Nobody puts baillee in the corner

(Or in, which is where I sucked you with that amazingly witty title.) 

If there is one thing I’m good at in this world, it’s saying I’m fine. It’s my mantra. It’s my essence. It’ll probably be on my tombstone. I could be catapulted down a slide made of razor blades into a vat of lemon juice, and I’d more than likely whimper, “Nothing a little whiskey can’t fix.” 

Well, for once my dear readers, I’m not going to say I’m fine. Right now, things suck. Period. I am hurting mentally and emotionally (and physically because Pudge just decided to launch myself onto my spleen). My thoughts are racing (and let me say, eat your heart out Mr. Vincent Diesel). Over the past few days, I have walked South Austin with the very best of them. I finished almost an entire bottle of Jim Beam in three days (and normally, it takes me at least four, thank you). 

I am not fine. I have eaten more sprinkles than I would care to admit. (Spoiler: It’s three-fourths of a container.) I have listened to Adele on repeat. (Spoiler: that doesn’t help.) I have even watched the Netflix original You Get Me (Spoiler: It’s Fatal Attraction with worse dialogue and a Bella Thorne in my side.) 

I can’t talk to one of my favorite people because it hurts too much right now. I’m not sure where I’ll be living in a month. I am over drafting as we speak for the sake of pizza because I have two eggs, spaghetti (not even Mom’s), and ice cubes until I get paid Friday. (Insert whiny millennial Bustle article explaining why Mercury’s retrograde and emojis are responsible for Kylie Jenner’s pregnancy and the depreciation of the stock market to make me sound better by comparison here.) There are currently a lot of bummers in my life right now, and I haven’t even had the chance to see Mother! yet. (I know, if I were any jollier, I’d be a goddamn hard candy.) 

Do I know things are going to get better? Absolutely. 

Do I think the world is ending? No, but I haven’t counted the stars in Orion’s Belt recently either. 

Will I ever be able to stand the song “Jack and Diane?” Only time will tell. 

But right now, I don’t need to be reassured that everything is going to be okay; I need the validation that things are hard. Don’t let me wallow or fester. Don’t let me isolate myself completely. Don’t let me cut my hair (but do let me dye it navy blue because trust me, it’ll look bitchin.) 

Do let me smoke too many cigarettes. Do let me miss a couple things here and there. Do let me dye my hair navy blue (again, it’ll look bitchin’) 

Please know Baillee is going to come back a swingin’. (This is a phase, Mom.) But she’s trying to climb her way out of the aforementioned vat of lemon juice at the moment. By quickly trying to pull me out of it, you’re going to get a lot more lemon juice in those wounds. For now, just stand at the side with a towel, and I’ll swim over to the side when the wounds have healed enough for you to help me climb out. 

(Btw, Lemon Juice is my Great Value version of Beyoncé’s Lemonade featuring such hits as “Papa Teachings” and “Arrangement.”)