I’m all about passive aggressiveness.
If there was a club, I’d join it.
I’d probably be the president, chairman, and CEO.
I’d have an office on the top floor with a gorgeous view of Detroit. It’s pretty at night when the police sirens light up the sky. When you add in gun shots it’s almost like being at a fire work show.
Then I’d think about that one time when I got mugged and how my American employer screwed me royally when I injured my back which resulted in chronic pain and snarly toenails because I can’t bend to cut them.
Then I’d get angry.
Then I’d go on Facebook fully knowing that I do have friends from around that area and I’d take out my aggression on them in the form of a facebook status.
I’m coming to shop. All I have in my purse is a wallet, chapstick, and a pack of halls to defend myself. Please don’t shoot me.
You ever notice how Facebook brings out the ugly in people?
You can say just about anything on there like this one time I wrote:
Legos cause cancer.
Stop buying them for my child.
Because I wanted to kill every person that bought him a Lego set for Christmas. Not that I wasn’t grateful, I just hate picking that shit up.
Oh and New Years. I was in a bad place and wanted to vomit every time I read a post about happy and love and hope and I’m totally going to drop 20 pounds this year…
No you’re not.
So I wrote this gem:
Yay it’s 2013!
I can’t wait to start my new diet of eating nothing but sour kids and laughing at all the assholes who decided to get fit this year.
PS. I give you 6 weeks. LOL.
And notice how I added the LOL?
LOL is the go pass to be an asshole.
But in real life you can’t use LOL.
Like when you kicked in the bathroom door you can’t say, “LOL.”
Or when you took your cell phone and threw it across the room because you had to reboot it again, you can’t say, “LOL.”
Or when you yelled at the Chinese guy who didn’t understand that all of the live lobsters where fucking sold you can’t smile and say, “LOL”
Or when you went to a bar to meet your husband’s friend’s new girlfriend, and you had a million panic attacks because the bar was jam packed and you couldn’t hear shit. When you finally caught her eye and she started to talk about country, you picked up a fork and knife and pretended to drill it into your ear canals and said “Country gives me herpes.”
Or when you kicked your parent’s dog in the head because he looked like he was going to jump on you and the room got silent and your Mom looked at your brother’s new girlfriend and said “It’s ok, she’s bipolar”
And no it’s not ok.
Those things keep you up in the night.
You regret the things that flew out of your mouth or from your hands.
You try to remember if you apologized after the fact.
Because having bipolar disorder does not excuse you from anything.
You’re responsible for your actions.
And you’re constantly reminded of them and how they impact everyone around you when your son walks into your bedroom and sees with you with your hood on and a blanket pulled over your shoulder. He’ll shout “Dad, don’t come in Momma’s room. She will get very very angry. She is angry. So very angry.”
And your heart will smash into a million pieces.
You worry that your family and friends will start to push away from you.
Or that they’ll just ignore you until the storm passes.
You watch your husband hobble around the house in a boot trying to clean because “I just want you to be happy.”
And you’ll hear him say those infamous words over and over until your next psychiatrist appointment…
“You’re beautiful, when I don’t look into your crazy eyes. Someone call a priest. We need to exercise those demons.”
And then you will punch him.
And then he’ll grab you and pull you in close.
He’ll whisper in your ear, “You’re nuts.”
And you’ll both laugh and stand there for a while until the dog shows up to sniff your crotches.
Because he’s an asshole.
And one day you will dream of skinning that fucker for every piece of dog hair that migrated into your food.