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A Mental Note

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Dear God or Goddess that created the entire stupid universe,

 

Michael was right. I smell like hot Arizona garbage from 4th of July Weekend ( that trashes the theory I had on earth that higher quality clothing can hold the stink in longer ). I should have been showering every day, but the stress was killing me… is it weird that technically Janet murdered me on earth? Not important really, little weird though.

 

Glad to be on the Good Place side, I stepped into a perfectly hot shower in my stupid little clown house that I was supposed to share with the stupid love of my life and now I’m on the floor. And I’m crying. Again. Because that’s what I do now I guess. And the water is perfect and beating down on me and all I can think about is how Chidi could have talked me into showering days ago without this mental breakdown that came with it. But of course, if Chidi was here I wouldn’t be having this mental breakdown ( not until I realize the almost unbearable pressure of how the entirety of human existence rests on my shoulders anyway ).

 

Of course, I’m being dramatic. I’m not being tortured anymore, at least, not totally on purpose. I could be back on earth, dealing with the metaphorical loss of my friends and place in the world ( like I had been doing before a literal demon spilt the beans on the whole afterlife thing ). I could still be dealing with the fact that my mother decided that Patty could give her a maternal instinct that my existence clearly could not ( on second thought, I’m still dealing with that. Hurtful bitch ). But I would still have Chidi. It might have taken a near death ( and an actual death ) before we could get our shit together and actually be in love and be, sort of, happy, but we were together. So, it sucks, but it could be worse.

 

I could be in the actual Bad Place getting actually tortured. And not the semi-fun kind that Michael used to put us through. He doesn’t like to talk about it much ( which, we don’t really like hearing about it much, but friendship is listening to your friend’s problems even if they make you feel a little bad- at least you didn’t actually have to live through them like your friend ), but a few things pop into my mind. Spiders climbing in and out and around and inside my very delicate butthole. Lava monsters that would chase me around, and when catching me, would then throw me into a literal volcano. Having the heart that feels so broken inside of me, ripped out and bitten into by my own personal demon. And I wouldn’t have Chidi, or even the rest of the dumb-dumbs, there… unless of course, they were used to torture me, a terrifying idea that causes my breath to freeze in my lungs.

 

I wasn’t much of a panic attack person on earth. Temper tantrum, the occasional bitch fit, and when the situation warranted it, a complete and total conniption; panic attacks were new though. I could still feel the perfectly hot shower cascading over my shoulders and down my back. Still feel the warm, wet, sticky-ness where my ass met the floor that only appears when you’re sitting in the shower. Definitely feel the pounding of my heart racing like it’s desperately trying to get to a bass drop. The ball lodged in my throat making it hard to breath wasn’t real, but I could feel it anyway. I’m sure in multiple lives I had talked Chidi out of these kinds of situations, but the life we’ve led now hasn’t given me the opportunity ( another stray thought: where are we on the Jeremy Bearimy right now? Certainly not the dot above the ‘i’ ).

 

Despite wishing with all the might in my bangin’ bod, my Chidi didn’t show up to help me out of this mess. It was up to me. I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of the water. I tried to push everything else out of my brain. No more Chidi, no more pressure about saving the world, no more thinking ; I just focused on the way the water felt. How rivulets would travel from the very top of my head and slide down my face. How wet and warm caressed my neck and collarbone before dripping off my boobs, falling like heavy rain drops onto my thighs and down towards the floor ( maybe if I make the shower sound like poetry, I’ll just fall asleep on the floor and not have to worry about how I might die of a literal fucking stroke ). And eventually, I could breathe again.

 

After my totally relatable, yet wholly embarrassing, outburst, I stood back up to complete the shower I desperately needed. I took my time though. Shampooed twice and then conditioned my hair with the product that Tahani swore would be fantastic for my hair type ( “Oh Eleanor, with a few products like this, you’ll have hair as shiny and glossy as my dear friend Kathryn Newton. Of course it won’t be as perfect as mine…” ). Went to town with soap that smells exactly like Arizona rain, the only universal good thing we have going for us ( courtesy of Janet of course ). Then dried off with some of the fluffiest, whitest, most luxurious towels I’ve ever had the privilege of using ( “nah bro, these towels are dope. Exactly like the ones me and Donkey Doug stole from a fancy hotel room in Miami” ). 

 

As I walked over to Mindy’s house, I realized I was going to be okay. I might not have my soulmate, things might go very dark for humanity, and I was in charge of making sure 3 total douchenozzles ( 2.5 when I’m not being angry with Simone ) improved enough to make into The Good Place and save the human race; but I still have my Soul Squad. Assholes they may sometimes be, but they’d stick with me to the very end, no matter what. They’d done so for over 300 years after all.

 

Sincerely,

 

A super-hot reformed trashbag