No. I’m not fine.
There is nothing currently fine about me.
I’m bugshit crazy beyond any bugshit crazy I’ve ever been in my life–and that’s saying something.
In the words of that Great Philosopher, Mick Jagger, (who I find myself quoting a lot lately, which just shows how bad my mental health really is), “Here comes [my] 19th nervous breakdown”.
The only good part is that I’m too crazy to pick fights on the internet this time. That’s an improvement, I think.
It seems that life has seen fit to rip open each and every old wound from childhood all over again so that it can watch me writhe on the floor in psychological and emotional (and physical) agony.
Yippee, fucking, skippy.
I’ve lost a shitload of weight. I’m glad I bought those skinny jeans because they are currently the only pants that fit me and even those things are beginning to hang a little loose.
I’ve burned off all my Botox® sobbing into my pillow for hours on end. It’s all just so fucking sad.
Every year since 2007, I have had at least one major life catastrophe. I took this test only to find that my score indicates that I have an 80% chance of seeing unicorns, alien spaceships and/or thinking I’m Eleanor Roosevelt within the very near future.
Life just sucks.
And then you die.