ME with Boy? Never!

I’m pissed off.  No seriously honestly very upset.  Mad at the Boy.  Why you query?  The Boy has had the audacity to prevent me from wallowing in self pity.  Can you imagine!  The nerve.  Seriously.  I used to be the Queen of wallowing.  I think I once received a silver medal in the sport.

My unique breed of wallowing tended to involve large bowls of chips mixed with peanut butter ice cream (disgusting yes but effective), sappy movies, and lengthy one sentence male hating poetry with flowery prose.  For example:  “I sail in the ocean of black despair unattached to an umbilical cord seeking refuge from the light yet longing to be attached to the evil male genitalia.”  You have to admit its good right?  I tell you I rocked self pity, self loathing, pointless anger, male hating, and wallowing. 

And look at me now, reduced to a pile of happy colors and shinny outlooks.  It’s despicable.  Even my friends tell me so.  The cynic won’t even come to me anymore to fulfill her need for serious no bullshit screw all boys advice.  I am now known to say things like “everyone finds the right person eventually.”  Blech!   What have I come to!?!?   What will become of me?!?!  Without my anger I am no one!! 

This really is a serious problem.  I mean my whole identity was tied up for so long with being the single, angry, bitter, male hatter that I have no idea what to do now that I’m not that.  I actually caught myself getting upset about it last night on the way home from a lovely night of dancing.  I mean here it was a Tuesday (blach), I’d had a crappy day at work (double blach), I was PMS’ing or some such (triple blach) and I was tired.  I should have been wallowing.  I had even tried to wallow earlier in the evening in the presence of the Boy.  But in attempting it I ended up feeling guilty because he was in such a good mood that I didn’t feel like ruining his night with my wallowing.  Besides I reasoned, what did I really have to wallow about?  WAIT JUST A MINUTE!!!!  I was the QUEEN of wallowing.  I didn’t need a reason to wallow. What was all this about?  Was it possible that the Queen of wallowing actually cared more about someone else then she did about her own misery?  Was that even feasible? 

So there I was a Tuesday night facing, exhausted, PMSing, bad day having ex-Queen of wallowing all by myself in my car crying.  Not because I was wallowing but because I really had nothing to wallow about.  The bottom line is that at the end of the day everyone needs the occassional good woalow even if the only thing one has to wallow about is one’s inability to wallow.