Sunday, July 27, 2014

PTSD is the new Black..

I have finally been diagnosed with PTSD but don't tell anyone.They won't believe you! Soldiers are heroes but Showgirls are Drama Queens. Everybody knows that!

I've had it for ten years apparently. They thought it was Hysteria. and laziness.

So I've kept it to myself but now I'm coming out and I need an outfit to match my condition. So I can post it on facebook.

It'll be my very own September Issue. 'Still shining it on with her hair on fire!' A New York state of mind for a New Millennium. 'Can you stand still for a minute and look a little electrocuted? yeah that's good. Where's the flash?

back.' Nobody has friends on facebook. Unless friend is just another word for people who irritate you! I suspect that I also have FIS. Facebook Irritation Syndrome. Have you heard of are some symptoms...

There are the people who post pictures of what's on their plate but who never invite me for dinner! What sort of cunts are these I ask?

Then there are the power women who can all afford lazers and botox and who go to parties and make cupcakes and drink champayne and write blogs about the joys of being a Mrs. They don't invite you to their bbqs in case you take off with their men or their forks. Greedy Sluts!

There are the dreadful hacks and bores and nerds who win all the deals and grants and prizes. They tell you about their invitations and perks and post pictures from all over the world. As if they're not still the same old bores in front of an LA backdrop.

And if that's not enough, if that doesn't have you alienated from 90% of the population then bring on the Yummy Mummys. Dragging a six million dollar pram and a holiday destination they introduce as their husband. They sell domestic bliss as an exotic location you'll never get in to. Julia loves them. They never complain. They're always relaxed with a tit ready to be popped out and served to a gurgling baby. They have lovely partners, darling men, Nobody I'd go for but then they're married. You get smacked as soon as you give even a sideways glance. You develop a hunch in your quest to hag up and look harmless. Loopy Aunt is all you are now left with. People get married to fit in. Then call it love.

I'm surrounded.

Even the gays are all stage diving for the altar. Not to say i don't get the compulsion. I wrote a book about it. We all want a hand to hold when the plane goes down. But I got engaged to a psychopath which ruined my white wedding fantasy. Here I am with no bread and no bun in the oven. Just PTSD from a dream that went AWOL. I'm strange.

But then everything's relative isn't it?

Because when I look at her I still ask myself over and over 'Is that all there is?'

She used to talk about sex and censorship. She used to read my stories. And publish them. We were always different but we found a floor between our worlds. We held the lift and we engaged.

But now I only know her through facebook. Now I only know her through photos and status updates. Now I only know her as a mother watching her children, the cute things they say, the maternal observations, the little cup cake heartaches, smiling faces, the backyard, the kitchen, the happiness. It's not that I'm jealous. It's more that I'm detached. If I was watching this show on television I'd turn it off.

So I deleted her. Nothing personal. I just need to get back to my shopping. I'm wondering what sort of handbag says PTSD is Me!? I can't decide. I need it to be bullet proof, austere, alarmed, discrete and be able to fold into a pillow when I need to lay down. Which could be any moment...