the incurable dreamer

writing my way from misery bliss, one ridiculous story at a time

Category: shit I think about (Page 1 of 2)

the incurable potty mouth

**WARNING ** This post has the potential to offend absolutely everyone.

My name is Tanya.  It has been 17 fucking seconds since I last uttered a swear word.

The other night I was out with my friend, and we were sitting on a patio tucked in amongst other patrons and beautifully arranged hanging baskets, and were talking and drinking as the hot summer sun went down. It was all very picturesque. We ordered another (totally unnecessary) round of drinks, and I have no doubt (so. much. doubt.) that by this point I was talking about something very profound and being exceedingly clever (I so wasn’t). But as I was sharing my wisdom with her, I suddenly became acutely aware of all the fucks that were rolling off my tongue, and stopped mid-sentence, looked at her and said, ‘I swear a lot.’ She looked at me with a look of duh-you-totally-do-dummy, and said, ‘Yeah, you do!’  But then just as quickly, looking utterly perplexed she said, ‘Why the fuck wouldn’t you swear? It’s super fun.’  For so many reasons we are friends, but right then, at that moment, I knew exactly why we are. She not only helped me feel better about my untamed potty mouth, but she made me laugh.

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my surgeon thinks i’m a whore

So, yesterday I had a follow-up appointment with my surgeon, and I am pretty sure he thinks I’m a whore.  I know.  I’m as baffled as you are.  I mean I couldn’t whore my way out of a paper bag.  No seriously, I would fucking die in that bag.

While laying on my back with my feet securely placed in the stirrups, I told him how fabulous I feel compared to two months ago and was thanking him endlessly for giving me my life back.  We were just chatting like a couple of old pals while he was doing his thing down there, and nothing was weird or awkward about it at all.  But then I told him about the two issues I am having, and shit got real weird.

He said that he could see that one of my internal incisions is not healing as well as it should be, so that is why I am experiencing pain.  Then without warning, he stopped what he was doing, looked me square in the eyes and said all mad, ‘You are NOT ready for intercourse.’

Me:

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what the hell is going on?

Last Thursday, I woke up in a notable funk. As soon as I opened my eyes and took my first conscious breath, it was evident it was going to be ‘one of those days.’  There was no explanation for feeling the way I did, so I just rolled with it, thinking that the next day would be a better one.  Well, Friday morning brought more of the same, and it was the beginning of my slide to hell in a handbasket. (Does it sound more dramatic if I went in an actual basket?)  The person looking back at me in the mirror flipped me the bird, and I was like, ‘WHAT ARE YOU GETTING PISSY WITH ME FOR?’  There was no way for me to shake it, so I accepted my fate and the fact that I was going to have to feel things I really didn’t want to.

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the right side of possible

For those who don’t know – you’re welcome.

One day last week, my friend sent me a text to see how I was doing. I sent her a text back telling her what was going on, and her response was super appropriate, and hilarious, ‘You must have been a giant asshole in a past life or something.’  My reply to her, ‘Was I ever!!’  I suspect that during one of those lives I was downright abhorred and had no friends whatsoever. Though I am currently dealing with the fallout of the choices I made lifetimes before this one, it comforts me to know that I am now only an accidental asshole (I ALWAYS SAY SORRY YOU GUYS) and am surrounded by totally kick-ass friends. Thank goodness that, in this life, I am doing something right.  I am not going to lie, though, it has been tough the past 14 days dealing with the consequences of the assholery that was practiced a lifetime or two before me.

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pour me another

When I woke up yesterday morning and raised my body to get out of bed, my first thought was ‘FUCK. THIS.’  It was not a Folgers-in-your-cup kind of morning. Instead, it was one that elicited tears and made me wonder how much better I would feel if I were dead.

Not only is my uterus trying to destroy me, but I have a pain in my back that is so extreme simply existing is taxing.  When I met my Chiropractor for an assessment of my back, he asked me, with a hint of gleeful anticipation, ‘What makes your back feel better?’ and my deadpan response was, ‘Not breathing.’  The x-rays he took confirmed the no breathing thing, and his assessment was that I was totally not messing around.  I needed help.  My back is in bad shape, and since ‘not breathing’ is not an option, he devised a plan of attack intent on relieving me of the horror plaguing me on a daily basis.

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oh for pete’s sake

The phone call I have been waiting for, for months, finally came on Thursday.  The co-ordinator from my surgeon’s office called and told me that there was a cancellation, and my surgery has been scheduled for June 1st, instead of sometime in September.  ‘NO. WAY?!’  I practically screamed in her ear.  It was the best news I had received in a very long time, and it was impossible for me to contain my enthusiasm, so I didn’t even bother trying.  Finally, I could see a flicker of light at the end of the very dark hell tunnel I have been living in and felt lighter than I have felt in a very long time.

What surgery am I having, you ask?  Please allow me to take this opportunity to tell you.  My surgeon is going to remove my asshole of a uterus from my body, by pulling it out my vagina.

WHAT?  YOU ASKED!   Well, okay, you didn’t, but you were probably wondering.  Moving on.

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liftoff

A couple of nights ago, I had a plane crash dream.  Not a big deal, I have been having plane crash dreams for years – which I suppose contributes to my need to shit a brick every damn time I board a plane.  But what was unusual about this one was that I was actually inside the plane when it crashed.  Now, typically what happens during this recurring hell dream is that I am standing somewhere watching a plane takeoff and immediately afterward it crashes.  Like, it plummets to the ground right in front of me and explodes.  If I am lucky, right before it hits the ground, it turns into an inflatable whale, gently lands on the ground and old men with walkers all safely disembark by sliding down the emergency exit thingy (hmm, thinking 20th Century Fox needs to hear my pitch for Cocoon 3).

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beautifully broken

On the morning of August 28th, 2014, at 9:45 in the morning I was sitting in a window seat on flight AC7738, and in the distance, perched atop the low-lying clouds, like a flawlessly crafted piece of art, sat the Manhattan skyline.  I couldn’t help but notice how small, and insignificant it looked from so far away.  But I already knew from my time previously spent there; it was anything but that.  And it was for that very reason I was on that plane, that morning, anxiously awaiting touchdown and my first breath of New York City air.  New York City is the love of my life, and as we approached – its vastness beginning to reveal itself – I sat hopeful, that somehow on the streets far below, she would be able to fix me.  I was in desperate need of healing, and it was her I chose to help me. So, when I exited the airport shuttle in front of my hotel, I closed my eyes, inhaled the Manhattan air into my lungs and surrendered my broken self to the city…my love.

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ferris bueller said it best

I was born in 1971, which means I am a true child of the 80’s. If you were born in the 80’s, sorry, it doesn’t count the same.  You were just getting started.  Meanwhile, I was sprouting hairs down there, riding out the angst of adolescence to the beat of Def Leppard and REO Speedwagon and driving around in a tree scented white Camaro with Rockaberry Cooler discreetly stashed between my legs.  While you were learning to tie your shoes, I was outsmarting the local police department, and sporting stupidly teased bangs.  I am a product of the 80’s.  Not only was I raised in all its neon and hair teasing splendor, but I also survived to tell the tale.

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thanks, for squeezing my lemons

Most of my friends are married, own homes, are parents and are on a career path that’s going to end with a well-earned pension.  They all seem to have their shit sorted, are settled down and are adulting like normal people.

Then there’s me.

When I am out walking a dog and weaving my way through a new neighbourhood, I see not just homes, but lives.  I see roots being planted.  Stories being written.  A place people call home.  And I think, ‘How wonderful.’  But then.  Then it happens.  I hear the sound of a vacuum in a driveway and see someone cleaning out a minivan, see an open garage with boxes piled high – chaos stored within its walls, smell the scent of fresh laundry, notice unfinished renovations or see someone weeding their garden and instantly, I become anxious. What I see and smell reminds me that alongside all the ‘wonderful’ are things like chores, compromises, resentment, anger and unfulfilled dreams and I can’t help but wonder, ‘Are these people actually happy?‘  And as I continue on my way, I feel relieved, lucky in fact, that it’s not me.  That nothing and nobody is waiting for me at home.  I find domestication suffocating and thoroughly insufferable.  The destiny that awaits me isn’t a white picket fence and routine.  Oh no, out there waiting for me are lessons to learn, words to be written, Horizons to fly towards, and experiences that will lead me…to me, and my dreams. What has yet to make sense in my life, finally will, if I just stay on the path, I am on.  Alone.

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