Note to self:

Hey, Julie! Next time you start feeling lousy about your lack of Life Accomplishments READ THIS.

Everyone else: you can read it too, but no hard feelings if you skip over this one.

I make lists. Scratch that: I make lists like Bradley Nowell plays the guitar: like a motherfuckin’ riot. My entire life organized in this fashion. I live and die by los listos.

For the most part, they are actual, physical lists: wherever I go, a notepad or scrap of paper is never more than two meters from my person. But sometimes, the lists are mental in nature, and these are the worst, because these aren’t so much lists as they’re Really Unbalanced Comparisons That A Chemical Glitch In My Brain Sometimes Can’t Rein In And Instead Lets Them Go Fucking CRAZY.

But we’ll call them mental lists.

I’m realizing lately as I fucking type this that the Mental Lists lose their psychological power once written down. In the same way that making a grocery list frees up my brain-bin for more useless information important facts,* listing out some of my biggest worries and insecurities somehow diminishes them.

Well aren’t we just a fucking psychologist all of a sudden, eh?

No. For reals.

Let me demonstrate some of the shit that rattles around in my head from time-to-time:
1. I am 30 years old. Most of my friends are married. Most have kids. Some have two. Some have THREE. Some have already been married AND DIVORCED. WHAT THE HELL?
Wait, what? Are you saying you wish you were 30 years old and already divorced and a single mom? Or is it the lack of diaper-changing and snot-sucking that’s gettin’ you down? Julie, you are a selfish, selfish so-and-so who doesn’t even like sharing a goddamned blanket with another person. You think you’re ready to share your whole fucking life? Oh, HELL no, girl. You best back this train up.

2. But I…
No. Shut the fuck up.

3. I have a Master’s Degree from a good school in a program respected in its field yet have not worked in that field in almost three years. I have essentially used my diploma as a very expensive shit-wipe.
Oh, I’m sorry Miss Whiny Pants, were you complaining that you have a fucking job? A job that allows you to pay for a roof over your head, food on your table, and internet on your computer? You pay your bills, have a little savings, and can afford name-brand dishwasher detergent, which everyone knows is a waste of money even though you just fucking bought some why did you do that? Seriously. Stop talking.

Okaaaay. What the hell’s stopping you?

5. I… uh…
Yeah. Exactly. Go write that fucking play or whatever the hell you keep thinking about, you lazy motherfucker. Jesus! Did you forget how to structure your time?

6. Yeah, well, all these other fuckers have done tons more shit than I by the time they were my age…
Okay, seriously: close that gaping hole in your face and think for a fucking minute. Are you dead or dying? No. So unless you plan on hula-hooping in traffic this afternoon, you’re probably not going anywhere for awhile.

You’ve got it good, you ingrate: you have a steady job with good hours that still allows you free time to pursue the things you’ve always wanted to do – so just fucking do it. You are surrounded by family and friends who love you, and that includes the children that some necrotic part of your gray matter seems to think you “need.” Borrow one or two for the afternoon sometime, see if you still feel that way. Ha!

You’re a good person who does good shit. Sure, you haven’t won the Nobel Prize For Handing Out Menus or anything, but you’re good at your job, goddamnit. You even like doing it most of the time! You work with some pretty kick-ass people with thankfully short memories: fuck ups on Monday are forgotten by Saturday.

And the world goes fuckin’ round and round.

There, there, Julie. Aw, who’s a whiny bitch? Are you a whiny bitch who responds well to rational self-criticism? Yes you are! Yes you are!

Jesus, you’re exhausting sometimes.



* Bet ya thought I was going to put in some kind of Crazy-Ass Random Fact here, huh?

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