I’m writing from my sick/feels-like-death bed. I’m sure most people who know my voice are happy it’s gone. It’s actually kind of nice, since I hate interacting with people anyways, and now literally can’t talk to them. Also, the faint voice I can muster if forced to is the only part of me that will ever be dainty and delicate, so I’m relishing it. Except when I’m at the pharmacy attempting to pick up antibiotics, and the pharmacist is asking me my name and birth date from a football field away, and just asks me to repeat myself instead of coming within hearing distance of my desperate whisper-croaking. And it doesn’t help that it’s hot AF outside in addition to inside my body, so I basically feel like I’m living in an oven that’s inside of another oven. Also, I texted my mom 5 hours ago to tell her I have bronchitis, and still no response.
So I leave you with the below photo of a poster I saw in my doctor’s office this morning. I would just like to know what this bitch needs psychotherapy for–she’s, like, Holocaust thin, has great hair, and is perfectly manicured (besides the aggressively tribal statement jewelry). If I looked like that ever, let alone in my therapy sessions, I wouldn’t BE in therapy. If anything, that’s more of a “this is my last therapy session ever in life I’m fixed and completely functional” look. A look I will never achieve, if we’re being honest.
*If I die, please make sure my mom sees this post so she feels really guilty.