I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for you helping me out with my gut situation, but you’re really starting to piss me off. I can’t focus on anything I want to, similar to a two year old unleashed in the grocery store. And thank you for making me obsess about things that have not bothered me for years. I will most likely get to that wallpaper and bathroom demolition shortly. Perhaps on one of these nights when everyone is sleeping. But I’m not.
Also, thank you for the new onset of emotional maturity ranging anywhere between an angry hormonal teen to a blubbering newborn baby. You make me feel like I’m losing my ever loving mind. You’ve taken my personality hostage and I can’t find it because I’m so hyper focused on cleaning the damn shower. Or getting those clothes to City Union Mission. You’re worse than caffeine and albuterol mixed. That’s right. You’re like ten espresso shots too many.
Thank you for inspiring all sorts of creative endeavors inside my head, but not donating to me the attention span necessary to accomplish any of them. Prednisone tshirts, awareness bracelets, and stationary? Really, Prednisone. How thoughtful.
I would rather go eat a house or save the world because that’s what you make me feel like I can do. However, if I was forced to pay attention or sit still to receive the directions on how to eat a house or save the world, I couldn’t do it. I can’t quite remember what it felt like to be two years old, so thank you for this stroll down memory lane. Unfortunately, I’m in a grown ass woman’s body, so I should probably get to making my “Prednisone Awareness” bracelet. So others will know. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Well, it’s actually you, Prednisone.
I really hate you.
I have to go do something else now. For the next minute. Until I have to go do something else again for the next minute.
Please treat my personality nicely while you hold her hostage. Chocolate helps.