The rage is bad. I feel like I'm on steroids. Starbucks forgot to make my pumpkin spice latte the other day and when I questioned them about it's whereabouts half an hour later, she said the cashiere had never given it to her to make. So I waited about 10 more minutes and asked her again.
"We're busy," she said. I stormed the counter and threw my huge purse on it, knocking over their tip jar. I demanded my money back and then couldn't find the card I'd put it on in the first place . "Fuck it" I snarled and left, shoving some rando guy on my way out like i was Lauren Hutton in Once Bitten (if you haven't seen that, you have no business reading my journal anyway but fine, watch this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBwyjWbss1o).
Last night, I about dived over the table @ the Mexican restaurant and beat the shit out of my sister with a nearby Mariachi guy's trumpet for telling me I might as well "go back to drinking" since I exhibited other, equally devastating addictive behavior towards food and relationships.
Yes, because giving myself Cirrhosis and slaughtering people with my car is something I really need to be doing right now on top of whatever the fuck else is wrong with me. She's always talking about "triggers" and has the nerve to say that to me over her Dos Equis.
In other insensitive, annoying news, my therapist refered to me as "deadweight" the last time I saw her. I was complaining about my inability to actualize my dreams and she snorted. I put down the pen I was fiddling with and looked up at her.
"Forget your dreams," she said. I sat wondering if anyone had ever told me to forget my dreams before, least of all someone counseling me. "You're just deadweight right now."
I thought perhaps I had intrinsic value as a human being, Therapist.