Ok, so I’m no Meg Ryan. Hell, I’m not even Rosie O’Donnell’s “disgusting” ass. I do, however, have something in common with them both. I’ve mastered the art of faking it. I wish I could say I was talking about orgasms here. It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve had a non self induced orgasm that I am sans the need to fake one. What I do fake is being happy. I suppose we all do this to some extent throughout the day. When someone asks you the arbitrary, “How are you?” And you reply with “Fine.” we both know you aren’t always fine. I’ve just sort of taken it a step further. I lie all the fucking time.
Since my Dad got sick I have noticed more and more the healthy world’s intolerance for the ill. Physically or mentally, the result is similar. We put our elderly in homes, we send our mentally ill to facilities, and there are hospices for those who have nothing left to do but wait. Yes, there are arguments that can be made for all of this, but looking at the big picture is sometimes needed.
So why do I fake being happy? Who really wants to hang out with an unhappy person. People are busting their asses every single day to put a smile on their face. No one likes that one person who tends to have the ability to make an entire room feel like shit. Hell, I don’t even like that person. The trouble is that this faking it shit has gotten harder and harder with time. I feel myself invading the space of, “I simply don’t give a fuck anymore!”
Much of this is my own fault. I don’t like to talk about this with people. I start to think about children starving and puppies getting hit by cars and wonder what the Hell I have to be depressed about. Mind you, I am not one of those insanely happy individuals that you want to smack. I’m more like the fat funny chick that really just wants to roll around in black paint, cry, and call the result art. I shall title the gallery opening An Obese Homage to Zoloft. Brilliant, I know.
I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this whole faking it conspiracy. Feel free to let me know I’m not alone so I feel a little bit better about myself. In conclusion I would just like to say… I’m tired of the pills. I’m tired of being fat, of not being able to quit smoking, of worrying about my job. I’m sick of my thoughts being the most amazing horror movie I have ever seen. Disgusted with my place in life at the ripe old age of 28. (30 is the new 20 you say. Not when you’re a fat fuck who can’t put done the smokes and is a panic attack away from an ulcer the size of the noose they used to hang Saddam!) I don’t want to hear the one day at a time bullshit. I don’t want to cry or scream “Fuck you world!” into the Grand Canyon. I’m thinking the problem is that I have absolutely no idea what I want and I can’t seem to accomplish any of the things I tell myself I’m supposed to do.
I fucking hate posts like this. I hope you hated this one just as much as I do.
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