The Long and Whiny Road

Oh yeah, we’re kind of on a roll here.

So what’s the big idea, Christine? Why the self-pity party?

Well, Non-specific Writing-Persona Addressee, we haven’t really had a pity party like this since Katrina.

Does that mean you’re gonna wig out completely in a year like you did after Katrina?

Um, no, Non-specific Writing-Persona Addressee, that was post-traumatic stress. This is just a normal pity party. Have some perspective. Sheesh. You’re such an alarmist.

Yes, I am whiny. Yes, I am pissed off for no reason. Yes, I am overreacting, and I don’t give a good goddamn. I have been mostly stranded in the house since we got back from X-mas. My husband, aside from telling me what I am going to do and what I am not going to do (I am proving him right by not going to bed, by the way) also has the cootie-virus of death and could die any minute now. Ok, he said finally that he was feeling better, and I am a worse patient than he is, so I can’t really say anything, can I?

But yeah, he’s out of commission, so basically, it’s me, in a giant weird Frankenstein contraption trying to figure out how to bring soup and drinks up the stairs at the same time without busting my ass or tripping over the cat or something. Last time I had a major broken bone (high school) I had people to take me to the movies and call me and stuff. Now, judging by responses, I have about, oh, probably four friends. Maybe.  Ok, Joe, four and a half. Heh heh heh. Hey, you do spend time poking the bear. That’s worth some points. Oh, can I say that on the internet? It sounds questionable.

But yeah, mostly people make fun of me. I mean, I have a sense of humor, sort of. And honestly, I would make fun of me, too. Except that I would also call or stop by or something. Ok, I would call, because most of my friends don’t live within driving distance. And maybe I wouldn’t stop by somewhere if the injured person’s husband had the cootie-virus of death. So maybe people are giving me perfectly rational responses?

I will say one thing, though. My friend Amy always calls or contacts me when I’m bummed out.  I’m not even talking about ready-to-play-in-traffic bummed out, I’m talking about normal every day bummed out. It’s awesome. AND SHE DOESN’T LIVE IN THIS COUNTRY. It costs her like three million billion dollars to call me on the phone, but she does it when I freaking burn the dinner or simply wish I was somewhere else. Because she is awesome.

That is not to say everyone else is not awesome. You are all beautiful and unique snowflakes and I am privileged to know each and every one of you. Even you, creepy stranger on the internet who somehow came upon my site and is internet stalking me now. Even you. (HAH, I should be so famous.) I am just feeling sorry for myself (AND I ADMIT IT)  because I’m pissy and I can’t do stuff and my leg muscle is getting smaller after only the first week and my ass is surely getting bigger, and I like to be the center of attention or something. OK, scratch the last part — I like attention but maybe not being the center of it. But I admit it, this is Christine’s pity party. Welcome. I have h’ors d’oeuvres and champagne. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow, I will certainly have to diet.

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