I am April Ludgate.

I am coming to the slow, but groundbreaking realization that my life runs parallel to several television characters. I guess it I am relieved to have some sort of framework in which I can explore my true self. Blah Blah Blah introspection blah blah blah self-inventory.

AND NOOOOOOW SOME GIFS n’ PICS! Because who gives a flying fuck what I have to say and I honestly don’t feel like using words, grammar punctuation. Let’s begin.

April Ludgate and I have a lot in common:

1. We have at least one Puerto Rican parent.

2. We hate our jobs (but then secretly like them sometimes).

3. Love three-legged pitbulls.

I was on a conference call today trying to work with some organizers on getting a women of color dialogue session going in their community. HOLY HELL, BATMAN! I forgot one crucial thing: they were dudes. Dudes do not see the value of bringing women together because they’re assholes. And since they were Black men not understanding why women of color need empowerment, I thought to myself sarcastically:

 

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FUCK YOU VERY MUCH FOR THAT ONE, PATRIARCHY. I tried really hard to BUILD BRIDGES and FIND THE POSITIVE IN EVERY STATEMENT and use bullshit tactics like, “WHAT I HEAR YOU SAYING IS”, but all I really wanted to say was

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So, I am working really hard to control my compulsive overeating. I tend to eat when I am angry or sad, which is ALL THE FUCKING TIME, ergo henceforth with all that being said that means…. I eat

all

the

time.

Well, I am working a program to address this issue and at first I was all sad because it means less food for me….

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THAT’S RIGHT, SUCKERS. I don’t have a drinking problem so I can drink as much as I want to and quit any time. Because I don’t suffer from alcoholism it was totes normal that when I hung up from the conference call from hell, all I could taste was sweet bourbon in my mouth.

Tonight I plan on doing this:

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Drinking alone is normal and healthy. It’s safer than shooting up heroin in a drug house. April agrees.

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Yesterday I went to see my therapist for the third time. I don’t think these sessions are going well because I have zero desire to be there with her. I hate the way she spells her name. She called me, “Kiddo”, once and she also refers to me by last name, which she (AND EVERY OTHER NON-SPANISH SPEAKING PERSON ON THE PLANET WHO ENCOUNTERS ME) confuses for my first name. Every time she ushers me into her poorly appointed office, my eyes convey:

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I revealed a couple things to her about my true inner self. One:

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Two:

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Three:

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I also revealed that I am more selfish and power-hungry than I was consciously willing to admit.

 

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Her response to all this self-analysis (THAT MY INSURANCE WON’T PAY ME FOR) is some bullshit response along the lines of” “You’re introspective.”

Uh…what? I saw bill the other day and at $410/hour, I’m thinking:

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I walked out of her office feeling depleted for reasons I won’t go into here, but I just wanted to go up to a McDonald’s drive thru and give the person at Window 1:

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But, I didn’t because I can’t. Which sucks, but I know these two things to be true:

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And by “handle it” I mean I’m going to go home and make a high ball.

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Graham Cracker in a Toilet

I feel stale.

Stale like an opened pack of graham crackers that you put back in the box, forgot about and then went back to eat and realized you left the plastic wrapper open and you eat the graham crackers anyway, but you wish you had some milk because that would help camouflage that dull chew of stale graham crackers.

Stale and running on fumes. You know what is frustrating? Knowing that I am depleted and feeling no desire to rejuvenate myself. This sort of inertia–the cognizance of it–is very painful. From my shitorgetoffthepot perspective, I am badgering myself to either kill myself or find happiness if it kills me.

I have spent some time thinking about how I define happiness and I keep coming back to the question, “Who cares about being happy?” I seriously can’t understand what the point is in being happy. Happiness, to me, feels like an obligation I have zero desire in pursuing. This persistent numbness is draining my energy. I never thought I’d be facing some existential crisis. Mainly, I find this sort of navel-gazing a waste of time and egotistical. It reeks of some sort of “Whooooooa is me” that does nothing to change the world or make things better for humankind.

Is that too lofty? It’s too lofty. I don’t care about being happy, but I still wish for world peace when I blow out the candles on my birthday cake. There is some value somewhere in my mind that tells me that making others happy is important. What the fuck does that mean?

I think it means that I find power in having purpose. I believe that wanting purpose is core to being human. I suppose that the more I contemplate purpose, the more I will find my path to happiness. I feel like Sophia in Season 6, Episode 8 of the Golden Girls. In this episode, Sophia enters a convent after her close friend, a nun, dies. Sophia is thirsting for purpose and believes that God called her into The Order. The other women reluctantly oblige her while questioning if she is sane, authentic or really clear on what she’s getting into. She passes the Rorschach test the “admissions” sister gives her and she’s in. Sophia, of course, is Sophia so she causes all sorts of shit in the convent. So much so, that Mother Superior tells Dorothy that they want her out. In Sophia’s room, Dorothy breaks the news to her mother and Sophia is so disappointed. She laments that she has a life without purpose. Dorothy counters and says that she does indeed have a purposeful life and lists all the things Sophia does that happen without being part of a convent. Touching as fuck.

I think what I learned from all of this is….I’m really more like Sophia than Dorothy. Not really, but then there was the episode when Dorothy and Rose get into it with a plumber and the guy storms out leaving their new uninstalled toilet in the living room. Sophia walks in and well…watch for yourself at the 2:20 mark. No truer words have been spoken.