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Wednesday, Nov. 26, 2014
Pink Straight JacketsPosted Thursday, June 18, 2009, at 8:10 AM
In automatic rebuttal to the oncoming negativity to this blog, I dare any woman to convince me she doesn't have a personality disorder. My disorder, though, is a tad more eccentric than the average lady. I embrace my disorder and unleash it accordingly. I realize, however, that this same insanity is the reason I haven't found Mr. Right yet. Mr. Right is having a crash course in the fundamentals of a swinging pendulum. And bless him-- my swinging pendulum could knock him on his rear and make him wish he were dead.
My personality disorder comes in the form of multiple schizophrenic personas with traces of a wicked bipolar disorder. Within me, there's a five-year-old named Jasmine who demands attention and pouts regularly when things don't go her way; Mabel, the 70-year-old whose oxygen tank rolls on mud tires and spinners; Paprika, the anorexic who recently gave up the last of her nutrition for Lent; finally, there's Roxy, my own Twilight vampire diva who has an uncanny ability to make Edward Cullen shudder with desire. These are only a few of the multitude of personas I recognize inside my own head. The rest are on hiatus until another unsuspecting victim stumbles into my life.
I came across my epiphany about Mr. Right months ago after a wretched break-up that left me a bit confused and extremely pessimistic about love. (For the record, I'm fine now. My inner therapist said I did nothing wrong, and curse the man who couldn't hang with my morbid wit and childlike charm.)
In my relationships, all of my personalities want to be front and center. Instead of mediating who will stick around and who should be euthanized, I let them all come out and play. Someone always gets hurt. The single gal in me gets bored easily and hates relationships, while my inner "wifey" attempts to cook a four course dinner after Exhibit A gets home from work.
In the end, I always end up leaving the relationship in hopes of giving all of me's a rest. After one guy had the audacity to break up with me because of his love for secretaries with bad teeth, all my inner psychos went into war-mode, complete with live grenades and a helmet. Sadly, I was the only survivor from the wreckage.
I think God has already selected Mr. Right for me, and I just have to wait for the poor lucky guy to survive boot camp. He's probably been dragged P.O.W--style through the desert with no water, thrown from an airplane with no parachute and locked in a room full of pre-menstrual women who haven't been fed according to their cravings. All of this was designed specifically as his training regimen so he can be tricked into meeting me--The Saint Patron of All That is Absurd.
This, at least, is my hope. If he's not being trained and shaped to fit me, then I might have to change something about myself in order to fit him. I'm not sure if Mabel will allow that, being that she's old and set in her ways. In the meantime of calming my schizophrenic mood swings with the soothing sounds of Metallica and Britney Spears, I will continue to be patient. Mr. Right has a very intense training to endure before he meets me in my hot pink straight jacket. My padded room makes for great acoustics if he's up for karaoke, though.
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The Fabulous Chronicles of an Average Bombshell
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Follow the events of a young, single female who just graduated college and is looking for the next chapter to begin. The Fabulous Chronicles of an Average Bombshell looks at what life is like for a young woman in her 20's, living in a small town, who has nothing in common with her friends: she's not interested in marriage, she wants a taste of the city life, and dating is for fun not so much for finding The One.