It never ceases to annoy me to the very core of my being when my monthly orthodontist check-up arises once again.  No, it’s not the pain subsequent to the tightening.  No, it’s not that I don’t eat for about three days after every visit, because, well, it simply hurts too much.  No, it’s not the fact that I’m a nineteen-year-old with braces.  (I got over that one a while ago.)

It’s because every damn time I go, the dental assistant comes out to greet me and asks if “Mommy or Daddy” brought me today.

NO BITCH I CAN DRIVE.

Ignore the most prominent evidence: that I’m clearly sitting alone, as I always am.  Ignore the college-type texts I bring with me to read in the waiting room.  Ignore my genuine Chanel that I pet on my lap while I read.  (Yes, I do exploit every opportunity to bring up that I do, in fact, own a genuine Chanel purse.)  Ignore the heels that I sport to compliment that type of clothes I wear — the clothes that, in the past, people have described using the term “Senior Citizen-chic”.

But don’t ignore that, despite the ongoing corrective dental procedure in my mouth, I still look my age.

“And what grade are you in?” she says with a Splenda-sweet voice.

THE 14TH GRADE.

I had a hysteria-fueled sobbing fest the other day.  It was awesome.  That is, if awesome is defined as: ‘Driving despite blurring vision due to an extravagant amount of tears being conjured up by one’s unstable emotions’.

At every stoplight that — unfortunately for the cars around me — turned red, I got extremely awkward stares from the people in their surrounding vehicles.  In their defense, I don’t think they were actively trying to watch the show put on by the (obviously) disturbed girl in the convertible ferociously slamming on her steering wheel and screaming at the sky, “WHY, GOD?!  WHY?!”  I mean, I can imagine it would be pretty difficult to look away.

I was kidding about the whole loudly addressing God thing.  I really was, however, uncontrollably crying in my convertible on a road that, while usually predominately green, decidedly turned every stoplight red as I approached it.

That night my best friend’s boyfriend, Paul, filled a bucket with ice and beer.  He met me on the shores of the bay with this bucket, where he kept me company as we watched fireworks sprouting across the water from Seaworld.

And then I felt better.

Don’t get me wrong, beer and fireworks do have their own somewhat effective healing properties, but it wasn’t just that that made the heartache dissipate.

In between my personal brand of dehydration (crying) and Paul’s (alcohol consumption), I finally came across the solution to all of my problems — I can’t continue to let someone else decide for me whether I’m going to be happy or sad.

I gave someone else the reins to my emotions a few months ago without being the least bit aware of it.  Like a dog, I fed off attention and (metaphorical) treats, and whimpered for days when he decided to take it away without warning.

So, that night, I decided to take that shit back.  And it was as simple as that. 

I’m over it.

I made a mistake.

I went against all my instincts and the advice of, well, everyone, and went through with it anyway.  Regret — it’s not a feeling I encounter often, but tonight, it’s the very air I breathe.

I watched M. Night Shamalamadingdong’s The Last Airbender.

Holy shit fuck.  I have never seen a larger piece of absolute and utter poppycock than this mess of wasted film.  I could feel M. Night’s grammar mistakes corroding my soul as my eyes twitched while I used all I had to keep my head facing the screen.  Damn you Shamalama.  You had the backbone of an outrageously popular animated series, dehydrated it of all its appeal, clothed it with a shit ton of Indians, and made me pay $10.50 for this (curry-based) creature you’ve created to torture me for one hour and forty-three minutes.

Why is the whole damn Fire Nation Indian and the poor, lowly Earth Kingdom Asian?

And why did Aang (I apologize, I meant “Ong”) flare his nose all the damn time?

And, when Ong flew from village to village to inform the people of said villages that they could bend elements (because, of course, they had no way of knowing until the Avatar told them) why, at one point, did he help a village of orange-adorned Africans?  Oh, I know.  Because in Shamalama’s version of Avatar, there are five nations: Air, Water, Earth, Fire, and Black People.

But regardless of the twisted plot lines and heinously mispronounced names, the acting was nothing short of disturbingly terrible.

Nice try, M. Night.  Now I have to watch the entire series (again) just to clear my mind of those two painful hours I spent in the movie theater.

jamienguyenle asked: Does my 'Ask' button work? Did I really just message myself a question? Am I that pathetic? What actor played the school principal in E.T., only to have his scene cut when Spielberg decided that his presence would be too distracting?

Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  Harrison Ford.

is not the sleeping disorder that I have.  Because, well,  I don’t have a sleeping disorder.  Not a diagnosed one anyway.  It was just the first sleeping related affliction that my brain thought to reference (which, I now realize, was my brain’s slow excavation process to try to reach the word “Insomnia” filed deep down there between ‘How to Flip a Fried Egg Without Breaking the Yolk’ and ‘The Lyrics to Every Britney Spears Song’).  Moving on… I’m awake when I really should be asleep in preparation for the approaching strenuous day at the ol’ coal mine. 

Did I say coal mine?  I meant yogurt shop.  Did I say strenuous?  I apologize, I meant undemanding, child’s play of a “job” where I catch up on my soaps.

I don’t watch soap operas.

I watch self-produced marathons of Friends.

But this isn’t the point of my insomnia-induced decision to publicly ramble.

I had one of those days.  Women know what I’m talking about.  Or, maybe they don’t.  Maybe this is just another one of my delusions to convince myself that aside from the gut-wrenching daily reminder of my complete isolation from the physical world, I have a kinship with other people through a common but undisclosed ordeal that we all, at one time or another, experience.

Maybe it’s just me that occasionally have those days where I completely loathe myself, the skin I’m in, and the person that looks at me disapprovingly when I specifically avoid making eye contact as I’m making my way past the mirror, towards the toilet.

Well, alone in this or not, I had one of those days.

It may or may not have to do with the production I put up last night (and the embarrassment… and guilt) after hugging an entire bottle of wine between my bladder and my corporeal abilities, physically and mentally leaning my entire life’s weight on Greg and friends (again).  And while that looks and screams, “The culprit of your unhappiness!” at me, I still don’t feel that that’s the entire reason.

There’s something off with me.

Something that I hope sleep and time can cure.  But if not, I shall return shortly to update you and whine about life’s misgivings.

Until then, I’ll leave you this little bit of life lesson gold: PMSing — not fun.