Repress Yourself

Tired of paying hundreds of dollars in therapy? Fed up with prescription pill addictions and office furniture couch-sores? Has your psychologist stopped seeing you since you made a pass at him? Or maybe you're an amateur analyst and are looking for a chance to gain experience as an advice columnist. Bloggers: substitute these posts for therapy sessions and readers: comment away.

31 March 2005

Everything Is Fine

I'm doing pretty good today, actually. How are you?

29 March 2005

Get Me Out of Here!

Spring has sprung this week in Chicago and I went to the office and felt a nervous breakdown coming on: I needed to get the hell out of my four walls and get some fresh air. Then when I got outside I just wanted to go home again and smoke and be on the computer. This is not right. I think I'm just reluctant to face up to summer, that I can't hide beneath coats anymore and snuggle indoors.

Fortunately I'm going to the PAY doctor tomorrow so she can help me get back into the real world. I'll let you guys know if she has anything good to say. There is a chance that she might encourage me to give up refined sugar, though. THAT would require serious therapy.

28 March 2005


My shelves sag with a vast and varied assortment of books, CDs, comics, etc., and, like all media junkies, I'm goofily proud of those collections. These are things selectively chosen according to my unique tastes, actively acquired, and purposefully saved and displayed. Just like a normal, functioning person.

These pictures do not reflect those things.

[Caveat: I have a roommate who is equally crazy/lazy, thus 50% guilty.]

I've been meaning to buy some twine. I'm pretty sure there's a ball of it somewhere.

You see, I read a newspaper every day, but recycling comes only Fridays. I usually remember this on Saturdays. Then Sundays, the newspaper is extra thick. And so on. I don't want these newspapers in my apartment anymore. I just haven't had the time or energy to bundle them up and haul them downstairs. If anyone wants to do this for me, I'll pay you twelve dollars.
Also in dire need of packaging and taking the hell out of here are all these unprocessed nickels.
Yes, and the ones hiding beneath the sink, too.
The Laundromat returns my shirts on these cheap wire hangers. I've now got a hanger-to-shirt ratio of like twelve to one. I think I might throw a party in the wintertime just so I can hang up everyone's coat.
If you're the type who winds up with lots of unintentional collections of tiny things (where do I put all these movie-ticket stubs?), then cigar boxes come in handy. Unfortunately, you then find yourself with a cigar-box colony.
And lots of coffee cans for containing things like hundreds and hundreds of pens, pencils, and markers, of which 90% have long since dried up, but really who has time to test hundreds of pens for ink?
I don't know when or why I dropped all these bottle caps in there. Maybe I thought I was going to do some stupid art project or something? I can't throw them away because I think there's some charity that will give a sick little girl a new kidney only if you mail them ten billion bottle caps.
Yes, the Leaning Tower of Pizza. I'm sorry, but I think just this once, the most hackneyed pun in history is actually apropos.

Again, that Friday recycling thing passes us by. Anyway, La Rondine makes a hell of a good slice of Sicilian.

I'm certain I will die lonely and alone, but I haven't decided why yet

I can't decide if I'm more of a terrible person or a terrible writer.

I wonder about these things all the time. I know that sooner or later, everybody will hate me, but I don't know why yet. It will either be because I fail to live up to personal obligations, ignore other people's feelings, don't call my mother enough and talk endlessly about my own problems, or because my characters are not fleshed out enough, my sentences are too self-consciously clever and my writing style is obviously plagiarized from other, better writers.

I'm certain that some people already hate me for one reason and others hate me for the other, but what I'm really interested in is on which side of the fence popular opinion will land.

I think I'd prefer to be remembered as a bad person than as a bad writer. If I lost all my friends and my family stopped inviting me over for holidays and I spent the rest of my days lonely, eating Chinese food by myself in my bedroom, at least then I'd have more time to write.

25 March 2005

Is This How We Do It? AKA The Hermit-age

OK so here is one. I've been working from home for the last week, which is fucking awesome (I can swear here because I can't swear anywhere else.)

The problem is, though, is that I'm getting gradually stir crazy. Watching TV and eating Cadbury Mini-Eggs gets less entertaining day by day, to the point where I feel gross and sad instead of comfy and smug.

But the more displeased I feel, the less I want to go outside. I'm supposed to see a friend today, go to a party and interview someone and I just secretly want to stay inside with Netflix even though I know I'll feel like a human puddle. Is my apartment a black hole? Is that the problem? Or am I just really my own abusive best friend? There is no way that I actually want to leave my cute apartment in the sky for a windowless office again, is there?

A terrifying dream

I had the most fucked up nightmare last night - the kind of dream I can't even tell you about, because there's no explaining it away. There's no, "Oh, everyone has dreams like that - it doesn't mean anything..." because nobody does. It was seriously fucked up. It's the kind of thing that would change your opinion about me, forever--make you think twice before inviting me over to meet your kids, or your grandparents.

The awesome part is, that after I sort of woke up and had a moment to let it all sink in, I fell back asleep and had another nightmare about trying to explain the first dream to people I know. In this new dream I apparently hung out with Charles Barkley, and before I could even finish describing the first dream scenario, he punched me in the face!!!

Charles Barkley punched me in the face. That sounds made up, but it actually happened (in my dream).
He was so disgusted at my other dream, he clocked me. Meanwhile, I don't even know what he's doing there. Maybe dreaming of Charles represents the anger I feel about basketball being on TV all the time. I'm not sure. But I know a hilarious face-punch when I dream one.

23 March 2005

Let's Get This Party Started!

So I noticed yesterday this habit I have developed over time which is infuriating in it's ridiculousness. I have this weird obsessive need for details about fictional people and their conversations.

For example: Say you're watching "SitCom X" on television. Character A says to Character B: "I know, I have to tell my girlfriend - she's going to freak out!" (It doesn't really matter what they are talking about - just imagine some drama.) Then the scene is over. The next time you see these two characters you get:

Character B: "Did you tell your girlfriend?"
Character A: "Yes. She stopped talking to me!"

Or whatever... You understand the basic scenario, right? Happens all the time - actions and conversations happen off-screen, and often that information is left up to the imagination.

Except that my imagination is working overtime. When something like this happens, I find myself wondering "How did he break the news? Did he just come home and blurt it out? Did he sit her down and preface it with, 'I have something really important to tell you...'? Maybe he took her to a restaurant, maybe they talked about it in bed. Maybe he called her at work."

I start imagining each of these scenarios, putting myself in the shoes of either character, writing imaginary dialogue in my head, editing and re-writing when I don't like the way it's turning out.

Eventually I become self-conscious as I realize what I am doing. Then I begin this whole other internal dialogue about how crazy I am and that I should really let this all go, because what difference does it make?!! These aren't real people! There is no "right way" that conversation happened, because it never happened! Duh!

Nevertheless, within minutes I am back to the imaginary conversation, reworking the details and the dialogue and the outcome until it is most satisfactory to me. By this time, the show is over and I have tuned out to the rest of the episode - I don't even remember how it ended.

"Did you see Friends last night?"
Yeah. I can't believe that bastard had the nerve to call her at work.

A new approach to therapy

Hello and welcome to Repress Yourself - a new blog for those who need therapy, but are too lazy/cheap/agoraphobic to see an actual therapist. Please take advantage of this blog to post your innermost thoughts, obsessions, dreams, fantasies, fears, phobias, and the rest of the crazy shit swimming around in that skull of yours.

I've already reached a crisis point in trying to decide on the name for this thera-blog. My manic-depression is in full effect and I'm currently hysterically crying at the thought that maybe I made the wrong choice, and that you will think (know?) i'm stupid. I am frantically searching for someone else to blame.

For the record, here are some of the other choices I had in mind:

I'm happy to take suggestions for a title change. That's just the kind of people-pleasing doormat I've become.

Love, (but i don't mean anything by that)