Washing my hair is insurmountable


Fuck making a pact with myself. I don’t wanna wash my hair *hurls herself on the floor, tantrum ensues*

Stop it, says Voice of Reason, act your age, not your emotional IQ.

I couldn’t care. It’s too much work. I don’t have the strength. Or the inclination. I can’t be bothered. I’m fighting off wanting to die, goddammit. Washing my hair is very low on my list of priorities.

But you smell, says Voice of Reason.

I know my hair smells. I’m a smoker. And stop insulting me. Who’s side are you on anyway? And I don’t know how to motivate myself. I’ve slept all day, there’s no chocolate in the house, no cereal either because I couldn’t change out of my pyjama’s and get in the car and go out into the world to buy chocolate or cereal.

So here I sit. With dirty hair that apparently smells. It’s not simple and its certainly not easy kicking bipolar depression’s butt. I wish wish wish I had someone to wash and brush my hair out for me. But I don’t. So I mustn’t even think about it. But I do because that would be so good to have someone help me out at times like these.

But I don’t. I, myself, HAVE to wash my hair. If I do it tonight, I won’t have to do it tomorrow. There, that’s my incentive. Tomorrow I can sleep all day, resting on freshly washed and scented hair. But only if I wash my hair right now.

Quickly, do it now. Get it over and done with. Do it now and you won’t have to do it tomorrow. And maybe tomorrow you can go get some chocolate ‘cos you’ll have lovely clean hair, cheers Voice of Reason.

Don’t push it, I say. Stop with the chocolate talk. I haven’t washed my hair yet *reluctantly drags her awesome arse off to the shower to fucking wash her hair*

Sometimes, living can be so tiring.


Say what you mean, and mean what you say

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