an endless procession of men that i must make sure remain happy. this is the story of my life. for some reason, women get by much better.

for a long long long time, i've dealt with the endless guilt and emotional blackmail that men in my life have been inflicting on me. it started about three years ago.

specimen number one. had something for me that i couldn't reciprocate. thus used me to continuously whine and i listened because i felt guilty for rejecting him. six months, that lasted.

specimen number two. felt angry about me dating his best friend. i continuously apologized to him for weeks. after which he was gracious enough to talk to me again. why i needed his approval i'll never know. but i just kept apologizing.

specimen number three. my fault really. i cheated on him. with someone that i had started to love. it wasn't his fault, and i listened to his anger for days or weeks. and i tried to placate him. tried to make him feel better. apologized and apologized. fuck.

specimen number four. fell for me. i didn't fall for him though. i told him, how i was still getting over someone else. though now we become physically intimate only because of the guilt that overwhelms me when i tell him no and he feels sad, because he's tried everything and been so sweet, and yet i do not reciprocate in the way he wants.

specimen number five. the only one i was ever completely crazy about. whose happiness means everything to me. and who's sad now because of where my life is going. but i'm too exhausted. exhausted by the collective guilt. exhausted by trying to please every single fucking person in my life. i can't please him now. i can't please him. because he's right. what is happening is happening.

fuck. i'm so tired of all this guilt.

two nights ago, it was beautiful. i was out, and happy, and free. it wasn't a feeling i've had in a long time. this feeling of not worrying about anyone, and not worrying about the consequences of my actions on anyone. that is what i want right now. that beautiful feeling of being free.

fuck my life.

Writing, for me, is a bad sign. If I'm writing a lot it means I'm thinking a lot. If I'm thinking a lot it means theres something wrong. If there's something wrong and I can't do anything about it, it confuses me. And confusion is sadness. And sadness is bad. And writing is the only answer.

But things are alright now, and there is peace.

Caution: lots of nonsense shit ahead.

How stupid it is to miss someone. To pine after them when they're gone, when in the grand scheme of things, we're but a flicker of light before it's gone like a candle on a raft on an endless, angry ocean. That's what we are though. Feeble and lost, floating to a destination that actually isn't there, just hoping that there is no wave yet with the name of our candle on it.

And isn't it romantic to imagine that there are other candles floating alongside us in in this ocean, but we are blind to them but for a millisecond, when somehow the light meets the other light, and there is a circle, an aura of contentedness and somehow we block out the vast tumultuous ocean and look within, on the rafts. And the ocean gets jealous and makes us rise and fall together, heaving and tossing until one wave gone astray separates the rafts forever and the circle is broke and the candles are solitary again.

And somehow, we'd forgotten the grayness of the ocean and the endlessness seems bleaker still. 

fate is the path of least resistance.

it's good when you get hiccups because it means somebody misses you.

it's bad when you get hiccups and you hope somebody misses you.

so ironic i wanna kill myself

clicks on next link of 2 broke girls episode to alleviate boredom through sleeplessness.

screen says enter the words in the box below to prove you are not an alien.

words are: moot point

looks up at sky. (actually the roof, but generally in the heavenly direction)

shakes fist

seriously????

Not being part of a social networking site gives you a lot of time to do lots of other useless things. I found this. Never posted it before. It's from February, 2012.

Your past is like rain. When I think of you and your family and your friends and your community, it makes me think of rain. Of light showers and the smell of wet soil.

Whereas my home, my ancestral home (although there isn’t any of the grandeur that the term ‘ancestral’ demands... though I suppose it has its mystique) reminds me of sand. Hot sand burning underfoot. Sometimes cool sand turning into mud that you can sculpt. But you know it won’t last forever. Prickles. Tickles. Keep your eyes shut or it’ll make them burn. Appropriate for the dry sand storms that we have right before the rains every time I’m at home. A forgotten palace in the midst of squalor, with denizens living in the old past. So Marquez.

I have to let you in on an unhealthy secret. I wither away when you leave me. I know our fate is sealed, and I know I’ll take it. But right now, I feel too tied to you. If it happens again, I won’t shed any tears. I’ll just wither away. My insides feel empty, my skin deadens. It really isn’t healthy, I know.

It feels incomplete. Like I was suddenly interrupted by a doorbell ringing twice, fast. It used to be the happiest sound.