A petite mess of style and substance. A Melbourne writer. A controversial bitch daring you to see our world differently.

Manic Panic

You know that woman who functions best when she’s stressed, highly caffeinated and powering through life in a pencil skirt? That woman who nonchalantly chants ‘when life gets tough the tough get going, sistah!’ (most likely during her five hour sleep cycle)? That woman who’s ridiculously successful and still remarkably sane, holding herself like a flamingo while flustered and frazzled?

 

Yeh, look: I’m not that woman. Based on today’s monsoon of mania alone I’m unmistakably not that woman.

Don’t get me wrong, I sure as hell wish I was she—lord knows I try—but in some way or another, in the fury of frustration, I fuck up. The pressure gets too much, I suppose you could say, and not only does Yours Truly melt under it, my face melts under it too as wads of foundation drip off my face because—ahem—I’M LITERALLY SWEATING. Yes. It’s extremely elegant and very Audrey Hepburn, I know.

 

Any who, the reason I’m saying all this is not because I’m proud of my leprosy looking glow or anything—it’s because, as we speak, I’m BEYOND stressed, I’ve had less than the recommended 7 – 8 hours of sleep and I’ve had so many coffees I’m pretty much a bumble bee. Yep: I’m buuuzzzing, doll. (As you can see: my wit is shit, my sanity is shot-to-shit and it’s highly likely my own shit will fall out of my arse soon because this much caffeine is destined to be a laxative nightmare.)

Look: I’ve procrastinated in doing an assignment until its deadline is due—specifically: overdue—for me to do anything about it. Which equals: chaos, coffee, crying, more coffee and a crazy-woman-walking.

 

Obviously, the immediate response would be: you’re a dickhead for leaving things to the last minute so suffer in your knickers, bitch. Or: don’t spend you’re time thinking about chicks in pencil skirts, writing conversational-nothingness and GET IT DONE.

While this is a truly logical and responsible reaction, there is only one incy-wincy-teeny-tiny problem with this … MY MIND WON’T STOP TALKING TO ITSELF. Seriously, it’s batshit crazy up there and I’m having some major issues focusing, radiating flamingo-like-composure and finishing the ‘major corporate package’, which was supposed to be handed in to my tutor—perfect and polished—last week.

 

Up until this point, I’ve been to two separate libraries, Officeworks, back to the same two libraries, on five different computers and—by a likelihood that makes no goddamn sense—can’t quite figure out how to print the bloody thing. Print it. Not perfect it … just get the ink—how hard can it be—on A4 pages.

It was at the first library where I started to loose my cool. So you can only imagine what kind of calamity I’m in right now. Let’s just say: I’m obviously having a nervous breakdown.

 

Of course, a nervous breakdown in itself is not too much of an issue—I’ve had so many in my twenty-four-year existence I’m beginning to get used to them—but never before have they stemmed from not being able to work out a printer.

 

At this stage I’m sure you’re thinking girlfriend really needs to calm down if she can’t comprehend basic computer 101, take a deep breath and simply hit ‘print.’

Well, thank you kindly, I tried that BUT IT DIDN’T WORK.

It didn’t work the 101 times I tried it. So now I’ve surrendered to crying, chaotic internal monologue-ing and nauseating repetitions of ‘calm down, calm down; Emma CALM DOWN AND GET IT DONE.’

And so far, neither of these things has transpired. In fact: all they’ve done is exasperate the issue and made me feel like a defeated, dimwitted damsel who refers to herself in third person.

 

So my hopes of channeling savvy, high-pressure success is officially spiraling along with my sanity.

 

If you don’t hear from me for a while it’s because I’ve ran away with the friend in my mind or I’m still standing alongside the printer looking stressed, strung out and with shit stains down my pants.

 

Xxxx

 

 

Following this article emma dee was sent to a metal asylum where she was taught how to control her stress levels with valium, breathing exercises, refraining from caffeinated beverages and perfecting the power-woman pose.

 

 

Jokes. She wasn’t. I mean I wasn’t—in no way am I still referring to myself like a schizophrenic psycho—shortly after writing this article I LOL-ed at my laptop, went back to library number one and sorted my life out.

AND you should have seen how impressive my ‘major corporate package’ looked in print: fucking phenomenal. My success now includes a HD, a glowing report from my tutor (turns out I had the due date wrong) and a newly purchased pencil skirt #killingit.

 

 

Oh and if you were wondering: all I had to do was press print. Go figure.

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