Velouria (velouria) wrote,

Mrs. Potato Head and Her Bucket of Parts

Tried to take a celebratory selfie upon getting off work this evening (and being off work for four days). I carefully applied my winged liner and black lipgloss and positioned myself in the glow of my pink Christmas tree, only to end up with half a dozen photos of Mrs. (possibly transgendered Mr.) Potato Head.

"Fuck!" I exclaimed, tossing the camera into a pile of pink depression blankets I would be utilizing shortly. My phone dinged to tell me that a Suicide Girl was on Periscope. I reached for the phone and pressed the broadcast button, staring stupidly into the grainy front-facing camera while randos typed hearts at me. I turned it off and sat deep in the pepto bismal-pink pile of depression blankets.

What, I asked myself, is to blame for the vacuous, shit-sucking black hole of a soul I have that does not allow me to practice any love of self? So no one ever hugged me and a few people destroyed my self-esteem as a youth; Am I to suffer endlessly, forever seeking validation through multicolored, animated hearts?

I turned on the TV. Marie Osmond began telling me she'd lost 50 pounds via powdered, astronaut meals. I imagined losing 50 pounds. I'd shed a couple stomaches and chins, and maybe even stop knocking porcelain salt and pepper shakers all asunder in the antique store with my hips. I could wear sexy, strappy underwear once more without it getting lost in my buttcrack. Would I be any less of a sad sack, though? I have been a very thin, very sad sack in this life.

I wrapped myself in a pink blanket and sunk deeper into the couch. If I had children, would I be happier? Or would I go off the deep end? I had lost my shit after two weeks of cat ownership. Besides it seems unfair to me to inflict life and dysfunction upon some innocent chromosomes.

My dad told me I should be very proud of myself for having chosen to not drink into an early, liver-failurey grave three years ago. He says I should see that as a shining example of what I am capable of. Well okay, then I should be capable of not shoving buttery garlic Jacks in my face on my lunch hour, right? And not pulling out all my hair, or letting sweatshirts, fuzzy boots, and ten tons of makeup pile up on my bathroom floor until I can't reach the toilet.

I don't know what I capable of actually *doing*, but I can see a few things I should obviously not be doing. I guess I'll start with those.
Tags: mr. and mrs. potato head
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