I have a book on break-ups that my mother bought for me when I got divorced. I'm not so into self-help (unless it comes out of a bottle), but this is a great book. I've read it several times and have learned something new each time. There is a great chapter on anger. I need to read it again for reasons that will soon become apparent.
The last 24 hours have been angry hours. I am at this stage where nothing seems fair. It's not fair that he can feel happiness when I am feeling so low. Its not fair that its the holidays and I want to claw my eyes out every time I hear a Christmas song or see a jewelry commercial on TV. Its not fair that my goddamned cat barfed on the goddamned carpet in the goddamned middle of the night and then I stepped in it when I got up at goddamned 5 in the morning after drinking too many goddamned beers the night before. I'm trapped in the throes of an emotional temper tantrum.
I had to go to Nordstrom's to return his Christmas present yesterday. The woman at the watch counter was adamant about figuring out why I no longer wanted it. Did I want to exchange it? Get a gift certificate instead?
Finally, I snapped. "Listen m'am, its in the box and here's the receipt. I just don't (murble murble)-in want it anymore. Okay?" At that point, I think she finally got it. Didn't say a word as she took my credit card and processed the transaction. And used some wise judgment by not extending any holiday well wishes as I surlily made my way out of the store. Goddamned Merry Christmas.
The other unsuspecting outlet for my anger yesterday was the person out there in blogland that has randomly made comments on my relationship posts over the last six months. I keep thinking I have figured out who it is, but it is, honestly, still a mystery. I'm not a fan of anonymous posters, but I can't really complain too much. After all, its my choice to put all of this out there for the world to read.
Mel and I read the anonymous comment on yesterday's post and were basically thinking the same thing-What the F-ck? Then we spent most of the late afternoon entertaining ourselves with speculations on my anonymous poster.
So, Anonymous, I have no idea who you are, and please don't take this too personally, but I'm angry and you have horrible timing. Just when I needed an outlet, there you were. The price of anonymity is the risk of letting two full-out crazy bitches make one-sided character assessments.
Courtesy of Mel and Lindsay, an ode to Anonymous:
Dear Anonymous: On the creepy scale from one to ten, are you a twenty?
Dear Anonymous: Do you live in your mom's basement?
Dear Anonymous: Are you outside my window wearing a cape?
Dear Anonymous: This is not going to make me want to get back together with you.
Dear Anonymous: This is why we broke up.
Dear Anonymous: Are you in fifth grade or attended ESL in high school?
Dear Anonymous: Do you feel sexier in lace or silk?
Dear Anonymous: Please don't make me call your mother and make her change the computer password.
Dear Anonymous: If this is all you have to do when your Wii is broken, you should probably get out more often.
Dear Anonymous: Do you see your Dad as competition?
Dear Anonymous: Is the "biggest loser" marathon over on lifetime?
Dear Anonymous: Do you ride a unicycle?
Dear Anonymous: Did I see your German techno show on cable access last night?
Dear Anonymous: How long have you sold Amway?
Dear Anonymous: Richard Simmons called, he wants his panties back.
Dear Anonymous: Are you just pissed because your girlfriend is making you baby-sit her Chihuahuas ?
Dear Anonymous: And by "girlfriend" I mean your Mom's friend.
Dear Anonymous: Why are you at home on the computer when goodwill is having a sale on sweater vests?
Dear Anonymous: You left your Magic the Gathering playing cards at Dragon's house.
Dear Anonymous: No. I will not start calling you Kristy.
Dear Anonymous: Good news. Mom made meatloaf.
Dear Anonymous: How’s the graveyard shift at taco bell going?
Dear Anonymous: I LOVE your beanie babies collection.
Dear Anonymous: That porn 'stache just makes you look twelve years old.
Dear Anonymous: You aren't nearly as funny as we are. We hate you.