Yesterday I had a very exciting bra adventure. First of all, the other day I went into that which is Lane Bryant and they fitted me for a bra. This, for you boys out there, is where some chick feels you up with a tape measure to find out how big your boobs are. I am apparently a 38D. I have been a 38D for like.. 4 years or so. So rock on with that bad stuff.

Anyway, I purchased 2 sexay see throughish bras because for some reason I neglect to think that the lovah in my life doesn't really look at the bra, he likes to look at what's under the bra. But that's not the point. It's important to feel sexay, yes? So the bras were both $25 each. But enter the discount! Ooohh yeah. I had a $15 off coupon that I got in the mail, along with a $5 off any bra thingie, and plus, the bras were already buy one, get one half off. So, my two bras came to an astounding price of $19.00. Isn't that absolutely fantabulous? I am so proud of my bra buying adventure.

Anyway. Apparently my brother somehow talked my dad into paying for me to go to a therapist for 2 months. My brother's therapist. Which has its advantages.. the therapist already knows about our family, so that's always good.

But to know that the two of them, who NEVER agree on ANYTHING, were talking about my mental health. And the fact that my brother was able to talk my dad into it bothers me even more. My dad is like total anti-therapy, especially when it comes to me. I've been to 3 or 4 therapists and I always quit after a few weeks or months because they don't help me right away. I am instant results kind of gurl. And, of course, there was the therapist that I went to when I was 17 who straight up told me, "You really don't need a therapist. You're fine!"

I'm not fine anymore, I really don't think. I don't know how I've let myself get to this point, but it's really getting sad. Why, for example, would a reasonably intelligent person make chocolate chip cookies when she's trying to lose weight? Last night I was taking the trash out when a volleyball came hurtling my way. The folks that were playing volleyball, who were incidentally a lot cooler than me, asked me to retrieve their ball for them. I got it and I tried to throw it up to them, but it bounced off and went flying down the street. I ran after it, it fell under a car, and the players, obviously noticing my retardation, said "Don't worry about it, we'll get it."

I mean, come on. Normal people don't have so many problems retrieving a ball. Normal people, once they set their mind to it, can lose weight, get a job, stop thinking about their pseudo boyfriend so much, etc. As time goes on, I'm seeing how not normal I am. And it's really starting to get to me.

When I was younger, not being normal had more advantages than it did disadvantages. When I was on the playground in 3rd grade putting rocks in my socks for no apparent reason at all, a charming young girl named Amanda was so intriuged by this display that we somehow became best friends for the next 6 years. All because of the rocks.

And for a long time, I was the rebellious girl that did things differently, and that was cool. I wasn't like everyone else, I was a rebel, I was an outcast, I was just plain weird. But weird is good, socially retarded is a different thing altogether. Instead of being respected for being weird these days, it's just making my life that much more difficult. I am weird, I am different, I am just plain fucked up. I know that therapy would help, and that's why I'm all for it. But I hate being known as the fuck up of the family, I really do.

Why am I so lazy? Why can't I lose weight? Why do I plan my life around another person who does not plan his life around me? Why do I torture myself over these things instead of make a clear action plan and utilize it? Why has it been almost 2 weeks since I got fired and I am nowhere near closer to getting a new one? Why am I not more bothered by this? Why is it almost 11 am and I haven't done jack shit with my day? Why am I spending so much money when there isn't another source of money that I can clearly see in the future? Why am I such a lazy fuck nugget? Why am I still renting porn when I know it's wrong, and when I have my orgasm I feel guilty about it? Is an orgasm really worth that? I don't think it is anymore. It feels so wrong to watch these girls use their bodies in such a crazy and demeaning way, and yet I'm still fascinated by it. I am fascinated by porn! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!

In good news, I signed up for a writing course that starts in September. It requires that I write a short story before it starts, so now I have less than a month to do that. That's probably the whole reason why I signed up for the class, so I'd have that ass kick to do something with my writing. I'm excited.

I'm also excited about my new bras. I'm more excited about the ripping off of the bra next weekend, but that's naughty, so I'll shut up now.