One Big, Fat Stress Dump

I’m warning you right now, this post really is one big, fat stress dump. You have been forewarned.

I have never felt as bad as I have this week. Things piled up on me, crushing my lungs and leaving me gasping for air day after day. Eating became part of the discomfort, disturbing the stress knot in my stomach and leaving me ill. Even a simple shower made me want to throw up.

The most tangible and obvious source of this stress was a the “Coproduction Contest” I signed up for months and months ago. Due to some rather confusing information, most of the groups that had formed in the beginning fell apart. This included the original group I had signed up with. I had made the mistake in assuming that was this was also the case with the second group I had joined. Sadly, while I lazed around and was consumed by the sin of sloth, my other three partners were working on their pieces of the project. Finally, out of nowhere, I received a message from the ringleader. I had a mere two weeks to pull through. And this at a time where I’m severely depressed and stressed because of work.

I continued to put the project off, because at that point, it just wasn’t worth it to me. I was supposed to build armor out of soda cans. I thought about it, moved the project through my synapses over and over again. All I could think about was how it was such a stupid idea that wouldn’t work with my resources. The picture they sent me also was intimidating. I was supposed to make this? Is this bloody thing even possible to make? It’s a freaking cartoon. It’s such a freaking cartoon that if you saw this thing on the street your brain would explode from how impossible it’s existence would be.

So, finally, after much consumption of the way of the sloth, I decided to finish the project. I attempted the soda cans, using beer cans I scavenged from our communal recycling bins. Using beer cans was the only thing I found remotely interesting/funny about this project, so I had hoped they would instill a little extra motivation within my usless slot body. But cutting the cans was a miserable failure. Even Tyler, the amazing boy-wonder of perfectionism, admitted it was impossible after giving a can a good stab with my exacto knife.

I screamed, I wept, I wanted to hurt myself. Oh to tear my hair out, to claw at my skin—how much better that would feel than the pain in my stomach.

Finally, I decided to use nasty shoulder pads that should have stayed in the 80’s and cover them with duct tape. And oh, how I covered those fuckers with duct tape. They became beastly saucers of shoulder doom, and would have been wonderful save for the visible seams and lumps of duct tape. My next step was to pump them full with a can of Rustoleum. However, the Rustoleum worked against me and made the tape peel, causing the seams to become even more visible and lumpy. After a night of drying, I remembered the self-leveling gel I bought for the purpose of making collages. I stroked giant globs of glue all over the doom saucers and let them dry for another day. Finally, the seams and lumps were slightly less visible. While still incredibly ugly, the doom saucers were a vast improvement from their original form. All that was left was to spray everything with gold spray paint, spend a few minutes sewing strips of elastic together, and then package and mail the beast.

I felt like this project was finally coming to a close. I felt like I would pull through for my group. The stress began to lift and I was finally able to eat an actual meal. And then, while addressing the package, I realized for the first time that I was mailing my item to Canada. The stress knot began to regroup in my stomach, threatening to catapult my lunch of butternut squash ravioli. I forced myself to stay calm and collected, at least until I made it to the Post Office and handed the package over to the clerk.

But things couldn’t get any worse than when I found out how express Express Global shipping was. I wanted my project to be in the ringleader’s hands by Friday, but shipping will take three to five days! Three to five fucking days! And that’s assuming customs doesn’t find my package suspicious, as they always seem to do.

And my only consolation in all of this is that:

1. The beast is gone and I’ll never have to look at it again (unless customs returns it).
2. Tyler keeps telling me that the project was a turd from the beginning and all I’ve been doing is polishing it. However, I polished it really well, considering it was just a turd.