A Day in the Life of a Crazy Person

My mouth is full of a bubbly, green tea ginger ale. It’s as delicious as I was hoping. I mean, when I bought it, it was a total crap shoot- it was either gonna suck sparkling balls or be awesome. I’m glad it was the latter.

But more on that later.

I woke up pissed because I was up entirely too early for a Saturday. Just because my mother thinks 7 a.m. constitutes “sleeping in” does not mean I do- I would like to not leave the sweet embrace of my ratty comforter until 9 at the earliest.

No, but seriously, I need to buy a new comforter. This one is five years old and not aging well. Also, it’s a plain black thing. Totally not pretty enough for my fickle new girl tastes.

Speaking of actually being a female, it was one of those days that demanded a short skirt, high heels, and a little cleavage-baring décolletage. Though, to be perfectly honest, unless I wear a crew neck shirt, you’re gonna see some chest-flesh. They refuse to be hidden away.

Fucking exhibitionist breasts.

So I’m all dolled up and have to drive an hour to Cody to deal with relatives I don’t like and be constantly reminded that I haven’t purchased a Mother’s Day card or anything remotely resembling a gift and feel guilty because I know it’s expected of me even though I don’t recognize/celebrate the majority of “socially recognized” holidays.

I mean, Mother’s Day involves no drinking or special food. Seems like a total waste to me. Shouldn’t mothers just be content with recognition on their birthdays, like everyone else? “Congratulations, you didn’t die this year. I made you a cake. And don’t you dare say I don’t love you, because I just about killed myself moving your 400 lb hot tub that you never fucking use across your stupid yard because, on a whim, you decided the room we built for it was unacceptable. You are welcome, wench.”

Anyway, I wasn’t feeling too hot all day, which tends to make me even grouchier than usual. So we’re walking around the plant nurseries and grocery store and I’m trying not to glare at all the old dudes staring at my legs. And my aunt keeps making smartass comments about how I’m going to fall on my face when walking through the gravel.

I consider tackling her, ripping off my shoe, and beating her with it. Instead, I manage to walk just fucking fine and she finally shut her trap, which was good, because she’s just jealous of my awesome ability to gracefully balance in high heels.

Well, mostly gracefully.

So we get to Walmart, and I’m feeling slightly better. And I see some kid who was, like, a year behind me in high school. And wow, has that boy become emo. The ridiculous emo, with the eyeliner and the bad fashion sense and the little red streaks in his spiky (and yet still somehow swoopy!) hair.

Do you ever see people you went to school with and vaguely recognize their face but cannot dig out their name? Yeah… that gets really uncomfortable when they obviously know who you are.

I was so glad he just did the gaping, staring thing instead of trying to talk to me. But then I got really self-conscious, like I’d tucked my skirt into my panties in the bathroom or I had gotten a spontaneous nosebleed or something, so I was trying to surreptitiously tug at my clothing and check my face for fluids when I ran into someone in front of me.

But I totally didn’t fall down, because I’m a pro in heels.

And I glanced up, totally mortified, and tried to apologize with a polite, “I’m so sorry, sir.”

There was a silence that seemed to stretch a little too long. I toyed with the idea that the guy was deaf. He just glared at me with this thunderous anger all over his face.

“SIR? And what the hell makes you think I’m a man?”

Oh shit.

There is no way to artfully get out of this situation. So, I defaulted to apologizing again and trying to run away.

Her: “No, really, what makes you think I’m a man? Are you just not looking at me, you uppity little bitch, or are you too stupid to know the difference?”

And fight-or-flight pulled a fucking Crazy Ivan. There is no way in hell I’m going to let someone talk to me like that. Therefore, I stood up straighter (I had a good five inches on this woman) and looked down at her in my best haughty-bitch way and…

“I’m sorry, but you have a lack of discernible curves (that was my nicest way of saying she was a flat-chested, hipless wonder) and are wearing oversized men’s clothing. Top it all off with that butch haircut that really brings out your mannish features, and it’s really no wonder I got confused. But, like I said, I am so sorry for the confusion. My bad.”

Of course, at this point the people around us are unabashedly staring and my mother is trying to pretend she doesn’t know me by ducking into the greeting card aisle and half-heartedly flipping through cards while obviously watching what’s happening between me and this woman.

So, this woman should have just given me an affronted little gasp and walked off at this point. But no, she was in it to win it.

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t flash my tits like a common whore. But it takes more than a pair of breasts in a push-up bra to make me a woman. And just because you have no self-respect doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.”

What the fuck? Oh well, my turn.

Ma’am, the only way I can determine your gender upon first meeting you is through certain visual cues. Gender identifiers. I really couldn’t care less how you choose to dress, but if you are going to dress like a man and wear your hair like a man, I think you should be a little less bent out of shape when someone makes a mistake when they bump into you at the store and are simply trying to politely apologize.”

She’s still pissed, I can tell. But a Walmart employee is coming our way, and it’s totally Tim, who I used to work with and who is now an assistant manager. And I really just want to leave this bitch and finish my shopping, because I’m starting to get concerned that I’m going to get all worked up and then vomit on her.

And I wish that on no one, no matter how rude.

But this woman isn’t done yet.

“Next time, maybe you shouldn’t go making assumptions.”

And then I really snap.

“I told you it was a fucking mistake! I’m sorry, okay? Christ, maybe if you want people to know you are a woman you should wear crotchless jeans! If you flash your vagina at people, I’m sure they’ll never get confused!”

And that is when I learned a valuable lesson:

Loudly shouting”vagina” in the middle of the store will get you escorted out of Walmart.

So Tim takes me outside. I’m fuming. He tells me that it would probably be best if I didn’t come back in today. Thanks, jackass, I’ll just stand out here by the door, flashing my legs and smoking a cigarette. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get picked up and make a little money by blowing a dude in the parking lot.

I totally did smoke that cigarette, though, because I was stressed. And then I realized that was a dumb fucking idea, because I had been feeling so wonky. So I tossed the half a cig away from me, but it was too late. My head was spinning and I was almost certain I was going to vomit. I snuck around the side of the building and dry-heaved against the wall.

I felt so classy.

Anyway, once my mother and aunt finished their shopping and joined me outside the store, we left. With my mother torn between amusement and anger, but I really didn’t care what she was thinking at that point. I was mostly concerned that I was going to die.

I thought eating something might be the best plan, so on our way out-of-town, we stopped by a Burger King and got some foodstuffs. Yeah, fast food wasn’t a great idea, but it was easy.

I managed half the chicken sandwich before I pulled over by the side of the road, hopped out of the car, and managed to be violently ill in the ditch.

But I didn’t get anything on my cute shoes, which was super impressive. It must be an inherent female ability or something.

My mother drove after that, because I was obviously not in the best condition to operate a motor vehicle. I spent the next three hours desperately trying not to throw up again. Because I hate throwing up. I know that it can often make you feel better and all that, but that doesn’t mean dick to me. I will attempt to prevent myself from vomiting at all costs. Because nobody likes throwing up, and I am really bad about it, because when I vomit and am heaving into the nearest receptacle, I start thinking about all the stuff that could come up with my half-digested foodstuffs. Like a giant, half-digested spider I swallowed in my sleep without knowing it and will just lie in the soupy mess of my sick, skinny legs still twitching. Or maybe flakes of my esophagus will slough off like some kind of smoker’s throat dandruff.

I know- I’m fucking insane.

Eventually, I passed out on my bed in what I liked to call my “Number 4/Ballerina” position. The one where one leg is straight and the other one is bent so they look like a little number 4. Like this, but on my stomach, drooling onto a pillow. Because I am one sophisticated dame.

The Number 4 position is my favorite position, incidentally. Because, when there’s a man in my bed, the bendy leg gets to sneak in and loop in with his legs, and I can use it to lever myself closer to him so that I can bury my face in his chest and inhale that lovely man-smell. Which totally sucks for him, because my nose is always super cold, so it’s like this ice cube placed between his nipples. And wearing a shirt won’t save you, because the cold just bleeds right through. And finally, after my nose starts to heat up to a normal temperature and we’re both starting to drift off to sleep…

I have to get up and pee, because I have the bladder of an 80-year-old woman.

It’s probably best to never sleep with me.

But anyway, I passed out completely for a few hours. Woke up groggy after a bizarre dream about Derek and I riding unicorns and fighting dire owls (I never dream about unicorns… what the shit).

And now I’m drinking this amazing green tea ginger ale because it’s delicious and is keeping my stomach all settled. I told you we’d get back to this eventually, galleons.

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