door" and someone comes to help. And I'm tired of feeling like I'm only barely competent when it comes to the ordinary things that people do--like home repair and car repair and doing the laundry and cleaning the bathroom--and I'm afraid that I'll always be the only one I can count on to do those things anyway. And the worst part is that I also know that there are at least three people I could call right now and say "Hey, I need help with the door," and any one of them would come and help me. So what the fuck is my problem? Why can't I ask for help when I need it and accept it graciously when offered? Why must I live my life like a delicious chocolate cake laced with toothpicks? Heh, delicious chocolate cake laced with toothpicks... Fuck it. That's pretty damn funny.