ANXIETY HELL

This is pretty much how my wall would look if I updated my page more than once a month.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is hiding out in the hermit lair, challenging herself to a Raisinette-eating competition. She is winning.

 

Two hours later…

 

Anxiety Hell: Is digging out a deep wedgie while watching a rerun of the A-Team. She is secretly thinking Murdock is the hottest cast member, though in a post-apocolyptic emergency situation she would consider procreating with First Lieutenant Templeton “Faceman” Peck. It occurs to her that he’d probably bring some useful survival skills to the table, what with his being a Lieutenant and all.

 

Later that day…

 

Anxiety Hell: Is squinting through the peephole at the creepy FedEx dude, but she will not open the door because she has misplaced her rape whistle. Okay, if she is to be honest in her updates, misplaced is incorrect; the manager of a CVS pharmacy confiscated her rape whistle.

Apparently there are noise pollution laws she was unaware of. She was more unaware that a citizen is not allowed to seek justice when a stranger has grabbed the last can of Nair just as she was reaching for it. She is still convinced it’s Grandma’s fault her hearing aid was turned up all the way at the time.  

 

Two milliseconds later…

 

Anxiety Hell: Is continuing to engage the FedEx man in a one-eyed staring contest, separated only by the peephole in her deadbolted front door.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is watching the FedEx guy storm down the stairs and out to his truck. She starts to congratulate herself on winning this particular staring contest, but as she watches him climb into his big white truck, she recalls traumatic childhood memories involving the ice cream man. She is no longer high-fiving herself.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is continuing to avoid human contact.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is going pee for the four-thousandth time today. She is contemplating asking her doctor about what Flomax can do for her.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is engaging in various forms of passive aggression that may or may not involve slipping slabs of raw Halibut through the sunroof of her neighbor’s car.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is growing wary of leopards. She is also reconsidering her stance on the duckbilled platypus. She decides that any animal with “pus” in its name seems likely to pass on flu-like symptoms. She mistrusts their claims that they are mammals.

 

Three hours later…

 

Anxiety Hell: Is having a panic attack at the gym after she catches a glimpse of her bootang in the crazy fun house mirrors 24 Hour Fitness has installed on every square inch of available wall space.

 

30 seconds later…

 

Anxiety Hell: Is angry that her sweat patterns never look sexy like the shirtless dudes’ hoopin’ it up in those old BodMan fragrance commercials. She does not understand why it always looks like she’s confused a water buffalo for a ThighMaster when she works out. She is considering bitchslapping the chick on the treadmill next to her who is only sweating in a delicate henna pattern around her wrists even though she just ran 72 miles.

 

Anxiety Hell: Is home again. She is eating more Raisinettes, watching more A-Team. She is still wary of the platypus.

 

12 hours later…

 

Anxiety Hell: Is digesting Raisinettes and worrying about what she wrote on Facebook.