Cupidity

It was 4:47 in the evening when I decided to finally get out of bed and start my day. I did not brush my teeth or look at myself in the mirror. I always felt ugly on Sundays so, why bother? Plus, with the bags under my eyes, I would not dare look at any somewhat decent-looking guy for longer than a nanosecond. I picked up a pizza at Paparoni and was trying to let go of my excitability when I realized that I mistakenly ordered a small cheese pizza instead of pepperoni. I mean $16.47 down the drain with a $4 tip is not a big deal in an economy where gas station chips are now valued at $5.08. I briefly thought about how that money could’ve gone to my savings for Spain. To say that I was pissed is an understatement. The simple fact that I contemplated just throwing away the whole pie without eating it, is just juvenile in the lamest term. And I quickly snapped out of it because grow the fuck  up? Nonetheless, I ate it. I mean it definitely was not the worst thing to put my mouth on a Sunday evening. I could have done without the calories, but here I am. I always despised people that outrightly admitted that their favorite pizza was cheese. They give off an “I come from a stable family” essence that I abhor. Those who like pepperoni just understand why the SAW franchise was a masterpiece. 

Growing up, pizza was my Disneyland. I grew up poor, and my mother rarely had the funds for takeout, so whenever she was able to afford pizza, it added an extra 20 minutes to my lifespan. As a child, I was always confident that self-annihilation was going to be my expedited one-way ticket out of this. In fact, if you were to ask me today, I think that is how I want to go out – by my own hand, which correlates with how I like to receive my orgasms – by my own hand. You can tell a lot about someone based on how they let you relish in your own orgasm. I am a devoted disciple that one must be in charge of their own orgasm. To let anyone take control of that is banal if you ask me. This is why I probably cannot find love, because I cannot allow anyone to give me an orgasm. 

Anyways, thinking about my suicide as a child brought me some form of comfort. Resolution. Meaning. It had the same ambiance as getting a much-needed bear hug from your mother after confessing to her that in fact “everything is NOT okay”. However, her hugs meant more than the advice she was able to provide, which I think made me relish in her arms even more. As silly as this sounds, at 27, I believed that I surpassed my mom in success. With that level of arrogance no wonder why I feel so alone?

I realize that I should not be like this. I realize nobody likes to be around somber people. I realize that I wear the same clothes every day. I realize that I am impersonable. I am going to therapy now to work through it. However, I am an exhaustive fraud. I only tell him the things I want him to know. Perhaps that is why I have not gotten better. I have been going to this therapist on and off since I was 20 years old. I am now 27. I love him the same way you love your guy best friend I think I will go to this therapist for the rest of my life. He makes me feel good about myself, which is his job. I am aware. But, I unfortunately do not have anyone that will be able to take his place. No one has taken him up on the offer. 

 I am not on medication, and if I could be honest, I think I miss it? I miss the blandness it brought to my personality. I think it is hard being so eccentric and not getting the benefits of the eccentricity. I have not yet met someone who levels up to my caliber, so what is the point? I live in Oregon for quiet sake, everyone here is eccentric and smells like dirt. Obviously, I am the problem. It is unfortunate that the only person that I am able to talk about my feelings with is the same person who pays their car note with my troubles. I have been meaning to have this conversation with him, however, we do not need two uncomfortable people in the room. It is desperate when you can tell you made your therapist uncomfortable.

After I finished a little more than half of the cheese pizza, I drove for a while and started to wail. I figured I would pull over and fully commit to the emotion. I mean I haven’t cried in months. As someone with a healthy psyche that may be normal, but not for someone like me. I do not have the time to play who is the bigger asshole but trust me, I do not deserve to see the pearly gates. The anguish that I felt, felt so long lost. It was one of those sympathies that I have not felt in a while, and boy do I miss her? As I was driving, I pulled over in to a semi-empty parking lot and called my grandma. I wish this sentiment was purely innocent. I have not talked to my grandmother in over a year, and I knew I was well overdue to talk to her. I knew she was not going to answer, but I left a voicemail anyways requesting her to call me back whenever she had the time. I wanted her to hear my post-cry voice. I was definitely looking for sympathy. At least I attempted. It was one less thing that will keep me up at night. 

I cried a little more, blathered to myself, and then drove back home. I was in no rush to get back home due to my mother and I getting into a heated argument the day before. I will admit I was in the wrong this time, and I think I wanted to wallow in self-pity for at least a day. Despite me being in the wrong, I still feel like she was obligated to patch things up. She always had this adage where she told me while wagging her finger in my face “I am the parent, and you are the child”. So then be a parent mother, your child is hurting. I will give it a week, two weeks max. 

And I will be able to do that since my mom works in Portland, Oregon and we live in Corvallis, Oregon. She still doesn’t make enough money to commute every day, so during the week she stays in Portland with my grandmother and comes home during the weekend. I really do have it lucky. I barely pay her a fraction of rent and I still can be quite a cunt to her. 

We are very toxic together. Our birthdays are two days apart, and if you agree with anything in astrology, you should know that two Taurus bump heads. Whatever the fuck that means. When my mom and I fight, it literally feels like I am talking to an underdeveloped teenager. She tempers tantrums and talks over me when I know I am hitting a soft spot or an insecurity of hers. She does not like to be wrong. She never wants to hear my honest thoughts and would prefer to walk out of my sight with her hands flaring in the air, and slamming doors than be sophisticated. Her actions make me cringe at times. We commonly sweep things under the rug. However, I am not the type to argue like that. I like always to end a heated debate with soft and kind words. With at least some form of resolution. But with her, you must meet these Generation Xers where they are; and sweep all of the issues under the rug. Despite us not talking about the issue, we do change the behaviors that were brought up. It may never be up for discussion again but I know it lingers in the back of her mind; it lingers in mine. I know I should be nicer to my mom. She is the only one who puts up with me. And with the horrible way she takes care of herself, I give her 3 years max before her health takes a steep plunge. In the perfect world, I would like my mom to be around long enough until I find someone that wants to spend eternity with me. It is what she would want for me, it is all I ever wanted for her.