I’ve not been around lately, mainly because I have little to get off my chest (except the increasing pounds).
[Note to self: do not spend your adolescence wishing for bigger boobs*, Murphy brings you bigger thighs, bigger stomach, and much bigger arms to match].
Not that I’m not constantly dwelling on my made-up, over-thought, miniscule problems, but I’ve had my very own psychotherapist living down the road (emphasis on psycho ;)) This therapist falls under the category of ‘friend’ and brings fags and vodka to every consult. Thus, my problems are drowned out by the vodka and the gyre my house becomes once it’s imbibed.
I once had an empty fridge, now it is filled with half-empty tonic bottles, the remnants of lemon and about three half-full bottles of Smirnoff at any given time.
I have to say, although I’ve never been one to advocate drinking ones problems away, I’m quite keen on this solution for me. The answer lying at the bottom of the bottle doesn’t cause me much panic, I’m lucky enough to know it’s temporary and only social, so the only problem lies in the pit of my stomach. Well, duodenum to be exact – this is where my lovely ulcer lies.
So, in short, and to not bother you with my problems, as they’ve ceased to be the centre of my universe, every time someone pisses me off, I’m in pass-my-shotgun mode, I have an argument, I want to kill a client, or I’m quite ready to throw myself off a bridge, I call my therapist. She runs down with voddie in one hand, a pack of smokes in the other (okay, to be fair, we take turns in getting the voddie & smokes) and we talk it out…then we sing it out and occasionally we cry it out. It’s all good.
A few concerned citizens have expressed their worry that I’ll fall apart at the seams once she leaves….next week, but I have no fear of this. I’ll miss the chats, but there’ll always be my good friend, Smirnoff**
*I do love a good footnote, but just reading a book by Karen Rose – ok, a bit Mills & Boonsy, but a great plot, lots of twists- and a cosmetic surgeon is given an engraved watch by his wife saying ‘Thanks for the mammories.’ It gave me a good giggle… I do hope I don’t have to explain the pun.
**If anyone even thinks about reading this in a serious tone and offers me help for alcoholism which isn’t present, I’ll be forced to ram the humor down your narrow-minded throat (mixed metaphor allowed). Let’s read this in the way it was intended, okay? ***
*** Taking the footnote to the extreme, this therapist has also gotten me into healthy eating and, god forbid, exercising, so, well, blah.