The Pity Party

Tonight I got disappointed.

Not hurt, not beaten … just disappointed.

When I’m ‘on my game’ I’m a fucking cheerleader and downright annoying.

Correction: I’m annoying most days (it’s part of my charm). I’ll talk your ear off, and always about what I want to talk about.

I can argue the same point from at least 16 different perspectives (I can do better, but 16 is the average). This is what makes me most annoying to others – except when I’m viciously angry; I hear then that I’m quite hilarious (not to those I’m angry at, though – only the people that hear my rants).

Those 16 (or more) perspectives come from an intense desire to not be misunderstood. I use them always, when I’m trying to cheer you up and when I want you to listen to me.

My father gets the credit for that. I worked very hard to be understood by him, while desperately hanging on to my rose-colored glasses that he hated so much.

(I still have them, by the way.)

It was my first ex that gave me the title of Fucking Cheerleader. I truly believe that life is beautiful and that everything is going to be okay – even wonderful. He didn’t always want to hear that.

I will tell you the same thing.

Even if you don’t want to hear it.

Which is what makes me annoying.

Not because you say I am, because I don’t care what anyone else thinks – and that’s not defeat talking; that is the self-realization about whose opinion really matters.

Mine.

And right now, I’m disappointed about something. Something truly stupid.

And I’m using more than my average 16 viewpoints to show myself that I really have no reason to be pissy.

And I don’t want to hear it.

It’s annoying.

Ergo, I am.

Do you know that when you’re upset about something, that it’s good to let it out? Set a timer, they say. Give in to your feelings long enough to get them off your chest, but not long enough to wallow. I planned to give myself the time it took to drink two beers, figuring that one of them - the time allotted or the alcohol itself – would do the trick. Or at least make me sleep.

Twice I got up to grab a beer.

I couldn’t even do that. I was too pissy to have a beer. How is that possible? I can’t even put the ‘party’ in a pity party? Lamest pity party, ever!

To my kids, my parents, my exes, my friends, and anyone else forced to listen to me when I’m trying to cheer you up: know that me being on my own receiving end of my pom-poms is much worse than you getting the brunt of it.

It’s really not a big deal, Susie.

Tomorrow is a new day, Susie.

These things don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, Susie.

You have so much to be grateful for, Susie.

.

.

.

Shut the fuck up, Susie.

I think I feel better now.

Thanks for listening.