Alright, who gave this pity parade a permit to march through here?

My first real gallery showing happens tomorrow. My mother has taken time out of her horrendously busy schedule of fearing the outside world, screaming at the TV, sleeping while the sun is out, and holding back her urge to smother my father in his sleep, to fly up here for the night to support me on my big artistic event. I have spread the word about the exhibit, tossed the glitter, and all I can think about is that only a very small amount of friends are showing up. Like, I can count on one hand amount. 

I’m being juvenile about this I know. I was at one point not going to have any family there other than The Husband© so I really need to ignore the sounds of that pity parade getting ready to march its way down my mental block. Its childish of me to expect that I’d have a ridiculously large group of people patting me on my head and telling me how amazing I am.

I swear, if praise could be scientifically proven to be a narcotic I’d be signing up for my methadone fix to wean me off this smack in a second! Praise and being adored is more addictive than Mt Dew! If I could inject it, I’d be a fucking pin cushion! I jones for gold stars pasted on the work I do. The irony is that I wasn’t a high achiever in school unless I liked the teacher or I loved the subject. I always busted my once adorable behind to get those tiny tidbits of approval from people. Praise me and I’m jonesing for my next fix, but if I don’t like something/someone, I’m doing the bare minimum 100% just so I can be done with it. Over achiever in one room and C grade slacker in the other. There is never an inbetween. 

Its always amused me that I’m the living embodiment of the ying yang. I enjoy my praise from the ones I WANT and the rest I’m oblivious towards even trying. I embrace my weirdness and love my oddity, but I only want to stand out when I feel safe. Ahhhhhh the joys of being completely off my rocker!!!

But back to my pity parade. As the final elephant heads down the street and its time to break out the street sweepers to clean up the glitter, confetti, streamers, and red solo cups (my parades are fucking epic people), I take out my therapist’s permission note that says I’m allowed to feel this way but wallowing in the giant piles of shit that the elephants dropped along the way is only going to make me feel worse as well as incredibly smelly.  So I grab a broom and a high power washer,clean up the mess, and try to find my way back to the Happy Zone. 

Still,……….its my party and I’ll pout and kick the dirt when no one shows up if I want to. And I’ll give the middle finger to feeling disappointed too, that rotten bastard!


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