too smart and too horny for her own good
I think my writing has kind of sucked lately. My beloved readers may not think so, but I do. It’s not what it should be. I know about all the posts I’ve started and left half-done. I know what was supposed to fill the blank on the days I don’t post. It’s not like I have some huge dramatic secret, it’s just–well, it’s all those things I don’t want to see on a screen in front of me, let alone be out there where I have to face them.
I’ve always known that I would probably be on anti-depressants for life. Depression (and AD(H)D as I later found out) both run in the family, depression on both sides. Fantittyfuckingtastic. At least I’m not an alcoholic like everyone in my dad’s family!
I’ve been on meds since I was a sophomore in college. The depression was really bad for years and only recently let up. Even the low days are not nearly as low as they used to be. Stupid me, when my prescription for anti-depressants ran out, I thought (just a little!) that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I went off them for a while… I’ve been doing so much better lately…
For being such a clever girl, I make some really stupid decisions. What, did I think that wishful thinking would bitchslap my biochemistry into having a happy face? Now my biochemistry is glaring back at me with her hands on her hips going NEENER NEENER NEEEEENER you can’t beat me!
Bitch. Them’s fighin’ words. Okay obviously I would lose but at least throwing some punches would make me feel better.
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.
DELETE! There goes Handsome Nerd’s phone number.
I really wish that cell phones made a gong sound every time you deleted someone. Sure my phone showed me a little trash can opening and closing, but that just doesn’t cut it. I would prefer some sort of small explosion. What a fantastic representation of complete dismissal! BOOOM! And little pieces of electronic carcass fall like snow in the light of 20/20 hindsight.
I can feel it creeping in.
It starts in my head and my hands. The tightening of my jaw as I bite back harsh words, the eyes consciously closing in tears before anyone notices them. My hands clench into fists so hard that the fingernails leave marks in my skin. With every moment of intensity I feel my torso flare with heat.
The rage starts at one end of my body as it takes over my upper body with an unnatural but all too familar stiffness. Then exhaustion starts in the legs and slowly takes over the anger. It leaves me begging for the moment that I can fall into bed for hours of nothingness. All I want to do is sleep it away.
When I lived in New York City a couple years ago I had no friends and no cable, so I went to the gym. I spent roughly twelve hours a week at the gym for eight months. I hardly lost any inches off my waist line because I had a nightly three-way with two cute and lovable guys named Ben and Jerry. Every night I ate an entire pint of ice cream for dinner. Some nights that may or may not have been followed by cake frosting directly from the container.
That year was the worst of my depressive spells. It had nothing to do with the city, oh hell no. If the city were a man I’d be all kissy-kissy on him. It was miserable because I was in over my head. I had finished college and went off to the dream internship in Manhattan. I thought I was the shiiit.
I was so full of hope. It might have been cute if I were ten years younger and wore a bedazzled baby-t that said DUMBASS.
This morning I woke up early to watch something I was bidding for on eBay (and I got it too! Kiss my grits, bitches! HOW YOU LIKE MY BOOTY SHAKE NOW?!) and since then I’ve been taking my time getting ready for once instead of running around the apartment in my underwear trying to apply mascara with one hand while stuffing my face with the other.
A word from the late-riser trenches: don’t. INEVITABLY YOUR HANDS WILL GET MIXED UP AND NO ONE SHOULD START HER MORNING WITH A MOUTHFUL OF PATOOOIE UNLESS IT TASTES LIKE SPOOGE.
When I went to the doctor last week and stepped on the scale, my mouth dropped at what was on the screen before me. 148 pounds [that’s 67 kg for the foreign readers]. I haven’t weighed so little in years, since high school when my birthing hips still had a long way to go. Fuuuuck.
One short year ago I was 173 pounds [78.5 kg]. That’s a twenty-five pound drop. An unintentional twenty-five pound drop. Duuuude.
I’m not going to lie. After I saw Dr. $300, I was a bit shaken up. Even though I’m not bipolar, the fact that it occurred to him (and many of you readers too.. I’ve gotten lots of “are you SURE you aren’t bipolar?” emails over the last month) is unsettling. Sure I can joke that wouldn’t it be great to have manic stages to offset the depression, think of how much writing and fucking I could accomplish! BRING ON THE MANIA! But I’d be lying to myself.
It bothers me because with each mental what the fuck of depression, ADHD, whatever the hell other neurological demons are being unearthed, I feel that much more… distanced? Not normal? I dunno, SCREWED?
I saw Dr. $300 a couple weeks ago for my A.D.D. He briefly thought I was bipolar (I told him he was wrong, and nearly burst into tears), then he decided that I have 1) an excitable do-or-be-damned personality and 2) A.D.H.D, which is the hyperactive version of ADD. It means I can’t sit still, especially if I’m bored. I always thought the fidgeting, shaking leg, twirling in my desk chair, and dancing feet under my desk were normal. Most of my family is the same way, of course I thought it was normal, asshole. Give me my money back.
I know all you pervy readers want the dirty details of last night, but I can’t make any promises–I’m home for an hour to eat and re-Vixenize before going back to the office to get stuff ready for a huge meeting on Friday.
In addition to getting laid last night (BOOYAH MOTHAFUCKAS), there is much to spill about all those other things in my life now that the quest for cock (cockquest? anyone think that’s as funny as me? no? okay then, suck it) has calmed The Pussy down. In other words, there are things haunting my mind that are distracting from the post-sex glow of triumph.
This is a story I’ve tried to write many times since the start of this blog, but I could never get right because I didn’t know how to end it. Tonight I finally figured out how to tell the story: from beginning to beginning.
I love to tell stories, I always have. When I was a child I loved to watch my father and uncles exchange stories on Grandpa’s patio. I was a lone girl in a company of men. They’d sit out there for hours telling stories of laughter, triumph, and a helluva lot of bullshit.
When it was hot they’d sit in a circle in patio chairs and drink from their bottomless beers. When it was cold they’d stand in a huddle, arms perched over the fence with mugs of whiskey in hand. The stories came easily. They’d been gathering on that patio for so long that they often got caught in their bullshit stories, having told them differently three times before.
*18+ Only Please*
I'm Vix, a 27 year-old Texan. After 18 years of private education and 3 degrees, I'm trying to leave the corporate world behind to become a sex/humor writer and novelist. I'm sexy, funny, ugly, raw, and entirely real-- because there's more to me than being a blowjob queen.
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