The Over-Educated Nympho

I have a nasty temper. Like, screaming-and-throwing-things temper. No one knows that because it doesn’t come out often and when it does I keep that side very guarded. Even when I had roommates or a live-in boyfriend, no one saw that side of me. I pushed it so far in for years that I almost believed it didn’t exist.

Sometimes a person just needs to fucking lose it.

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I have not felt like myself lately. Yesterday I felt like I was one step removed from everything. The last three days I have slept an average of twelve hours a night and then I still feel lousy all day. Am I getting sick? Don’t think so. Too much wine? Haven’t had any in two weeks. Blood sugar out of whack? I laid off the sugar yesterday and it didn’t change anything.

Is depression setting in? Oh holy shit I hope not.

Today at work something changed. Everything changed.

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For once I got into the “fresh start” mentality of the New Year, which I took advantage of in a very un-nymphoish manner. After two evenings of organizing the huge stack of mail that has been sprawled across the entry (and behind the couch, and maybe perhaps also under a huge pile of shoes) since I moved in, I sidetracked to figuring out what all the numbers on my 401k statement meant, which then had me wondering how much more loot it would take so I could roll around in my filthy wealth when I’m 59 1/2 years old, and from there I spent all weekend researching the current stock market so I can build a nest egg on the Lower East Side well before I can access my 401k.

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I often come across emails, comments, and even other blogs that say something to the effect of “I wish I were more like you.” That makes me cringe. That is the antithesis of warm-and-fuzzy–it is a big fat oh sweet merciful crap. I do not belong on a pedestal. Even if someone put me up on one I’m such a clumsy ass that I would fall off within minutes. I beg you, don’t put me on that fucking pedestal. It’s hard enough living up to my own expectactions without worrying about hundreds of others.

Vix is not my real name. It’s nothing remotely close to my ordinary blah name. The avatar in the right sidebar is a real photo of me, but thanks to good lighting and a clever angle you can’t see my rounded tummy (all those Oreoes and ice cream have to go somewhere). I’ve got cellulite on my ass which an ex-boyfriend not-so-fondly referred to as “hail damage.” I like to think I’m smart but I seem to be afflicted with a permanent case of dumbass.

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Tonight while cleaning up the apartment, I put on DVR and found the season 3 finale to Grey’s Anatomy. Even though I’ve seen the ending several times, it still moves me to sobs. Not tears, sobs.

A girl who’s a total commitment-phobic hard-ass (and coincidentally my favorite person on the show) agrees to marry a wonderful man. At the church, she flips out and he realizes that it is not in her character to get married, so he walks out. My summary does little justice to the scene, so I suggest watching it on Youtube here [only first six minutes].

It reminds me of how close I came to losing myself in my previous relationship. Ex-BF was a great guy–it wasn’t his fault that I had started fading away. It was all mine. He didn’t know how I was supposed to be, who I once was. The fact that things like this and this make me react so strongly has me wondering why, because I suspect it’s not nearly as simple as it seems.

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This morning I copied all my old mp3s onto my hard drive at work. Some of the things I found were very old and long forgotten (shame on me! someone slap my hand.. or my ass. either is good, especially if it’s my ass). Among the long list of music I found one called Hell Yeah* by Ani Difranco.** It was one of those rare and precious songs that cut right through the (my) crap.

I copied in the parts that resonated with me the most:

life is a b movie
it’s stupid and it’s strange
a directionless story
and the dialogue is lame
but in the he said she said
sometimes there’s some poetry
if you turn your back long enough
and let it happen naturally
oh, yeah
hell yeah

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I’m not feeling my usual sexy or funny self. Everything I’ve tried to write tonight has sucked. If you want something sexy or funny, read these links and don’t click the “continue reading” button. What I have typed out below is from the bootlegged memopad I write in at work while hiding out in the womens restroom.

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My shoulders hurt. Ten hours of studying in two days and all it did was make me feel stupid. I have to iron shirts. Yesterday I spent an hour unclogging the vacuum cleaner (not a metaphor). Weirdos have been emailing me because they seem to think I’m easy.

This is what I’m reduced to–
This and sharing my bed with two dogs, one of whom has a fat ass and farts a lot.

This wasn’t how my life was supposed to be.

Cubicle monkey by day, writer by night–this life is really beginning to wear me down. If my “real” career and my aspiring career were just coasting along all easy-breezey, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Instead both these careers are progressing well in completely opposite directions, leaving me in the middle with my arms being pulled out of the sockets as I grasp desperately onto both.

How much longer can I be caught in the middle before something goes >SNAP< and leaves me in jaded pieces?

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I recently received my first rejection letter.

Time to confess. A while back I submitted one of my super-secret writing projects for publication. [Who they are is not important. Someone huge, that’s all you really need to know.] A couple weeks ago they sent me feedback, and let me tell you this shit was harsh. It was the bitchslapping to end all bitchslappings. Like, motherfucker, gouging out my eye with a melon-baller would have been less painful.

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It’s been a week and I’m still thinking about Handsome Nerd.

I want to see him again. I want to talk to him again. There are so many things I want to tell him in the light of undeniable sobriety.

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