“I hate everybody. Hate them. And they hate me. The world hates me. The Universe has mistaken me for a toilet and nothing is going my way. Lame-wads are everywhere and they refuse to shut their damn cake holes and leave me ALONE!” Me on Black Friday.
This is what I was thinking the day after Thanksgiving. It took about 30 seconds for this horribly negative thought to run through my mind, but it was 30 seconds too long. My head and heart both ached, and after a couple weeks of brain rattling, energy sucking, physical and emotional life happenings, I felt as fragile and empty as a dried out turkey carcass that had been devoured and picked clean.
I visualized my ugliness as I stared up at the ceiling. It was as if one gnarly hand with rotting flesh was shoving shrapnel into my left eyeball and another one was trying to dig my heart out of my chest.
My son tried to cheer me up by singing that Taylor Swift song about never, ever, ever, ever getting back together in his best Eric Cartman voice and it didn’t suck one bit of the ornery out of me. I was in sour mood indeed, the chick version of Charles Bukowski. And I realized that I just needed to channel the good Chuck, that’s what I call him when I use his wise, weird words for healing.