Frankenkrissy

See, I have this problem. Several, actually. One is that I quite like the talk about myself, but that when I do, what I'm saying seldom makes sense to anyone who doesn't know me. The next one is that when I do speak about myself, I often drag the people in my life into the conversation with me, which leads on to my next problem of constantly putting my foot into a giant pile of doggy doo-doo. I tend to either over or undershare. There doesn't seem to be a halfway point when it comes to my talking. And it gets me into a lot of trouble.

It was bought to my attention the other day that although I find it (relatively) easy to write about how I'm feeling, I can't say it. If something is bugging me, I'll sit there in silence, desperately trying to figure out what I want to say. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. And if I don't, I turn it into a poem or a metaphor or I start speaking in some sort of foreign language that not even my best friends or boyfriend can make sense of. And when they can't make sense of me, you know things are bad. Because those guys are awesome. And they know me far too well.

They also know the golden rule: Never. Take. Me. Seriously.

It sounds silly, but it's true. If you take me seriously when I'm throwing a diva strop, I'll get carried away and turn into Frankenkrissy.

The best, fail-safe methods for dealing with Frankenkrissy are:

Best Friend 1: Laughing at me

Best Friend 2: Telling me to shut up

Mum: Asking one of the following: "It's getting near that time of the month again, isn't it?" or "What have you eaten today?" (I tend to be crankier when I haven't had enough to eat)

And so folks, the golden rule of reading to my blog if I do manage to keep it up is this: remember that everything I say is a big fat stinky pile of crap covered in glitter.