This performance is now called either “It’s probably a placebo” or “Performance: Anxiety” or both.

Goodnight Internet. Thank you.

Ok panic, last one unless you decide to start flailing again.

My anxiety thinks I can keep planes from crashing during take off and landing if I just refuse to acknowledge it’s happening. Like hum to myself and tap my foot and look around without interest at the technological splendor in which I am engulfed type of ignoring. It’s been effective so far it says. We’ve never crashed before it says.

This is totally working. New story.

My anxiety thinks that the monsters that still live under my bed can only come out if: 1 I am alone, 2 it’s totally dark, 3 I have no clothes on, 4 I am laying flat on my stomach. Cause you know monsters have codes of conduct right?

Don’t like when I tell everyone how freakishly embarrassing you are do you panic attack? Ok, here’s another.

My anxiety thinks having my phone in my pocket will prevent me from being arrested by the FBI for medical marajuana. Yup. Think that one through. Not using the phone, not showing a picture of my license to the nice officers, no, no, having it in my pocket somehow give me a magic safety bubble. This fear is so strong I have to have my phone on me ALL THE TIME. Derp.

You are nothing new, nothing special. You don’t get to bully me. You don’t get to turn my stomach. The hyperventilating is going to stop.

No? Ok. I warned you.

My anxiety is scared of death by pigeons. Yup. My fancy panic attacks think there is a serious threat from pigeon specific rabies. Never mind the fact the birds don’t get rabies. Nope still scared.

So I am currently caught in the broken cloud of my own panic. Unsafe in the body in the bed in the room in the house in the world. You want to be a screaming biting asshole. You want to attack me with panic. Fine go ahead. I’m gonna show everyone your dirty laundry until you stop. Welcome to the evenings performance.

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BPSW: Lollipops and BorderlandsĀ 

I have a fuchsia mustache.