[you seriously cryin right now?]
There is no doubt in my mind that I was born to be an emotionally charged person. Seriously, I probably shot out of the womb crying over the boy in the next crib and the nurse’s poor choice in shoes.
But the past 24 years have done a lot to toughen me up. In particular, the past one.
365 days ago, had I known the depth of struggle my family and I would face (which, unfortunately, my marital situation was only a part of), I would have thought myself incapable. At the very best, I would picture myself quitting my job, moving back home, and spending a lot of time self-medicating. For a while, that seemed like a good option. But here I am – living downtown, already off my antidepressants, and surrounded by great friends who are always there to support me.
Nevertheless, the alter-ego henceforth known as “emotional me” is an attention-hungry whiny baby who doesn’t like being suppressed. And Saturday night, she decided it was the right time to make a surprise appearance.
I was sitting in the bar, surrounded by my beautiful girlfriends, thinking about how lucky I was to have people who care about me so much. And suddenly, a couple of vodkas later, “emotional me” took the reins.
They’re so pretty, aren’t they? She told me. How can you even be seen with them. No one will notice you.
I tried to block her out, but the bitch can be persistent. From that point on, all I could think was 1) how jealous I was of my pretty friends and 2) how bad I felt being jealous, because I love them and they did nothing wrong.
And then, because I am an emotional twelve-year-old, I started to cry.
Now I’m not stupid. I know the emotions I was feeling have deeper roots than some silly jealousy. It could have something to do with the fact that my ex-husband has a new girlfriend. Or that I just got blown off after a date for the first time ever and don’t know how to handle it. Or the fact that I deleted the numbers of every man I have dated just so that I’m not tempted to contact them, so now I have zero sources of shallow attention. All of which is admittedly silly, but still feels shitty when you’re drinking.
Somehow I ended up in the bathroom, receiving many hugs and “what the fuck are you doing”s from my friends. And then, my guardian angel appeared.
For the sake of protecting her privacy, we will call her “Summer.” Summer seemed kind of a contradiction to her dainty, timid name. She was a deep chocolate, stood about 6 feet tall, and was rocking some serious heels paired with a sequin dress.
Before I begin the tale of Summer, I need to make it clear that I’m omitting a word she used and replacing it with “Easter bunny.” She said the word was okay to use because she was half black (though I surmise the other half was also black), but I just wouldn’t like to repeat it.
Summer gave me some wise advice, self confidence, and a high five, so I figure her wisdom was too good to keep to myself. So here it is. The story of Summer, titled “Fuck the Bullshit.”
[Thump, thump, thump of heels] Summer enters bathroom, clearly on a mission, when she spots a pathetic shell of a human who just got rained on and is crying in the corner. She approaches with confidence as the whiny thing looks up.
Summer: Fuck the bullshit, girl. Fuck that bullshit.
Crybaby and crew look up, confused.
Summer: Oh, girl. Girrrrrrrrlfriend. Why you cryin. You too pretty to be cryin in a bathroom.
Girl Imma tell you somethin. I don’t know what man yo ass is cryin over, but Imma tell you this.
[sudden enthusiastic hand movements]
Fuck them Easter bunnies. And fuck the bullshit.
That’s right. Fuck. The. Bullshit.
Crybaby and crew laugh nervously.
Summer: Okay, girl. Tell me. Who’s the Easter bunny. I can say that because I’m half black. See? Easter bunny. Issokay.
continue reading at http://www.ringfingertanline.com/2012/07/16/the-tale-summer/
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