Dark Places in my Mind...

Do you ever find yourself on a long drive or commute to or from work, by yourself, and your mind starts to wander into weird territory and you have this whole scenario that plays out?  Happens all the time to me.  Sometimes I think about my Dad and if his divine presence would save me if I got in an accident, or think about what I would say to someone that had made me mad and how I would word it and how that person would react, or what my life would be like if things were different, etc.

Tonight on my way home, I'm not sure what possessed me to get into such a dark place, but I started thinking about how Will and I would die. I guess there were not too many drivers to cuss at to distract me, because soon enough, I had some serious scenarios going on in my head.  Would I get some disease and die first, leaving Will behind to fend for himself?  Who would make sure he took care of the dogs and ponies? Who would check the doors to see if they were locked before bed?  Who would pay the bills?  Who would ride his ass to get shit done? Who would decide what was for dinner?  How long could he survive on cereal? I'm a pretty important person in his life for his basic survival.  Anyway, then I started thinking about us getting older.  I mean, healthcare is a sham.  I don't know if social security will even be there by the time I need it, we have no real retirement plan.  I'm planning on the cardboard box program.

Then things started to get really ugly.  What if we do make it to old age?  Then what?  What if we are homeless and cold and gangs keep stealing our denture cream and Depends and food stamps? What if we are tired of being cold.  I started thinking that maybe we would just shoot each other in the head.  Just end it all, just Thelma and Louise it at point blank range.  But what if one of us misses the mark and one of us is dead and the other just wounded, then what?  Or, what if Will shoots me in the head and then shoots himself in the head?  But what if he can't do it, then he is alive and I'm dead and he murdered me?  Also, that is suicide or murder, I don't think God would be okay with that.  What about pills? We could get our prescriptions filled and then totally take all of them at once. But what if we just end up in a coma?  Or again, what if one of us dies and the other lives and then they lock the surviving person up in a looney bin and then we have to wear a straight jacket, watch Sprout TV all day and eat applesauce and then we get bed sores because it is a state run facility and they are just soul-less bastards that work there and we are just sitting in urine and feces and then we get a diaper rash and we are so miserable we just want to die, but our bodies won't die.  Then what?  That would suck.  Or, what if we are homeless and we are really cold and we just can't get warm?  And we hold each other and just wait for the cold to consume us, because, after all, we are old and fragile.  But again, what if only one of us dies, then the other has no one to keep them company or keep them warm and now, one of us is walking the streets waiting to die, but death won't come.

Hey, you might not ever think about that kind of stuff, but I do.  I have concerns. Old age is coming and it scares the hell out of me.  I mean, if we die young, that has it's own set of problems like, who gets the dogs? Will anyone love Spanky the way I do?  Will he be sad?  Will he miss me?  Will he just be waiting to die? Who takes the ponies, who makes sure everything ever purchased for me or by me from Passion Parties or Lovers gets destroyed before our mothers see it?  I mean, we are probably not going to live out a story like The Notebook.  I don't want to go first, because who will take care of Will?  I don't want Will to go first because I don't want to be alone.

It was getting pretty intense as I finally got off at my exit.  I realized I was heading into a holiday weekend and I really needed to snap out of it.  No idea how I ended up in this dark place to begin with.  Just part of my charm, I guess.  I reached down and hit play on my CD, track number 8..."I gotta pocket, a pocketful of sunshine, I gotta love and I know that it's all mine...oh, oh, oh..."  That ought to cheer me up.  Pocketful of sunshine is perfect.  Suddenly I am the karaoke queen, I'm belting it out, I feel like I'm going to live to see tomorrow, everything is going to be okay..."take me away to better days....take me away, a holiday..."  Yeah, I'm perked right up.  Then, track 9, "Tell me how am supposed to breathe with no air...If I should die before I wake, it's cause you took my breath away...losing you is like living in a world with no air..."  Okay, maybe I should just listen to the radio....Miley takes it away, "I came in like a wrecking ball..."  Maybe I'll listen to Pocketful of Sunshine again....

Anyway, I did make it home. Will was waiting with a kiss, Spanky was waiting with tail wagging, squiggling and little grunty noises.  I guess today I don't have to worry about dying.  ...Unless, there is like a house fire or something.  But let's think positive, tonight probably won't totally kill us, or if it does, I hope it kills ALL of us at once.  There, see, now I'm thinking positive!

Homework - Letter to Myself...

I think I'm wearing the Rug Doctor out. She has given me homework. I think there comes a time when you are such a mess that an hour long session twice a month just doesn't cut it. Her and I have been discussing many things in my life, but one thing is a recurring constant that I cannot get a handle on.  That thing is my habit of eating when I am not hungry.  Whether it is stress, anxiety, sadness, anger, joy, boredom, relaxation, etc., no occasion seems off-limits (Yay! The Seahawks won, let's eat hot wings! Wait...I hate football...I'd better eat some cheese and crackers).  I'm frustrated by this. This is something that weight-loss surgery can't fix.  This is all me.  This is my "brokenness" that I have not been able to fix.  I have moments of greatness when I do everything right and then I fall off the wagon and ruin it all.  The Rug Doctor would like me to shy away from terms like "right" or "wrong"  or "good" or "bad" and just stick to "making healthier choices."  Bottom line is, I'm either being good, or bad, but if she wants me to use her terminology, fine, with an eye-roll and gratuitous air quotes with my hands, fine, "I'm making 'healthy choices.'"

The Rug Doctor wants me to write a letter to myself that is positive and encouraging and will be a reference point when I am feeling "unhealthy choices" coming on.  The thing about me that makes this whole process tricky is that it isn't like I don't know what I'm doing.  I analyze everything to death, I consider whether I need that cookie or not.  I think about what the impact will be and then I tell that little voice of reason to shut the fuck up and enjoy that cookie.  It's how I roll.  Given that circumstance, The Rug Doctor feels that if I can reference this letter, that I can impact my behavior before it gets out of hand.  She wants me to be in a "good place" when I write it.  I think her fear is that it is going to read something like this:

"Dear Buttzilla, put the freakin ice cream away. You are a fat-ass an you are never going to achieve your goals if you don't get your shit together.  What? Are you stupid? You like it when your arm-fat whacks against your sides when you apply lotion?  Do you want your thighs to give you a round of applause if you try and run?  What is wrong with you that you can't seem to keep your hands out of the freaking chocolate? You want to die fat? 'Cuz that is what you are headed for.  Fat and Alone wearing Pranx.  And you know why you are alone? Because you can't find your dog because you sat on him and he is wedged so far up your fat ass you can't find him.  That's right, your butt cheeks suffocated your dog.  How does that make you feel, Fatty?  You want that cookie, you think that will make you feel better?  Go ahead, eat it, I double dog dare you. Eat it. Prove to me that I'm right and that you are stupid...and fat."

I think that is the kind of letter to myself that The Rug Doctor fears I will write.  I do believe she understands I can't be like:

"Dear Beautiful, isn't it a glorious day? It's a brand new day where we can achieve anything together. You are beautiful, you are worth it, you have all the power inside of you to make this happen.  You love yourself and will put yourself before junk food and empty calories.  You can do this because all is possible through self-actualization.  Do you really need that cookie right now?  Are you really hungry?  Just remember that nothing tastes as good skinny feels.  You can do this, you have the power. Let's have a carrot."

I almost just threw up writing that just now.  I think the best I can hope for is the following.

"Dear Angry Pony,
I am one of the several personalities inside your head. I am Slutty Pony.  I'm talking to you. Look, we are all tired of fighting about this food thing up here. We are also tired of you whining about wanting to dress like a slut (okay, so maybe not a slut, but at least a skantily-clad pop-tart) We all know you are not hungry right now. We all know that you want to succeed.  We all know there is no real good reason to eat anything. You know you are worth it and that you could totally rock a mini skirt someday...after plastic surgery.

Skeptical Pony has something to say: Look I don't know if we can do this or not, we've never been skinny.  I don't know how far we can take this, but we won't know if we don't try. We need you to consider that food is not going to make you happy, it's not going to comfort you and it isn't worth the boredom. I can't promise you anything, because, I don't know if this thing you want can be done, but I do know it won't be done if you don't change your ways. We don't know what skinny feels like, but it probably isn't anything like the feeling you have after eating a KitKat.

Tough Love Pony chimes in: Look, Buttzilla, cut the crap. Stop being a victim and start being a success story.  You aren't getting any younger and we are ready to move this process along, so if you could quit screwing around and holding the rest of us back, we would appreciate it.  Now, get your ass down to the gym after you don't have that donut that Cross Fit Crazy offered you.  Oh, and by the way, we don't care what time schedule anyone else has us on, we are going to do this, no matter how long it takes.  This isn't about anyone but you.  So, if we could do this one thing before we die, we'd like to.

Sad Pony gives her two cents: I'm really tired of being stuck in this body and there is only one way out, we need you to find the Key Master...wait, wrong screenplay.  We need you to focus.  We need you to be better than this whole situation.  And, you are.  We need you to care enough. We need you to dig deep and stop being tired. Tired of trying, tired of obesity, tired of working hard and failing. Stop being tired and start being involved in the process. You have the tools, stop wasting them.

And finally, Bitchy Pony weighs in: And one more thing, we don't care if anyone else is on board. We don't need anyone else and those getting in the way will be eliminated, or at the bare minimum, will be cooking for themselves and possibly doing other things for themselves that may or may not involve lubricant. You know you are strong enough for this challenge so do it and don't let anyone or anything else stop you. Seriously, you are making us all crazy.  Get a grip, bitch.  Now, focus, behave and if all else fails go be mean to someone that has it coming because you need an outlet for this excess energy anyway.

P.S. We all love you, however, you really are making us crazy. Let's just do this thing, already, okay?"

And that is my letter to myself, with the help of the other little ponies in my head.  It will have to do for now, because today, that is good enough and this letter doesn't totally suck.

Motorhome Terrorists

On the way home tonight, I was almost taken out by a mother-trucking motorhome.  Traffic is slow, like 5 mph and we are all creeping along.  I'm in the middle lane and a motorhome comes up along side me.  I know they saw me, they had to have.  As their front tire clears the front of my truck, I notice their blinker comes on and they are progressing into my lane.  I am immediately horrified, because I AM IN MY MOTHER TRUCKING LANE!!!  Me.  In my truck.  Together, my truck and I, are occupying space IN MY LANE. The mouth breathing, armpit licking, toe jamb sniffing, butt picking, zit popping, dog shit eating mother trucking asshat is coming in on top of me.  I am sitting there gripping the steering wheel for dear life as I have no freaking place to go and I am laying on my horn.  Nope, the butt cheese eating asshat doesn't fucking care.  It must have been the Honey Badger driving because nobody gave a shit.  I was so furious as I watched the motorhome barely clear my truck as it bullied it's way into my lane.  It had a freaking motorcycle strapped to the back that almost took out my headlights.  I was beyond livid.  I just wanted to keep driving in my lane and see who won.  But, I knew the answer.  They were bigger, meaner, more ignorant and, they liked the taste of butt cheese.  I can't compete with that.

After they overtook the lane, I got over into the passing lane so I could get up next to them and give them a piece of my mind and possibly a finger.  I guess it wasn't meant to be as darkness was falling and I could not make out the face of the motorhome terrorist.  As my blood pressure boiled and I thought of all the things I would like to do to that person, I could only think, "Day 11 - I'm thankful I'm not packing because that scum sucking, baboon ass licking piece of rat excrement would be sitting right on the shoulder of the road, right next to the turd laundry with four shot out tires and I would be yelling, "yippie-ki-ya-mother trucker!" Drive that Bitches.

From a legal standpoint, it probably wouldn't end well for me.  But that got me to thinking, why is it that my husband has to have a CDL to drive his delivery truck or a bus, but any 96 year old lover of butt cheese can drive a motorhome that is bigger than anything in the local trailer park?  Or some stupid bitch and her asshat husband can take to the road with their home away from home terrorizing local civilians?  It's bullshit.  I think you should have to get a license and matching license plate to identify yourself.  Like, you have to take a test about your personality and based on that personality and a driving test, you are assigned a license.  If you are an inconsiderate asshat, you get a license stamped as Motorhome Asshat - your corresponding license plate says MOTO-ASS.  If you are like, over 60, you get a stamp of Blind as a Bat - Your license plate is BLNDSPT.  If you are just  mean or stupid, you are a Mother Trucker of the worst kind and your corresponding plate is MOFO-69.

Lets identify people, so people like me can go about my day and do my best to not get killed by the motorhome terrorists.  It's bad enough you've got the everyday mainstream mother truckers out there that almost kill you, but those motorhomes...that shit is not okay.  I'm just going to put this out there, if you are a motorhome driver, I hate your guts.  Okay, I can't hate all of you, because I do like some of you, but you damn well better learn how to drive the damn things and don't be a bully.  It makes the pony angry.  And, if anyone knows who the asshat, mofo terrorist was on I-5 in Everett tonight at 5:15ish, headed Northbound, I'd like that person's information.  I have a gift for them.  A very special gift.  You know how to reach me.