You piss me off with your enthusiasm.  I don’t want to be positive or force a smile because studies prove that belief follows behavior, and if your brain feels a smile, it will feel happy.  I don’t want to be happy.  I want to sit in bed all day and mope, and eat bad foods, and complain that I’m fat.  I want to tell my sister I’m miserable and lazy and don’t want to leave the bed because she’ll understand.  She’ll tell me, Yeah, go ahead.  Order in fries and dip them into a milkshake and go watch FEDS.  Then fart and smell up the room and stay in bed for too long so you can complain that your back hurts.  I don’t want to get the pedicure or blowout that will look like I’m enjoying myself.  I want a sick day where I’ll have bad breath and knotty hair and no more remnants of mascara even.  I don’t want you to sing your song about how I should be positive or how it’s not healthy to mope, how my body will start listening, how I have to fake it out by going through the motions.  I don’t want your smile or wave or happy dance trying to cheer me up, to hear that I look pretty today.  I have a double chin; I am a pimple that even when I pop it, it keeps coming back.  Conceptually, I want to go to the gym and just walk and stretch, but my gym is too far away.  I want an apartment with a gym in it, so I wouldn’t have to go out in the cold.  I’d only have to put on the clothes, the leggings and sweat socks.  And I wouldn’t have to disrobe there or remember a locker combination because when I finished, I could just take the elevator home to my shower. Now, from your place, even if you offered to buy me the right clothes, the gym would still be too far away, and then I’d have to find the membership card and hope it still worked, and then make sure my iPod was charged, and that a not too annoying playlist was on there where I wouldn’t constantly have to look down for the next track button.  So instead of ever making it to the gym, I’d probably try to make that not too annoying playlist for the next time. 

I want to play monopoly on my cell phone until it hurts my eyes, and then I want to complain about how no one ever plays monopoly anymore because it’s a boring game and takes too long.  I don’t want to have to reciprocate or ask you what you think or how you feel.  I just want to be miserable until I can’t take it anymore and I decide I want to go shopping or go somewhere for something fun, but at this moment, I don’t know what fun would look like.  Fun used to be amusement parks and rides that made me so dizzy I’d want to vomit.  Fun was the grown up rides where you had to be tall.  Then it was shopping, buying a new handbag or finding Manolos on sale at Saks Off Fifth.  Accessories always fit.  Shopping isn’t fun anymore when nothing fits and everything looks wide.  Fun isn’t anymore.  Not even food because it makes me feel tired and lonesome and pissed off at you for waving and singing the stupid be positive song where you changed Lou Reed’s words from The Power of Positive Drinking to Positive Thinking.  Positively stop that and know that I never want to die because I won’t be able to complain if I’m dead, and one of my greatest joys in life is complaining, which is what you hate most about me, which makes me the most me, which makes me nervous that you can’t possibly love me because you hate this thing about me, but somehow, I know you do.  It’s the one thing I cannot complain about because I do know, without a doubt, that you love me.  I just wish sometimes you wouldn’t do it so close to me.  But if you stopped, I’d just complain that maybe you just don’t love me as much anymore.  So you can’t win… which is fun.