If You’re as Sensitive as I Am, You Probably Just Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Watch TV

So I have this thing where I’m really empathetic all the time and I feel ALL the emotions. Even when I’m not trying to, I always find myself inadvertently mustering up at least some degree of empathy for everyone in every situation ever.

In real life this is usually a positive trait, as it allows me to have things like “compassion for others.” And understanding. And melodramatic bonding sessions with overemotional female friends who are going through ugly breakups with major douche bags who have no regard for women’s feelings but whose sides of the story I can also understand and relate to on some level, because again, empathy.

It’s a whole thing, and both my mom and new age wisdom tell me it means I might be an Earth Angel.

(OMG like Nicolas Cage in City of Angels? Which, I mean – his name is Nicolas. Without an H just like me. Holy shit. Someone find me a black trench coat and a cynical-yet-soft-on-the-inside doctor who looks like Meg Ryan.)

My high-strung emotional sensitivity can become a big problem, though, when I’m watching television. Because if the thing on the screen is all sad and desolate, then I cry and question the meaning of life. But if it’s super fun and hilarious, then you can probably bet your ass that I’m laughing out loud like the Whoopi Goldberg hyena from Disney’s The Lion King.

Basically I watch TV like a toddler on uppers.

(Side note: I’m not a parenting expert, but you probably shouldn’t give your toddler uppers. Or downers, for that matter. Or heroin. And definitely not Lucky Charms. Actually? Just don’t give them anything. Most toddlers are assholes anyways.)

(Maybe I am a parenting expert?)

So. The other night I was drinking red wine and watching some episodes of Modern Family I had saved on my DVR, and I got to one where the teenage girls Haley and Alex were lugging a mirror down into Haley’s bedroom in the basement and, out of the fucking blue, a possum (or is it opossum? this word is a dick) showed up on the steps behind them.

The reactions of the girls were really funny to me at first, and so I laughed, but then I got a closer look at the possum and my hypersensitivity arrived on cue and I was all, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY EXCUSE FOR ONE OF GOD’S CREATURES.” And then Alex made a “playing possum” pun and Haley (the ultimate ditz) didn’t get it, but then I paused for a moment and realized that I didn’t get it either, and so I was like, “What the fuck, Alex? Thanks for making me feel stupid.”

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the episode, Cam’s daughter Lily had lice.

After struggling to keep her away from him by telling her that the carpet he was on was hot lava and then literally putting a cardboard box on her head (this is why I love this show), he eventually decided to travel to the Dunphy house to acquire some lice treatment he was told they had in their basement – at which point I yelled at the television screen, “DON’T DO IT, CAM. THERE’S A POSSUM LURKING!”

But he didn’t listen to me.

So then he went to the house, where Alex and Haley had lost track of the possum after hiding out in Haley’s bedroom for too long and were all like, “Huh. Where did it go? Maybe it went back outside?” and then Cam and Lily started walking down the stairs and then the fucking possum FELL FROM THE CEILING and then I legitimately screamed like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween and threw my arms up in the air in what can only be described as a really, really gay tizzy. Which also happens to be exactly what Cam did.

Except unlike Cam, I had that glass of red wine in my hand.

And, so, THIS:

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Amazingly, though, I managed to miss the couch and my rug entirely – which I’m incredibly grateful for, because that would have majorly sucked. So really, in the end, I was touched by an angel. AKA MYSELF.

 

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God Texted Me and Was All Like, “Stop Dating A-Holes!”

Last week was so, like, sign-from-God-y.

Seriously, it was just one sign from God after another. There were so many SFGs, I feel like God and I have been texting.

Or something.

It all started on Wednesday night when I slept over one of my brothers’ houses.

(Explanatory side note: I have four older brothers/stepbrothers. Growing up, I was the fat, whiny baby of the family always seeking the most attention. Does that explain everything about Keychanges ever?)

So. During our long-overdue sleepover, we kind of killed a few bottles of wine while catching up on our mutual frustrations with life and love – and I kind of ended up texting with almost every man I had semi-seriously dated in 2012.

I woke up the next morning, eager to review all texting transcripts, and saw that my phone was permanently destroyed from water damage – thereby precluding me from EVER BEING ABLE TO SEE WHAT WAS WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE.

Maybe I actually have been texting with God — I wouldn’t know. Either way, I feel like this mishap truly was His way of teaching me some kind of lesson about letting go. And communicating intentionally. And not sending drunk-texts. And the importance of buying a protective phone case. And probably a lot of other stuff, too.

The next day, after acquiring a new phone, I went on a date with a friend of a friend from near my hometown — and he was so ridiculously unavailable that it’s not even funny. I’m talking lives-far-away-in-the-first-place-and-is-in-the-closet-and-deleted-my-totally-innocent-Facebook-post-from-his-wall-the-next-morning unavailable.

On account of my low self-esteem, I actually allowed myself to like him for approximately 48 hours.

But then this happened:

FB

Y’all, it was like the Trail of Tears.

I will say, though, that the majority of my Facebook friends and I do believe I was incredibly resourceful (and, really, genius) for coming up with that traffic solution. Also, the timing could not have been any better: It was year-end-retrospective-y. It was therapeutic. It was the springboard to my realization that most of the men I dated last year were – in their own, individual ways – totally unavailable.

Later that night, inspired by all of these happenings, I wrote a short piece that got picked up by Thought Catalog. It’s called, “2013: The Year I Officially Swear Off Unavailable Men.”

I’d like to thank God for this particular New Year’s resolution.

P.S. Did you notice how my last two posts have been all God and/or Pope-y? What the hell is going on?

P.P.S. What I realized from having my Thought Catalog piece semi-edited: I overuse italics for everything. No I don’t. Do I? I’ve been wrestling with this demon since it went live.

P.P.P.S. Can we just talk about the naked man that they paired with the article? Now every time I go to view my work, I get sexually aroused… Is this what self-love feels like?

 

Don’t Let Me Near Your Wine Bottles (Because I Might Have Anger Issues)

Do I strike you as a repressed psychopath with the propensity to unravel at any given moment?

I’m asking because I don’t know how else to explain this:

                                                 Someone needs Yoga.                       

Please note that the cork is still encapsulated by glass. I’m fairly certain that things like this don’t normally happen to people who haven’t been to prison at least twice.

                  Don’t let his smile fool you, Scrubber Ducky (right) is not amused.

I don’t recall exerting too much force during the uncorking process, but that’s probably because my mind was busy wandering into a pleasant daydream that involved me marrying Bradley Cooper and therefore having a practical need for this fantastic just-released home buying guide for same sex couples.

It is clear, though, that I eventually snapped out of the daydream, shed a single tear for reality, and went all Incredible Hulk on the unsuspecting wine bottle.

                                          Care for a glass of pent-up rage?

No, I did not drink it.

Or. Well. I might have had three sips, but each one was tainted by the possibility of glass shards scraping my esophagus and wreaking havoc on my digestive tract, so I stopped. Painfully, I poured the rest of the wine down the drain.

I wonder if those three sips are reason enough for me to bring up “internal bleeding” as a valid concern at my next physical. I’m gonna go with yes. I may also have to bring up my seemingly superhuman strength — something that’s especially bizarre given the fact that I’ve allowed myself to skip the gym for the past several weeks because I took the stairs at work one morning two Fridays ago.

In any case, in regards to that question I asked at the beginning of this post — please take your time answering, because if you say the wrong thing I MIGHT RIP YOUR FACE OFF!!!

Carry on.

 

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