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Fire breathing dragon...

My boss and I have a strange and really quite fucked up relationship. At times, we're very close, at times, we're two steps away from homicide. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a homicide week. For me, anyway.

I'm feeling super rage-y as far as she's concerned, because she is driving me NUTS.

There are very few things that make my blood boil. Very few things, so few, in fact, it is almost embarassing at times. Yell at me, I don't care. In five minutes I'll be over it, so no worries. The thing she does is that she nitpicks at my appearance, makes snide or just outright RUDE comments on how I'm dressed, how my hair is done, how much I eat, and I'm like...seriously?! SERIOUSLY?! what is your problem?!

I understand that in the course of our getting to know eachother, some lines were crossed, and as much as I love her crazy ass...she's not my mother. I mean, SHIT, even my mother knows better than to start in on me about what I look like. The one thing I learned about myself, about all human beings in the course of my short time in out-patient ED rehab is that I am the King (or Queen) of ME. I decide how I look, what I wear, what and when and how much I eat because this is my body. This is my space, and no-one, but no-one has the right to tell me otherwise.

Post-'hab, I became very attached to my personal space, and a couple of times, even touched the skies on the heady high of Saying No (but we all know that I'm actually no good at that) just because I felt like it. I also started dressing like myself. I started growing my hair, painting my nails, buying clothes which didn't cover me up like Tutankhamen's less attractive sister. I understood that if I like pink, I can wear it and that if you don't like the pink I'm wearing, I don't have to change clothes to make you feel better. If it bothers you SO much, look the other goddamn way, bitch.

I don't love myself every day, it is a work in progress and every now and then, I feel the old paranoia's and insecurities coming back. So when people around me are needlessly hostile with regards to my personal space, I flip a shit. Try to hug me when I don't want to be touched, and I will get upset. This is my space. Granted, not everybody knows that Ana and me were BFF's for the better part of my adolescence and teenagehood, and it's better that way. But seriously, I don't stop her from dressing like and eccentric middle aged lesbian, so she needs to lay off vintage jewelry.

I know it's her way of trying to show she cares, and exercising her long-dormant (if not outright suicided) maternal instinct...but it's obvious she and young women have nothing in common. She has forgotten what it was like to be my age, and to feel what I feel. I have no idea what it's like to be her, but I can imagine, and I try to be understanding of the fact that she's getting to a certain point in her life, a certain stage in her life...but GOTDAYUM, c'mon now.

So I'm pissed at her today, and I admit it, mostly in the hopes that this strange anger will pass. I don't like being upset, it makes my stomach crazy - and as stressed and constantly ill as I am, do I really need an ulcer?

Things to think about, bitches.

Peace, love and sword-laden cupcakes,

Queen B xoxo

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