Saying that I’m not an emotional person would be an absolute lie. And while there’s nothing wrong with wearing my emotions on my sleeve, I wish I wasn’t such a cry-baby.
I cry. A lot. Have you ever seen the video of Kristen Bell on Ellen? You know, the one with the sloth meltdown? She said, “if I’m not between a three and a seven on the emotional scale, I’m crying.” That sums me up perfectly. I cry if I’m too happy and I cry if I’m too sad.
For example, for Christmas I received a panda hat from my stepdad. I didn’t know how to process the excitement so I just started laughing and crying hysterically. I immediately put it on so I wouldn’t have to look at it in hopes that I’d stop crying. Fast forward to a little while later, I had calmed down and accidentally caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the tears came right back. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve since learned how to wear the hat without having a panda meltdown.
When I stick to the emotional scale, I can handle all of the emotions. But when I start crying for no reason? That’s just bullshit. The other day (I was probably about a four or a five on the emotional scale) the light bulb in our bedroom burnt out. I stood on the bed, unscrewed the light fixture, and yanked out the bad light bulb. Something happened between that point and climbing off of the bed because I just started sobbing. For no reason (apparently over a light bulb).
Poor manfriend. I could only imagine what was going through his mind when he tried to comfort me and make me laugh. (Bitches be crazy, yo.) I still don’t think he had any idea why I was crying. Not even I know why I was crying. I somehow got it all under control and was back on the scale. And then last night happened. It seems that every time I’ve done homework since starting school I’ve ended up crying. A typical homework session goes like this:
Homework is off to a good start. I knock out the easy ones with little effort and feel good going into the more difficult ones. And then I get stuck. “Okay, it’s just a little drawback, it’s no big de…What the fuck is this?” I then frantically flip through pages trying to find an example of the problem in the book. There isn’t one. So I call the manfriend for help, who figures out the problem in record time, and tries to explain it to me. LOST. Oh, so when it’s convenient for my answer I can just start changing up the math rules? (Yes.) “Do you understand how I got this?” *Cue the sobbing*
This is the point when I call math stupid and tell the manfriend that I hate fractions. Then I feel worse because my math teacher told us this story: ”A woman came into my office and told me, ‘African uncle, I hate fractions.’ Do you know how that made me feel? How would you like it if I walked up to you and said ‘Cousin, I hate you’?” Apparently hating fractions is the same thing as hating a person. This only confuses and frustrates me more.
Crying is stupid. It’s frustrating and exhausting and stupid. I don’t cry in math class. I don’t cry when I see a street lamp out. So why am I crying over these things now? Obviously I’ve sprung a leak. I AM LEAKING FEELINGS, PEOPLE. All over this apartment.