April is the Cruelest Month

I happened to be at my dermatologist's office a week go, trying to cure the flesh-eating virus that has made itself at home on my hands, and the nice lady at the front desk was trying to schedule me a follow-up appointment.

"Let's see," she said. "The doc has asked for a three-week follow up, so how's...April 28th?"

I was in the middle of pulling on my calendar on my phone, and I instantly froze. I tried to remain calm. "Wait a minute," I said, barely breathing. "Three weeks from now we'll STILL BE IN APRIL??" I realized only after the fact that I was, indeed, shouting.

In my defense, I hadn't eaten. And without regular food, I am one step away from being forcibly checked into a mental hospital. I know this about myself and try to work around it, with varying degrees of success. However, lack of dating apparently produces a very similar affect, which makes sense if you think about it--lack of sugar is, indeed, lack of sugar. The problem is, without dating, my personality schizing out when I haven't eaten apparently becomes 100% more noticeable--and I can't work around my dating break. Just a few days before I blamed the receptionist for the linear passage of time, I was at a loud bar with about 15 of my closest friends, and the single ladies and I were planning on pairing up and doing "a lap". As I was on break, I was just going to be wingwoman, which was fine with me, until my friend Calsee stopped me. She had been hanging with me for five hours, three of which were at a dance show during which we couldn't even talk, and her patience had already run out. She left my side in the middle of my sentence. I stopped, bewildered. She came back and pressed a few dollars into my hand.

"You are yelling," she said. "Seriously, you are yelling. Please eat something. ANYTHING. You cannot come and chase boys with us while you are YELLING."

I looked at the rest of the Blonde Squad. "Am I yelling?" I asked. The whites of their eyes were showing. "YES. PLEASE EAT SOMETHING," they all chorused. I was forced outside to the hotdog stand, where I ate as quickly as possible, but it wasn't fast enough; by the time I returned all the laps had been performed already. The group had decided I wasn't going to recover quickly enough to be worth anything, and they were right. After yelling about several more things, I realized I wasn't going to be able to "work around" my break, and grabbed a taxi home, muttering at the stars.

To sum up: my brain is on permanent hiatus and my temper has apparently shortened to that of a water buffalo chained to a hot poker, and it will be a miracle if I make it through the next week without being fired.