The Girl who Cried Wolf

Those of you who compulsively follow my activities on facebook (and, lets face it, that's all of you) know that I had the virtual equivalent of a meltdown last night, and emo'd all over the place.
While I'm still cleaning up the black eyeliner and blink 182 generated from my vicious attack of emo-itis, I am doing much better so thank you all for the messages.

It's wonderful to know that, despite my many temper tantrums and pleas for attention and sympathy on facebook (example status: Marcella Cline HAS NO KITTENS SOMEONE FIX THIS RIGHT NOW!!!!!!), I still get flooded with messages asking if I'm ok.

I won't divulge what upset me last night, as it's not important. It was possible someone very close to me was going to have a very difficult time, and that sent me into 'defense' position; where I curl up on the floor sobbing while I chant 'no, no, no, no, no' until someone revives me with chocolate and/or kittens. This is the same position I acquire when I'm told we're out of cereal, or Starbucks has stopped serving Pumpkin Lattes for the year.

But the problem actually solved itself, thank you Universe you total bitch for fucking with us.

I'd thank my good Karma, but really every time I try to do something good I end up getting Karma back in horrible, horrible ways. I've fallen down horrifically and consequently found money on the ground so many times, I'm starting to think that I somehow generate money by hitting the ground.

Everyone who knows me knows I am possibly the most neurotic person in the world. If it exists, I was at one point scared of it.
I'm so neurotic that my anxiety actually raised Freud from the grave to make me into a case study (he eventually went on a killing spree, as zombies are inclined to do, and they've sense put concrete over his coffin to stop this from happening again. It was all over the Austrian news, you probably didn't hear about it).

So when something catastrophic does happen to me, my neuroticism combines with my cowardice, and creates a super powerful strain of hysteria the likes of which most people have never seen.

I'm very American in my melt downs. One of the greatest things about the English is that the guy waiting next to you for the bus could be having a stage 5 mental breakdown and you'd have no idea. But I'm not like that. For those who have seen me go into juivinile hysterics, they are aware that it comes with a special brand of sobbing while talking incoherently, arm flailing, and eventual rolling on the ground in tragic overeaction.
I cry, and I drip from every hole in my head; I quote Slyvia Plath; I scream and whimper.
It is a catoclismic event full of sound and fury and signifying nothing.

So I would like to thank all of my friends for continuesly holding my hand through these emotional earthquakes and still after all these times pretending along with me that the reaction is not at all over the top, and perfectly justifiable considering the store did not have my type of doughnut.

Thank you all, from the bottom of my neurotic, choatic heart.