Whose Monkey Is This, And Could I Borrow Your Sanity? I Misplaced Mine…

I’ve been having really strange chest pains lately. My heart often feels as though someone has it in a vice, or has taken two of the muscles and is continually tying them in a knot. A boy scout-approved knot.

Actually, I’ve experienced symptoms like this on and off for years, but I used to think it was associated with a few certain extracurricular activities I subjected my body to (and I’m sure it was). BUT, those activities are no longer a part of my life, and yet the pain remains. In fact, it’s becoming more severe each day.

Of course, I immediately assumed the obvious: I was dying.

It would be a slow and agonizing death, during which I would be refused the necessary heart transplant based on my aforementioned life choices. I would die, young and tragically, punished for the compromising path I had chosen.

As I said, I’ve always noticed the contracting, vice-like pain gripping my heart in sudden bursts was associated (logically enough) with a leisure interest of questionable nature and thus, I suppose, easier to ignore. I guess I always figured that when I stopped, it would go away. However, I am no longer engaging in said health-threatening activities, and lately, the strangling pains have not only returned, they are more potent than ever.

Visions of a devastating heart attack (you know, rather than the un-devastating kind) ending my short, self-absorbed life danced in my mind’s eye. Finally, I made an appointment for a physical (the first I would have had in over five years)… and promptly missed it. (Subconscious avoidance, perhaps? Almost definitely.) Now a full-blown issue of steadily strengthening denial, I let the rest of the summer drift by, the monkey only gently tapping on my back- ya know, just to say “Oh hai, why ur heart asploding?”

Then, I realized how much I truly hated my job- both of them. Each shift at the bar made Russian Roulette sound like a more and more attractive alternative to slinging mojitos and “Strong Islands” for the ungrateful masses. Finally, I quit (or at least found a new place that didn’t seem quite so soul-crushing), and it felt great… until I realized how poor that made me.

I also fell madly in love and began planning the rest of my life… wonderful, right? Yes, of course, except that our impulsive decision to move in together, coupled with the complete and total lack of my roommates’ cooperation to replace me (seriously? Demanding a friend to move in, rather than using Craigslist like every other 20-something in a major US city? I had over 100 girls answer an ad in less then 24 hours. SURELY one of them would have made a much, much better roommate than me??) meant that I was also faced with the possibility of having to pay 2 rents for the month of September. I stopped buying shoes, getting manicures, and taking cabs. The monkey began to beat more persistently, and sleep was made impossible by his shrieks.

Finally, I ALSO came to terms with the fact that I, in no way, want to become a commercial real estate broker. It is my father’s wet dream, because it is basically a guarantee that I would never have to worry about finances… but I just can’t stomach it. The selling of my soul, the two years of cold calls, the utter tedium and idiocy of the coworkers I would be subjected to for more than half of my waking life… I. Just. Can’t. It just sounds a little too much like my very own, cute little personal hell.

Which makes it so much more glaringly obvious that I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK I WANT TO DO WITH THE REST OF MY LIFE.

And so… maybe, just maybe, these little heart attacks are the result of stress? A little anxiety, perhaps? And not that, at the age of 24, I am going to die of a massive coronary because I had a little bit too much funsies in college?

Well played, life. Well played.

Ironically enough, I know that everything is close to coming together. I quit the bar I hated. I AM moving in with the man I love, into a breathtaking apartment, and I couldn’t be more excited about it. I can find another day job that doesn’t make me want to stick an entire box of staples in my eye, one by one, rather than converse with the people around me. (Except for you, Turducken!) My roommates actually have found a couple of prospects, and are both optimistic that they will be able to replace me before October 1st- and even if they don’t, ultimately, I will be okay.

I just want to know that I am going to end up like this (you know, old and FABulous):

And not like this:

(You know.. dead.)