I am sitting here with my butt numb, from sitting here, staring, crying, laughing, singing aloud, thirsty and fucking frightened of my 2-hour-old can of carrot juice. fucking frightened of its ingestion resulting in death by salmonella (threat of which increases at every minute of warming, especially in the likes of fruit juices, fruit juices much like carrot juice. carrots ARE fruity, let's not get into semantics now, okay?), and of death in general - mainly in fear of not being found till much much later, when my body lies bloated blue, rank and unpretty. noone must see me unpretty. no one. but death, respite, now. yes, please.
I think I know now why people stick with the ones who seem, even remotely, like 'The One'. The old me would attribute this phenomenon to plain laziness. But I've confronted my bitterness, let's be honest here, I understand. THOROUGHLY. You guys win.
For one, the concept is mind-boggling. How does one sieve one through the millions of ones, let alone the tens of 'ones' they encounter each day? What defines 'the one'? Why can't we have 'the two'? Why do we even need 'the one'? Did Hallmark influence this need? Was it injected via television radiation through maternal womb juices? Do I like Kylie Minogue's 'The One'? Yes I do. Am I 'the one'? Why not? What if I don't find 'the one'? When I find 'the one' must we coordinate our wardrobe? Will 'the one' be okay with my obsessive need to listen to certain songs at least 3 times everyday, my hate for apple crunches and safeguard my one and only kryptonite, that word I so vehemently despise I feel like gagging now? Will 'the one' think of me as his one? Will I lose weight?
The process is a volatile, impractical, time-consuming and money-exhausting one, filled with pain, indeterminate variables and heartache, and is just godfuckingdamn tiring. Just thinking about it makes me sleepy. Just writing about it makes me wanna stop writing. Which I will.
Here I am, 24, alone and now lonely, with that wakening realization that I am STILL mothering boys, mothering enough confidence in them to leave me. Except that now, I've seem to have extended those lessons to my backbone-less friends who seem to forsake me every time darkness creeps from within me. I don't need to be left alone. I just need to be mothered myself. You guys know how MY mother's like. my mother who e-mails me marriage hints, and open sandwich suggestions, whose idea of bonding includes chain e-mails on bad hygiene practices in F&B. Yes, my mother didn't teach me how to love. So just fucking love me already. Hugs, a few beers, maybe? I think that's reasonable, right? As payment for the coaching, no? You can leave me after, after when I'm too drunk and numb and dazed to keep eyes and mind awake. You don't even have to care, give me check-up calls, no strings, nothing, really! Just don't let me be alone with my thoughts, not now. All those who know me well enough don't seem to be even slightly concerned at these instances when I recoil knowing the shit that goes through my head, knowing me, knowing theatrics, knowing my history.
Sure,
I love you all still.
And I understand. Everyone needs their fun. Melancholy is not fun. Company does not love misery. Misery is desperate and unloved and lonely.
But here I go again 'understanding'. Maybe I should stop being so fucking 'nice and understanding', 'smart and objective', 'caring and concerned'. No amount of smart-mouthing and crass-talking could undo the years of superficial undertones, years of mollycoddling and negative reinforcement. No I will no longer love you regardless. Who am I kidding? I'm a fucking doormat. Just a rather thorny one. I could demand, command, bark, whine and bitch my way through/to things but I'd rather be mum and rationalize myself out of them. Don't I deserve some good, sometimes? Why would I think otherwise? WHO THE FUCK DID THIS TO ME?! Decades of femininity have been built upon the former line of attack, so why can't I rationalize myself to fucking doing it?! Pride? Well, did I lie, at the end of those battles with pride, with anything for that matter? NO. SO WHY FUCKING NOT RIGHT?
yes, why fucking not.
Two. There have been/are two men in my life who came close to understanding me. One, I've lost indefinitely - in the name of morality, sacred binds, conventions and whatfuckingnot. The other, I'm letting go, indefinitely. I've rationalized myself into keeping mum to him. I am keeping mum for his happiness. Because that's what matronly doormats do. WE KEEP MUM. oooo double entendre. And since I am miserable and currently have no healthy concept of self-worth, shall automatically assume that everyone else's happiness triumphs over mine. AND, being a romantic, a tres tragic romantic, will do all that I can (and then some), to ensure my secret love's happiness, even (and perhaps especially) at the expense of my heart and sanity. Also, I'm a coward. A very tired coward. It'll all end the same. Me on the floor, in a fetal position I imagine, replaying Natalie Imbruglia's 'Torn' conceptually over and over in my head, with nothing but heart-dust and relatable sad lyrics from equally depressed but more commercially viable artists, with nothing but cigarette smoke for solace and oscar wilde/milan kundera/sylvia plath/charles bukowski to blame. I will also begin a hate campaign against Morrissey in a retrospective epiphany for my aggressive taking-to-heart in his songs and blabber-mouthing comprehensive albeit inarticulate takeaways in the same grain during one drunken albeit romantic whim. KAPOW! So whatevz.
I am demanding my share of happiness right NOW. No arguments around it. Let me mope, let me go to zouk, listen to my weird shit, let me love silently, madly, allow me weakness, grant me a few tears, waive off moments of depravity, lax in bad back postures, increase allowances in rant-minutes, expenditure in CDs, drinks, promiscuity, 'bad' judgment, entitle me some lapses in strength, sociability, logic, let me be sometimes ugly! Just be content that I've cast you you and you supporting roles in this acquirement (of happiness, however apeshit or frivolous). So the least you can do is comply. So fucking comply.
Or leave.
You all can stand on your own now, right?
And to the ones who will never think of me as one, have never thought of me as one, I hope you find one, or are happy with your one.
Cause you're all right. I'm not 'The One'. I think I'm 'The 8', at least. One is the loneliest number anyway. And not even in a fat sense.
In the course of this rant between the end of the first paragraph and this one, I have taken 5 sips from the carrot can. So check up on me in 3 days.
My favourite red lipstick is on the dresser. You know what to do.
kthxbye.
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