Awesome.

Haha.
Everyone I know is getting married and/or pregnant while I'm over here willing to starve myself to loose just one little pound.
I'm sick and tired of fighting my body and PCOS.
I'm sick of having to pluck my eyebrows three times a week versus when I only had to do it once a month.
I'm sick of this oily hair.
I'm sick of pushing myself harder and eating healthier than everyone only to go nowhere.
But nowhere is better than up on the scale, right?
I'm going to a doctor and forcing them to give me metformin and birth control.
I need help and I need it now before this disease takes over my life.

Jealousy.

Lately, I've found myself pondering on what that one spark was that ignited the fire which has led me to want children. Normally, I could care less about the girl I went to high school with who's currently pregnant with her third child. She could post all the ultrasound photos her pregnant heart desired and I wouldn't bat a single eyelash. I had other things to worry about...like what concert I'd be attending next and how to do a flying change on a horse that only existed in my imagination. Seeing sweaty, tattoo covered men screaming at the top of their lungs in an overcrowded music venue is what fueled my fire for life. Now, when I'm not crying over the pain that these cysts are causing, I'm staring at countless photos of my "friends" and their babies. It's insane. 

I mean, c'mon...I was perfectly comfortable with the idea of not having children and being able to spend money on myself without having to worry about feeding and taking care of another human being. This meant I could keep my concert addiction alive well into my late fifties. An added bonus was that I would never have to go through the exponentially large amounts of pain that came with labor. (also, me and my lady bits downstairs would still be in one piece. Score!)

Why can't I revert to my old ways of thinking? It's one thing to want a child and to be able to get pregnant without much effort like my sister in-law. No, I had to be dealt the ugly, testosterone encrusted hell that is PCOS. It's no fun. 

I can't breathe without gaining weight. Last year, at the start of 2012, I made the resolution to get into shape. I wasn't going to let this disease rule my life anymore. Wrong. Nine months later, I lost a whopping five pounds. Awesome. Mind you, I worked out six days a week and watched what I ate. Drank nothing but water and the occasional coffee & juice. It's discouraging and after those nine months of barely any progress, I threw in the towel. 

I find it easier just to lay in bed and ugly cry over things I don't have a lot of control over. I'm scared people judge me because of my weight. What I need is someone to talk to about these things. Just posting my feelings online does little to no good. It alleviates the stress for a total of about ten minutes and then I'm fighting back tears that are on the verge of spilling over. Why can't therapist be cheaper?

Nightmares.

They don't always have to be gory or involve creatures of the night that only exist while you sleep. These nightmares could be something as simple as seeing your in-laws show up on your doorstep, unannounced. Bags stuffed to the brim with enough clothes to last them two weeks. Nightmares come in all forms.

Mine just so happened to be my fiance's ex. I know, it's silly to have nightmares about someone I barely know but that nightmare was more about my deep seated fear of him finding someone else that's prettier, thinner and funnier than I am. He tells me there's nobody else more suited for him than me and I'm crossing my fingers that he's being honest and not just saying things to make me feel less shitty about myself.

Within seconds of waking up this morning, I was on the verge of crying and he was immediately there to comfort me. I can't help but curse my ability to have such insanely vivid dreams during mornings like these. Lately, I've had a lot of these... vivid dreams. Not all are nightmares. Some are nothing but pure torture. Especially the ones I have about babies.

 I guess my biological mother clock has finally begun to tick. The mere thought of babies had me running for the hills and now, I adore everything there is about them. Well, minus the dirty diapers and sleepless nights that come with the little drool machines. The thing is, my family has a history of PCOS. My biological mother swears that she doesn't have it but I beg to differ. My sister and I both suffer from it and yet, despite having just about every symptom known for the disease, my mom claims she doesn't have it. Don't believe her. She lies about her medical history for some odd reason or another. 

Regardless, in hopes of having children one day, I've taken the long, long road to becoming healthy. Not just to better myself and appearance but to also maybe have a kid or two. If kids never happen for us, adoption is always an option. 

Hooves.

Maybe it's just me but even after becoming one of the worst things in the world (horseless),  I find myself making up for my severe lack of equine interaction by clucking and "whooshing" the general public. These events usually occur during the holidays and when I'm out with my fiance, shopping or whatever it is we're doing outside of our cave. 

I get a wide array of reactions when I do this. For the few horse people I happen to cross in public, they giggle because well...they do it too. Most people look at me as if I'm from outerspace but the thing is, it works. I don't have to utter a single word to the masses as I flick my hands, clucking and whooshing away at them to clear a path. It is wonderful and is always an easy form of amusement for both my fiance and I.

Watching an old video of Abigail is what prompted this entry. I'm horse sick to the bone and it sucks. I'm hurting myself by stalking my "friends" on Facebook who often post pictures of them kissing their stunning horse while I'm sitting here like a sack of useless potatoes, dry heaving over pictures of a mare that was my best friend/enemy for four glorious years. We clicked and yet we didn't at the same time. She wasn't a under saddle kind of mare. She was smarter and more attentive without a person on her back and I was fine with that because we were both lazy and I felt where she was coming from. After all, she had been under saddle countless years and if I were a horse, I'd be 500% done after twelve years of it. 

Instead of riding, we bonded through silly little tricks like bowing and smiling. We finally came to a happy medium which didn't last long due to me being nineteen with two jobs with trying to pay bills for my apartment. Things just didn't work out and I still kick myself for making a promise to her that I couldn't keep. If I could have, I'd happily live in a cardboard box while she was safe and sound in a pasture with food in her stomach. There will never be a day that goes by when I won't miss her and her Florida shaped star.

The Perks Of Being A Southerner.

So, what exactly are the perks of being a southerner? Well, for starters, there's the peaches.   It's the crack of all fruits. We're not called the "Peach State" for nothing. Luckily enough, I've managed to bag a Dickey. The last name always ensues for giggles when out in public and someone ask for his last name so he can be added to their store's emailing list. Because, he really cares about Victoria's Secrets latest lingerie sales. Who are the Dickey's? Well, they own Dickey Peach Farms. The farm that has the best peaches, hands down. My guy isn't one of the Peach Farm kids, just a second cousin if I remember correctly. 

"So if he's not a Peach Dickey, why should we care?" 

Because we get free peaches. At least I think we do. Then again, his parents could just buy a massive box and give them to us for free. Now that I think about it, his uncle doesn't seem the type to give away a whole box of his precious peaches for free. Family or not. Regardless. Peaches.

The second perk, the weather. At least for Winter. Summer is a whole different story. But I'm pretty sure it stopped getting cold here close to seven years ago when I was still a kid. I remember my stump of a dad pouring hot water over the windshield of the truck before quickly scraping the slush off before it had a chance to refreeze. That hasn't happened in a long time. At the moment, people are still wearing their summer clothes. It's like we skipped Winter and decided to have Spring ahead of time. Since November, we've probably had two weeks worth of legitimate cold weather here and that's it. My fiance hates it. He loves the cold but complains when it does get cold. His logic. 

Another thing I love about Georgia is Atlanta. It's like Disneyland for people who live in cities where the only fun thing to do that doesn't involve bars is go to the movies or hang out in the Wally World parking lot. If my fiance's truck wasn't so scary and unreliable, we'd be there for more often. The concert venues are amazing. The mall, don't even get me started on the fudgin' Mall Of Georgia. It's perfect. And if you're one of those people who have a few bucks to spend, Phipps Plaza is where you'd definitely want to be. The Asian culture of Atlanta is pretty great too. When we do go to Atlanta, my fiance and I always try to swing by the Super H Mart before leaving.

"Oh! What is this Super H Mart you speak of? It sounds...Super."

It is super. It's this massive Korean market with several restaurants and a mini bakery. Their produce variety is out of this world. If you want to try exotic foods and a reasonable price, check it out. Koreans are all about saving money. Believe me, I'd know since I'm related to so many of them. Unfortunately, I didn't get the frugal gene. I'm all "spend, spend, spend." Thankfully, my fiance knows how to handle money. If it weren't for him, I'd be living in a cardboard box, hoarding any animal that can fit. H Mart is perfect for you people who aren't Asian but appreciate their lifestyle. You can buy toasted seaweed for a fraction of what Walmart & Kroger are charging you for four little 4x2 flakes. By the way, those are inches. If they were in feet, then H Mart would be the cheats.

Peaches, Weather and Asian Super Markets. Those are the three perks of being a southerner. Well, they're my three perks but I can guarantee that the peaches are on just about anyone's unless they're allergic. Then, they're leading one hell of a tragic life.

Last, welcome to the carnival side show that is my life. I commend you for getting this far. 

Later Days.