Hi, I'm Petra. I'm mentally ill. I was in such a severe state of depression for the past year and eight months that I didn't log onto the Internet at all except to check email. I wished that I'd die every day, but the fucking Universe is keeping me around for a reason.
Some of you have heard of the infamous KHEL 666 online radio station. I've been invited to be one of their DJ's, and I think that's super cool. They have a blog and a Facebook page, so you can check them out.
I'm usually a pretty nice person, but if provoked, I can be a real asshole. I don't much care what anyone thinks about me. I've never been pretty or popular. I'm fat. That's something that tends to happen with age. If you don't like it, shove it. I don't need to jump on the fucking Weight Watchers bandwagon and Slim Fast sucks. So what if men don't think I'm hot or women get catty about my old school goth chick big girl shirts that I love to wear. Bite me.
Also, you're telling me I'm fat "for my health?" Bitch, please. Do you also think I'm stupid? You don't think I look in the mirror and see "fat?" You think that just because I have mental problems I'm delusional and think I look like Angelina Jolie? I love Angelina, but she looks like Angelina. I look like Petra.
But but but fat causes high bloods pressure and teh diabeetus and teh hart diseez and teh arthuritus.
I'm fifty years old, you silly twat waffle. My age increses the risk of those things. People of all sizes get those things.
Maybe unhealthy food increses the risk of those things. It isn't only fat people who eat unhealthy food.
If you think I sit around eating all day, I don't. A lot of the time when I'm depressed I can't eat. But I'm still fat.
But you won't get a man if you're fat.
I also won't get a man because sometimes I sink into depressions that last for almost two years, so I have a hell of a time holding a job or even cleaning house. Sometimes its hard for me to even get out of bed. You think any man wants that?
Anyway, unless George Harrison is coming back from the Great Beyond riding on his unicorn to take me off to Strawberry Fields Forever, or Peter Steele is knocking at my door dressed all in black and carrying a black rose and some flavored massage oil, I ain't interested.
So that's me. I'm Petra. You can call me Pet. I'll be your friend, but I'm not your pet. You'd have to work pretty hard for that privilege!
Peace.
