living out loud

competitive mess.

lynda carter, wonder woman. i wanted to BE her as a child...take down all the evil in the world, little by little, one villain at a time.
lynda carter, wonder woman. i wanted to BE her as a child…take down all the evil in the world, little by little, one villain at a time. where’d she go???

Here’s a secret about me: I am competitive. I don’t enjoy being competitive. I avoid conflict and competition as much as possible. I do not like games. The games I like to play are games like Solitaire or Word Finds or putting puzzles together. Calm games of strategy, but strategies that challenge me more than anyone. The only competitor games I like are Clue, Scrabble, and bantering in a flirty way. Mind reading games. Because I’m a Pisces and that’s what we do.

But occasionally something will happen, or someone will come along, and my inner competitive freak will flare and I will find myself strategizing against another person, making presumptions, projecting, and other kinds of horseshit things less evolved people who don’t know any better do. I know better, but it’s so instinctive I just go into these spirals of sheer hateful jealousy and then I do and say things I regret later. I get passive aggressive. I get angry. And self-hatred. I deal with a lot of self-hatred. I do not, NOT, like my inner competitive freak. My inner competitive freak is a nasty, mean, judgmental bitch. Nobody wants to hang out with that girl. I can’t stand her, and I live with her.

Here’s another secret about me: usually what brings my inner competitive, bitchy freak out is typically other women. I rarely, RAAAARELY, do this with men. Men I try to impress, to make want me. Every time I meet a man, I think: how can I make him want me? Like, why don’t I just work a corner and be done with it. At least make some money off my tragic psychosis.

But other women? Woah. If another woman has, or is, something I perceive I ought to be or ought to be mine, that she is far less deserving of or effing up somehow, the competitive bitch comes out and I stew. I brood, I stew, I seethe, and I hate. I hard roll my eyes a lot. I play tiny little violins about another woman’s problems. I think and feel unkind thoughts and feelings. And I really hate myself that I do this, because I wouldn’t want someone to do it to me. And I feel this way because I KNOW, in my heart: man, that bitch and I ought to be a TEAM. Screw these boys, these dickheads. We should just make out and fall in love and leave that a-hole in the dust, scratching his head, wondering what the hell just happened. I am essentially a Thelma in search of her long, lost Louise. Because the people I love and trust the best tend to be other women, because I know other women aren’t out to use me. Men always seem to want something, and that something is usually a blow job without consequences or a price tag.

Y’all. I am a mess.

At any rate, the picture from last night’s dinner was shocking to me. I didn’t like how I look. It was hard to post it on Facebook, but I did anyway because I needed to write what was in my heart about my two friends and it would have been a total weirdo move to crop myself out of the picture. I know I’m hard on myself, but listen: there was a time I could rock a bikini, Internet. Not fitness model rock a bikini, but I could rock a bikini. You could not get me within 2 feet of a bikini now. That would be tragic comedy.

I compare myself to other women, is what I’m saying. ESPECIALLY other women I feel in competition with. But then again (I was thinking), maybe this is what I need: a little competition. Cause here’s another ugly secret about me: I do enjoy knowing someone else sees me and feels inadequate, but ONLY if I perceive that person as competition at some level or in some form; otherwise, I’m rushing in to list all the reasons they should not and do not need to compare themselves to my mess of a self. (Does that make sense?)

Maybe who I’m really jealous of, and competing with, is actually myself. So myself and I are going to get really real with each other. The hardest part about getting in shape is that I have a kid, and mine can be a demanding asshole. I’m sorry, but she can be. She’s smart and sweet and kind-hearted and funny and magical and amazing, but she can also be a really really demanding asshole (Important side note: I’m essentially describing myself…you understand this, yes?). She needs a lot of attention and when she doesn’t get it she gets manipulative and sulky. And she tires out easily. And has no willpower.

I need to work out. I HAVE to work out. I don’t want anymore pictures like last night’s. I want to be able to punch a gun-toting male Trump lunatic in the nuts if I ever have to – he’s starting to define who our enemies are, and his lunatic base always swallow everything he feeds them. I may have to kick some sociopathic men in the nuts, literally, and soon. And I have to eat differently – I’m addicted to sugar right now and I know it’s why I’m dragging. It’s the only way I’m going to look and feel better.

So I started with a short walk in the rain this morning. While bitching about a situation in another part of my life I’m working on changing. I need a punching bag for my birthday. I need a very large punching bag and maybe an archery set. I need to go find my Xena Warrior Princess so she can go help me find Louise and we can have a threesome. NO MEN ALLOWED.

Was this blog kind of all over the place? I feel like it was. But that’s how I am these days. All over the place.

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