conflict, strife and misery equals a recipe for heart-stopping, tear-jerking, wrist-slitting drama; my life as i know it is a lovely double chocolate cake, accompanied with a glass of cold milk.
absolutely delish.
20/11/1987 – 10/10/2006
after a spontaneous hiatus (more of a passing zephyr of indifference rather than a calculated leave of absence) i have not one rambling soliloquy, but two! (if you can actually quantify those pesky nouns.)
i think there’s only so much you can push, threaten, lecture, plead, beg, bargain and beseech someone who isn’t interested in your help. methinks some individuals thrive on the mental anguish that comes hand-in-hand with those putrid-from-the-inside-out type relationships, while some of them imagine themselves “in love” and others probably enjoy the masochistic pleasures they derive from being ridiculed and belittled and trodden all over like a doormat. i figure there’s no point trying to figure out the how’s and why’s since it’s of no help at all. every reason they throw out seems to defy all known human logic. just like there is no point lending an ear or trying to counsel those repeat offenders. you finally start wondering why you are expending so much time and energy fretting when they obviously don’t feel the same. it all boils down to a combination of personal choice + waking the fuck up + reaching breaking point that will finally snap them the fuck out of the hell they’ve chosen to reside in.
who the fuck am i to have an opinion? well, i have lived through 4 years of it and while i’ve survived, i have no objective data to add to behavioural research findings. i have so much material, i could write a fucking thesis on it. but strangely enough, i have no answers.
so, fuck that shit. fuck it in the face. big girls can make their own damned decisions and all the WAO propaganda in the world will not make a damn difference. we can only cross our hearts and hope that it all turns out for the best.
then there’s that other more close-to-home incident which made me revisit my friendship protocols. JT taught me indifference is (as a general rule) the best medicine. i’ve obviously not achieved his godlike status yet, but i’m learning. one success, in fact, is not replying pointless messages sent by so-called friends.
the rules are simple:
you walk out of my life abruptly, voluntarily, and without duress. the end.
you take advantage of my generousity/my love/my friendship. the end.
and lastly, largely inspired by today’s events, you make me 吃死猫. the end.
doesn’t seem that hard a rule set to follow, but apparently not many can. oh fucking well, right? too fucking bad. what-fucking-ever.
Stop it.
Only the both of us know what transpired and as time passes even that slowly fades from memory. Your version of events is not mine. And the truth disappears in the archive of a forsaken email account.
But.
Does it even matter? I know what I had to live with. What I had to deal with. How I bent over backwards and killed my ideals. My supposedly impossible and irrational ideals of black & white.
What is this for? A moot point. Oh, throw me a witty one-liner when my heart is bleeding all over the floor. I have no answer. I just know that you and text messages, well, they fuck with my blissful existence by reminding me of years of hell and self-doubt and fading sanity and tears and pain and lies.
Just let it fucking go already.
So fucking selfish. Even now it’s all about you you you and how miserable your life is. You brought this upon yourself. If you’re going to do something that you’ll regret. Just fucking don’t.
You have no idea what I went through putting the pieces of myself back together. Oh, it’s not that I imagine my life is sooooooo special and no one else has ever lived through this and worse. Nothing like that. It’s just that you would need a fucking heart to get it. And we all know how lacking you are in that department.
Mr. Messiah indeed. You wanted to “save” me? The little angry punk girl. Little punk bitch with issues. Stupid little miss. Guess what, you were not my crutch; you were my fucking disability.
Well, guess what, I’m now 10 times the person you’ll ever be.
And we both know it.
“If your friends all jumped off a bridge, would you jump off too?”
if you asked me, i probably would have. i got into trouble for you, got dragged into random fights because of you, obligingly entered into your petty little power struggles (less of struggles than they were games, we all know who would emerge the victor).
i’m not discounting the free will (or lack thereof) that i exhibited in your presence. i did things and accepted your ideologies and adopted your taste in music and agreed wholeheartedly without duress. but it was tiring; all-consuming to the point of worship. and what did that leave me with? in retrospect (isn’t it always?) i honestly don’t know how much of my self i could have claimed as my own.
but then again, i’m rambling only with the bravado of someone who’s had the luxury of a 5-year cooling-off period. of course i cried myself to sleep and played our last conversations on repeat trying to analyse my choice of words and my tone and manner (was i harsh? sharp? cold? rude?), wondering what it was i did to offend you. i asked, but it’s not like i meant enough to warrant an answer. and in the silence, the airy childhood dreams we built while smoking cigarettes on your bed dissolved into rather unpleasant revelations.
years later i would be offered the chance to finally know, but i had come to realise that i already do. i sacrificed a hell of a lot for you, and what was i but your sacrificial lamb. chew me up and spit me out again?
thanks, but no thanks.
People are fragile things, you should know by now
Be careful what you put them throughEditors – Munich
i think i would be more impressed with titles and designations today if i wasn’t continually subjected to the unprofessional and childish behaviour plus general stupidity of people who, amazingly, have made noticeable moves up the corporate ladder without any obvious skills (what they do to their bosses behind closed doors e.g. rimming has not yet been taken into consideration).
life experiences excite me much more. the real people you’ve met, the emotions you felt, the struggles you’ve overcome. y’know, emotional pulses. connections. reality.
i hate name-dropping. once, i heard this girl i (and the hordes of KL) admire very much for her fashion sense and style, name-drop her boyfriend. i immediately faced her, wagged a finger at her and said “horrr, so show off!” granted she was doing it rather shyly (which was in itself kinda charming) and i was rather shit-faced, but i’ve as usual lost my point. the point is: i don’t. fuck. care.
call me an ingenue for thinking that friends value you for the person you are and not the people you know (because that’s a totally different story). and when you imagine you can impress everyone with your mind-bogglingly rich resume of galas and designer goods and the number of ‘friends’ you have, do have a care that there is always someone harder, better, faster, stronger, richer, funnier, hotter, has a bigger yacht and more issues than you.
so – stripped of superficial bullshit, arrogance and insecurities (and complete lunacy) – have you figured out who you are?
i love cherries.
cherries are great.
i love to tell everyone about my love for cherries.
they are round and red and shiny.
and they taste great!
one day i decide i don’t like them that much.
i don’t like that they are round and red and shiny.
i don’t like cherries; for being cherries.
my friends agree.
they say “cherries suck, we never liked them. boo. down with the cherries.”
i agree. we all agree with each other.
one day i decide i like the number ‘7′ instead.
and even though a fruit and an integer will never share a common premise
i immediately decide that
i hate cherries.
“We need to talk.”
Ominous words for someone scrabbling her way up the corporate ladder for years with little or no apparent success.
“Management’s received some, how do we say, comments about you.”
She squinted over her glasses.
“They, how do I put this delicately, they say you’ve been a little too chipper.”
“Too… chipper? You mean like happy? You can not be serious,” she snorted, losing her place in a stack of very important legal briefs.
“And that’s not all,” the drone continued (ironically) in a rather chirpy manner, “It has been brought to our attention that you’ve added colour to your attire and you haven’t put your foot in your mouth in at least a week.” He punctuated this puzzling statement by half-raising his eyebrows – expressing a mixture of faked commiseration and undisguised glee – to convey some imagined shared understanding.
She didn’t get it at all.
“So what? Is this is suddenly a problem, like an official complaint? Those fucktards are complaining about my choice of wardrobe? And as for inappropriate, barely an hour has passed since I extolled the greatness of a slightly bloodied, medium-rare steak to the HR and she a freaking vegan!”
“There, there, don’t get all riled up, sweetheart. It’s less a complaint than it is a matter of,” he paused for a second, cow eyes glazing over for the right words, “friendly concern.” He grinned as if to deflect the tension that was steadily building (more behind her eyeballs than in the air). She could never put her finger on why he looked so darned familiar, until now. An untimely flashback of last week’s National Geographic special on the Amazon drew up an uncanny resemblance between him and a South American pirahna.
Not the most comforting realisation she needed at the moment.
“Hey, sue me but I’ve just learned the joys of dressing up. Of going out and meeting new people. Of doing stuff that doesn’t involve black eyeliner and bad poetry. You want to know why I’ve changed? Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I’m no longer wallowing in self-pity, misery and make belief daddy issues. Aite?” She bristled as he smiled placatingly. Did he think her an infant? Fuck! She would give him a piece of her mind; to choke on.
So consumed by her indignance (and so intent she was on forming what might have been a brilliant riposte) was she that she missed the quiet, yet authoritative footsteps entering her tiny cubicle.
Later, it was agreed upon (although events leading up to it came in at least half a dozen versions) that it was the most spectacular (and discomfiting) production the office had ever seen – the four officers half-dragging, half-carrying her as she shrieked “Since when is being happy a fucking crime?”
