The definition of ‘EMSing’ #girlproblems

I’ve always laughed at jokes made about pre-menstrual syndrome. You know, the ones where guys are like, “Must be her time of the month” just because a woman goes from a devil-horned bitch to a tear-soaked, sloppy and snotty mess. I never really noticed the hormonal change in myself but, then again, it wasn’t until about halfway through my freshman year of college that I realized the sad truth: I’m not as perfect as I had always thought I was –– le gasp! I know!

Because of my almost completely unfortunate initials, my mom has always said, “Watch out, Emily’s ‘EMSing,'” and then my older brothers would, quite literally, watch the fuck out (I threw things). Looking back now on episodes of my life through –– let me flatter myself here –– mature eyes, I’ve realized I used to get pretty bitchy, throwing fits, yelling, storming up the stairs, slamming doors and crying hysterically. One teenage girl in the household was bad enough for my brothers and father, who often speculated that one girl was certainly enough, if not more than enough. One brother doesn’t want children and I’m fairly certain the other two want nothing to do with little girls. As their own children, I mean. That sounded creepy.

But back to me and my problems. I’ve toned down some in terms of PMS, but shit, after this week, I don’t think I’ll laugh as hard anymore at PMS jokes.

I bawled my eyes out last Thursday night over one thing one person did, or, rather failed to do. Even though it really wasn’t a big deal. The whole thing isn’t a big deal. I make things a big deal and obsess over them.

“You okay?” my friend texted me at 3 a.m. after I’d left the party.

“Yeah, just PMSing lol,” I replied at 6 a.m. when I woke up and saw the text.

LOL. But it’s really not funny. It’s ridiculous.

PeriodMonsterMy version of PMS has changed from an irritable and angry person to a sad, life-sucks-so-much-and-I-hate-it person. Time I spend in solitude goes from a precious commodity to a pit of loneliness. I text my mom. I text my brother. I text my dad. I text my other brother when the other one doesn’t respond. I know not to text the third one because he doesn’t often respond, but I try him anyway.

“Hi! How are you?” I type, hoping they’ll reciprocate the question so I can plunge deep into my tales of woe and sorrow that only a 20-something woman could spew.

Then I call my mom. And I cry. “I just–hic–needed to talk to–hic–someone who loves me uncondi-hic-tionally,” I’ll sputter into my Droid.

She’ll go along with it; it’s about the only time I ever really call her and she always says something along the lines of, “Aw honey, you know you’re just PMSing, right?”

Right. I know. But it doesn’t stop things from seriously sucking, at least from my chemically askew brain’s point of view.

I’m not as much of a PMS bitch anymore, but if you show me one of those sad ASPCA commercials, I will, without a doubt, burst into tears. If you talk about your grandparents or about how you need to give your grandma a call and you see tears well up in my eyes, don’t be surprised. It’s just me, EMSing again. Then you’d better duck before I throw something at you. EMS can be pretty unpredictable.

In the words of Drake, “Started from the bottom, now we’re here” and it’s true; I kind of hit rock bottom* this week (“YOU WERE NEVER AT THE BOTTOM, DRAKE,” argues my brother). My appetite for success in everything is insatiable and if one thing –– my own personal love life, perhaps? –– falls slightly out of place, the whole Jenga tower topples. My monthly bout of depression tears at my confidence. My successes become I could have done mores*, and my failures nag, nag, nag at me. But now I’m here. I’m going to relish this current balance of estrogen and progesterone before they get all fucked up again, fucking me up in the process.

If nothing else during these highly emotional times, at least I have the DivaCup and the bullshit that follows EMS becomes easier. ; )

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*a relative term; my supposed “rock bottom” includes panicking that someone didn’t text me back, the fear of being excluded and paranoia about everything. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. My “rock bottom” is nothing in the grand scheme of things, though it always seems like my whole damn world is ending.

*mores; done on purpose.

Get over it

A friend in high school wore a shirt to school one day our senior year that said “SOME CHICKS MARRY CHICKS. GET OVER IT.”

So, get over it.

It’s not fair for homosexuals to grow up in a world full of heterosexual people who are so against them.

What business is it of yours if a woman loves a woman? Or if a man loves a man? It isn’t.

[Image courtesy of FCKH8.]
The way they live their lives shouldn’t affect the way you live yours. They don’t deserve your disdain and disapproval. Your opinions are not relevant. Don’t pronounce them like they are.

You’re winning so far, so be happy. But the United States is making progress. Though only 9/50 states have legalized same-sex marriage thus far, more will follow. Brace yourself for the change.

Open your eyes and your mind. There’s nothing wrong with a man loving a man or a woman loving a woman. Love is beautiful regardless of the gender of those immersed in it.

Get over it.

Selling it backward

Okay, so I can’t sleep. It’s like one of those things where you cannot locate something because you are looking for it. I’m trying to sleep and so it evades me. Bastard.

I’ve been coughing and sniffling. There’s already some crust in my eyes as if it cannot wait to glue my eyes shut when I try to open them in eight hours. Nasty visual, I know. This stupid cold has settled in my poor eyes. I should have downed some NyQuil three hours ago, but after this cold is gone I know I would still be taking it to help me sleep. I’m trying to stay off sleeping aids.

Lack of sleep brings on the thinking.

Here is something I have realized about myself: I am constantly surrounded by ungrateful people. The sad part is, most of the time it’s by choice. 

One of my favorite things to do is to buy/make gifts for people. Each Christmas I squirm impatiently. The reactions my gifts receive send me soaring for weeks (especially last Christmas when my mom and I ended up giving each other the same exact book).

That being sa–written, I also love to put together goody bags for the people I love when they are sick. Grandma and Papa used to do this for my brothers and me, and I’ve kept up with it when I can.

My senior year of high school, I popped into my then-best-friend’s house with a goody bag full of treats when she had been out sick for days. I even wore a doctor’s mask as a joke and adorned rubber gloves when we played cards (cards from the goody bag, of course). She loved it. It floored me to put a smile on her face and to hear the laugh that I so loved.

During February break of my senior year I was sick as a dog. The aforementioned friend texted me and asked how I was feeling. She also asked if she could come up to my house to retrieve the sunglasses she’d left in my car. I, of course, responded with a “sure!”, thinking maybe – just maybe – she was going to return the favor I’d done for her. I grew excited to spend time with her – this friend never failed to make me laugh.

She didn’t show up until night had long since fell.

It turns out that all she really cared about was getting her sunglasses back so she could wear them on her sun-filled vacation.

It didn’t hit me at the time, but it has since. By granting her with a care package, it was not my intention to ensure she returned the favor down the road. But I had paid it forward, and I thought maybe – just maybe – she would do the same.

I got my hopes up and was let down.

Last Christmas, I spent hours making jewelry and knitting scarves for some of my friends as gifts. I wrapped them, they opened them, they loved them; all was well in Emily world. I hadn’t expected anything in return and I didn’t get anything.

But what hit me the most were the months that followed.

Not once did I see any of them wearing what I had made them. It especially hurt when I noticed one scarf hanging up, left behind for the entirety of Christmas break.

I look back and wish I would have kept the necklaces I made for them – I certainly would have incorporated them in my daily wardrobe.

I like to make people feel good. I know from experience that one nice comment, a little note or even a small gift can turn the whole day around. Pay it forward.

My friend got me a model of a vintage Volkswagen Beetle for absolutely no reason at all. I absolutely loved the spontaneity. Now, whenever I see something small that she might like, I get it for her without even hesitating. I know she’s someone who will appreciate it.

Not everybody does.

A stalemate of a friendship

Should it bother me? Because it does.

We’ve reached a sort of stalemate in our relationship. I am certainly not making the first move. Not after this.

The first move should have come from my opponent quite a few weeks ago. An informative text would have been nice. I would have planned accordingly. I was incapacitated that weekend, but it still would have been nice to know.

Instead, it was a complete slap in the face to log into Facebook that Sunday evening and see those pictures.

All I am is hurt and pissed every time I think about it and every time I see those happy-go-lucky pictures.

Guess payback’s a bitch, Emily.

Grin and bear it

I feel physically sick every time I think about it. My pulse quickens and I have a hard time calming myself down.

I just don’t don’t DON’T feel like associating myself with those people anymore. The immaturity radiates and engulfs the entire group. It ruins the whole thing for me. It’s worse than middle school.

I’m going to do it for Robby and me. Every little bit helps our future. He’s in the army for us; this is the least I can do.

I don’t care about improving. I don’t care about the people who make me miserable. It’s not my attitude; it’s their lack of maturity. I can’t respect immaturity. From either party. All it does is piss me off.

Oh well. Grin and bear it, right?

The cure

I read a fact on Twitter about a month ago. It concerned Facebook and was something along the lines of: “Women with Facebook profiles tend to have lower self-esteem.”

Needless to say, I deactivated my account later that week.

I’ve been off Facebook for almost a month. It has been a refreshing one. I’m finding that I now spend more time studying, reading and going outside as opposed to logging in to see what my friends are up to. I design more on my computer and blog more. I have more ideas now.

I don’t have low self-esteem, but I wasn’t about to start having it. I built my self-esteem up for years and don’t want anything to bring me down. Facebook brought me down.

The people on Facebook make me angry. One time I clicked on someone I was supposed to have known, via the “People You May Know” tool. Boy, was that an experience. I definitely did not know her, but several of my Facebook friends were friends with her. I decided to check her out. I couldn’t help but screenshot (bet she never thought of someone doing that) one of the statuses this girl posted:

Younger teens like this make me not want to be on Facebook at all. The Facebook profile pictures that popped up on my sidebar showed more tweens than I thought possible, and they’re not mature enough to even have a Facebook account. Kids like this girl on the left are why cyberbullying exists and why thousands of kids commit suicide every year after being harassed on the Internet.

Kids at this girl’s age cannot even spell words or use grammar correctly to get his/her useless point across.

Kids at this girl’s age – including this girl – don’t seem to realize that there are privacy settings on Facebook that he/she might want to look into. Anyone can go in and read what this girl plasters on her wall. If the supposed “dumb bitch” referenced in the status ended up going missing or found dead somewhere, based on Facebook evidence, this girl could be a suspect. The status, not to mention the horrible comments that followed, could be the proof that police need. Yeah, bet she didn’t think of that.

I am disgusted by what people post on a network that was built to help people reconnect. Now it’s just pissing people like me off.

We’re not in high school anymore, fellow members of the Class of 2011, so grow up. What really gets me is when I see photos posted from a party in my hometown in which several college kids are featured. Everyone from my hometown claims that they can’t wait to leave the place and go to college… so why the hell are you going back to party with the high schoolers? It is especially incredulous to me when even older kids still party with kids in high school. Stay at college. Party at a place where you don’t have to think about how you’re going to get home to your parents’ house safely. (Dear Danielle, who the hell are you? Sincerely, Emily.)

Another thing about Facebook: It’s a huge brag fest. Everyone’s trying to one-up everyone else. Parents get involved on Facebook and all they do is brag about their children.

In short, I’m sick of the ever-popular “new hair,” tongue-sticking-out, bathroom pic (oh hey, there’s your toilet!), sky shot (where we can clearly see your arms), “Edited” photos in everyone’s Facebook photo albums. I’m sick of the Iam Anidiot Photography pages, where a kid has instagram on his/her phone and then is suddenly a professional photographer and offers services for senior pictures. I’m sick of living with these people (not necessarily the lovely girls on my floor) and then seeing them in their slutty, “Going Out!” pictures when I log in on Facebook in my bedroom.

I deactivated my Facebook. I’m cured.

The real, real world

Last semester, it amazed me that kids – no, 18- and 19-year-old adults – had no clue how to do their own laundry.

Then the complaints about campus food began.

In my opinion, the Hickey does a very good job keeping everyone fed. There are plenty of options and, though sometimes the menu is repetitive, at least there is still food to consume. None of these “adults” realize how bad the food was just a few years ago. There is no room to complain now.

Besides doing your own laundry and your homework, of course (that’s what you came here for, right?), everything is pretty much taken care of. At Bonaventure (much like plenty of other schools), making your own food isn’t necessary. You can leave a mess in the bathroom in your hall and expect it to be gone the next morning once the housekeeper has made her/his way through.

I travel down to the bathroom in my hall and see how people don’t even make an effort anymore. The expectation to have the bathroom cleaned the next morning is there, so why should anyone bother cleaning up after himself/herself? If you have a home life like mine, you’ll soon know that expecting someone else to clean up your mess for you is not acceptable. I hope “adults” here are not taking these behaviors home with them.

Last night I took a shower in the fourth stall; the one I always use. Usually it’s quite clean. Last night, there was a disgusting mop of hair in the drain, black and scraggly. One of our floor agreements is that if you leave hair in the drain, you are responsible for cleaning it out. Guess this person feels like the housekeeper can take care of it. This is how laziness begins.

I went to fill my water bottle at one of the sinks. Both of the sinks with the higher faucets were filled with food someone had dumped in them. That was courteous of someone. And here comes the I-do-everything-right-Emily: When I make a mess in the sink, I clean it out! Yeah, it’s disgusting, but I do it. Our housekeeper is such a nice lady who already has to deal with a ton of crap (literally and figuratively). Why should she have to clean my macaroni and cheese noodles out of the sink? She shouldn’t have to. And she shouldn’t have to deal with anyone else’s, either.

We’ve been here so long that I feel people expect things to just be done for them. These kids are in for a rude awakening when they’re out in the real real world. College is just one more pampered step on the way to that real, real world.

Weekdays: a whiny rant

I just feel worn down and beaten up.

There’s always something to do and I feel guilty if I’m not doing anything. When I take naps, my heart beats rapidly because I know I could be doing something. I’m not even going to try napping today; I know the guilt will consume me. Guess I’m still recovering from yet another crazy Monday.

I barely have time to breathe on Mondays. I have class from 9:30–11:20, a small break for lunch, then class from 1:30–2:20. I go right from there to work in the dean’s office from 2:30–5:00. Yesterday, my work time ran into about quarter after five, lessening my time considerably. I have a meeting each Monday from 6:00–approximately 8:00. Top that with the cherry of discovering I register for classes TODAY (a very unexpected event) and some statistics homework I will never understand and you get the idea of how yesterday was for me. I’m exhausted. And Tuesdays aren’t a breath of fresh air, either.

I wake up on Tuesdays and have to be with a team that clearly does not get along. Nobody on my team says “Hi, how are you?” or “Good morning!” to anyone. I’m lucky if I even make eye contact with some people. It makes me miserable to think about those Tuesday/Thursday mornings with those people. I wish so badly that things could be different. In high school, the girl’s cross-country team had differences with the guy’s team, but at least we were all friends.

It’ll be exciting to welcome the recruits in this August. Maybe they can turn things around for the better.

For now, I’ll endure those early morning weight room sessions and try hard to keep my snide comments to myself.