Wow. I came home last night, after a mostly perfectly pleasant and uneventful evening at The Pub, and the second I got in the door, turned into the biggest sourpuss, poopypants I've ever seen. It was a good night, overall. Cousin Mike took me out to supper, and then we went to find GQ and Delores. Other than GQ's rants about how the world is against him, it was a nice quiet evening. I didn't have a panic attack when we ran into the ex-boyfriend, and the sight of all of the pregnant waitresses only pained me for a moment, when their beautiful bellies and their proud, smiling boyfriends got me thinking about how that just isn't going to be something I will experience in life. When it was time to leave, Delores and I lucked out and got the most amazingly funny cab driver, and I got out of the cab laughing hysterically, and applauding myself for making it through the night, drama free.
Maybe it was my choice of music. I headed to my room, put the CD changer on random, and Radiohead, Hayden and a sad and lonely Beck, began to sing to me their woes. Their problems reminded me of my current problems, and problems that have long been solved. I broke my carnal rule, of not blogging after the bar, or when I have been drinking, and started to write things like:
The feeling that you aren't worth it. Worth the trouble, worth the time, worth anything. You aren't special enough. The knowledge that you, just being yourself, is the problem. Your best friend, your lover, that person who said they wanted to get to know you, and then changed their mind,your whatever it was, you weren't good enough for anybody. Good things that are said about you, can just be deleted, and compliments to you are somehow ignored by you alone. Now that's a horrible feeling. If I could just be who they wanted me to be, all the time, everything would be Ok.
Thank god, I fell asleep before I posted it. Not only is that just plain horrible writing, but I was feeling pretty OK with myself, and that depressing bullshit seemed to come right out of left field. Believe me, it got worse after that. Had I posted it, and it was read this morning, said reader would be sitting there wondering if I had just offed myself in the night.
Today is a new day. I feel rested and relaxed, even though my body yet again refused to let me sleep in. The sun is shining, I only have to work for 2 hours, and my DJ gave me the hugest compliment out of nowhere and then made me promise to come and dance for him tonight, and let off some steam.
It will be a good day, a good night, a good weekend of fun. I can feel it.