She is Em’s living, breathing punching bag blog. And Dee, sometimes. They archive every diatribe, rant, bitchfit Em spews roughly every month. She waits for one of them to get home so she can blog via a person, and not speak to the wall. Em is never emotionally constipated.
They are living, breathing blogs of Em’s every single rant. They are live punching bags, who cares about their feelings?
If you cut them open with a scalpel, you’d see battered, bruised, bashed, bitched hearts with indelible scars and nearing breakage.
Are you someone’s punching bag too? Any survival tales to share?
Wrote this yesterday and kept it as a draft. Isn’t it funny how when in the heat of the moment, everything about it is so intense and magnified times ten, but after the moment is gone, you think your initial reaction is an extreme touch of overreaction? And the cycle goes on and on till you don’t know if the thing you’re feeling is something as serious as you thought it was or is not as serious as you think it now.