I never want to be sober again.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.
Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstopakeitstop.
Coming down... baby hamsters exploding everywhere within my field of vision.
I played hockey stoned. At least I tried, but something told me that when the puck hit Tricky-bastard's stick and split into three different pucks and I wasn't sure which one to follow... I prolly shouldn't be on the ice.
at this point, Marie-Jo decides to point out that half an hour ago when I fell down rather hard, I plit my pants from ass-to-knee. Favourite pants too, but they're just pants. And skating around for half an hour with my ass bare to the world isn't a big deal either. It's the mocking way she said it, as though for the first time since she was a geek in elementary school, she got to pick on someone else.
So catty. So cruel.
Not much worse than me, today.
It seems that all I can do is bitch.
I wander out to my car halfway through the hockey match to fetch my sweatpants that I wear to the gym. (I'm wearing sweat-pants at work, people keep staring at my ass)
During the fifteen seconds that I am outside, in skates, torn pants, and a bright green hockey jersey, I realize that today is the most beautiful day that I have ever experienced.
The sky is high and bright and grinning, the air is fresh and just warm enough to melt all the snow and make the streets all shiny. I can see my car again now that all the snow is melted off. I can roll up my sleeves and let the wind touch my skin.
During those fifteen seconds the world was perfect. It smelled of spring.
Then I headed back out onto the ice, and for the first time this month I'm not sick or feverish or sore from the gym -- and yet for the first time ever I can't skate, can't handle a stick, can't stand up straight, even.
Oh wait, I know...
Cramps.
FUCK.
And that's when PMS hits. Marie-Jo calls me a bitch in the locker-room for having confronted Annie about how much the journal sucks, I tell her she's acting like a chick, she freaks, I leave, and drive back to the office scaring the living shit out of David the entire way.
I want to break something.
I want to wrap my cracked fingers around soemone's neck until his head pops off and colourful streamers come flying out.
I have a long-ass list of who I'd like to do it to, too. Which is rare for me.
I want to put my first through a window. I tried it on the door and tore three layers off my two furthest-right knuckles.
I want to cry. I want to scream. Peter is being obliging and is playing raucous angry music for me to scream along to. He is making me laugh.
I just want out. Out Of My Head. I'm too old for this. I grew up, fuck. I grew out of this childish rage. I grew out of my helpless fury stage, there is nothing that can hurt me so badly anymore.
Nothing. DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?!?!
I'm too fucking smart for this. I'm too smart to sit here in the dark, listening to rude music where the singers are still clinging to the 80's anthem of never following a melody. I'm too responsible to bitch and bitch and complain to people about how I'm feeling.
I should be doing something about it.
And I am. I'm writing. I'm getting it out.
Then why do I feel so fucking helpless?
The word failure is hanging there, suspended in the air by the epitome of every human's self doubt. I am terrified at this momen that I am a failure after all. I am terrified at this moment that I won't finish my code for tommorrow. I am terrified that none of my friends like me, that princess will never see me again. I am terrified that once Tia learns all the kinky stuff I'm teaching her then I will never be any use to anyone here anymore. I am terrified... I am terrified. Terrified that I'll never get my laundry done on Sunday. Terrified that I didn't get any excercise today on the rink and that the upswing of physical activity that has been getting me into better shape is going to wane again. I am terrified that the sun isn't shining for me.
And I hate myself for being so weak.
Oh fuck. Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts.
I thought I'd grown out of thiiiiis. But apparently drugs just make PMS worse.
I've learned my lesson. I'll never do it again. And if I do, I'll make sure I don't sober up until my period's over.
And Steven? I know you're listening. And I know you want to help. And you are. You are because you're the only one I know who is always listening.
Always.
I just wish I could come up with some sort of plan...
Addendum:
Maria just called. Something in her voice and how excited she sounded to get hugs from me tonight made it all snap.
Maria, I love you so much.