This is why every single culture has a set of values that they teach their daughters and nieces and granddaughters about finding a man gives meaning to your life and it's crap. Like, freshly produced from the rear end of a cow and steaming.
"You haffi go learn to cook or yu nah find a man!"
"Girls who cyaa whine stay single."
"A princess isn't a princess without her prince."
All of this is rubbish.
Look here. I am single. Most of my friends are single. I'm pretty sure only, like, two of my friends are in committed long term relationships. And there is nothing wrong with us. (Okay, maybe there are things wrong with us. But it's not because we're single.)
Firstly, your value is not defined by what someone else values you. A Benz isn't worth fifty dollars just because that's all I have to spend on it. It's still a frigging Benz and I cannot have it just because I want it. I have to frigging be up to its standard. Girls, why can't we believe we're luxury vehicles? Right now, go listen to that Benz Punani song by (I think) Vybz Kartel and pretend he's not just talking about your vagina. Now repeat after me: "I am not an Acura with a Benz sticker. I am a Benz. And you're going to have to earn me." There you go. Some standards.
Secondly, your life does not begin when you have someone to share it with... and this belief is what is keeping you where you are. Assuming that where you are, is stuck. Your life begins when you decide to make investments in your hopes and dreams and passions for yourself. It begins when you decide to live, and this decision doesn't necessarily take place in a relationship. As a matter of fact, it should take place when you're single. When you're single, you have time to be unapologetically self-centred and narcissistic (but just a little bit). It's your time to do things for yourself. And then, when you find someone who you want to share your life with... you'll have a life to share. Taking up a life he brings to you is not sharing a life. Be able to say, I have a love for travel... would you like to see the world with me? (Or so on... whatever's your cup of tea, actually.)
Thirdly, you were born alone and will die alone. You have to learn to be by yourself sometimes. You have to love yourself, nurture yourself, take care of yourself, tolerate yourself, develop yourself and provide for yourself. For the love of God, please do not allow whatever your man brings to the table be all you two have to eat. Go and earn your slice of bread so that, God forbid, he takes the bread out of your mouth, you do not starve to death. Spend time getting a job, building a career, investing in an education, becoming better than you were before. And loving yourself while you go about all of this. It's easier to love someone else and let someone else love you, if you already know how to love yourself.
And finally, I don't know about you and what your beliefs are... but I'm a Christian who believes my God, my Holy Father... is a King. And you know who princesses are? Not the wives of princes, but the daughters of Kings! I am a princess because my father is a King.
There's nothing wrong with being in a relationship... but there is something seriously wrong with believing all your life is good for is being in a relationship. Now go, beautiful princesses, into the world to be wonderful princesses who rescue their idiot princes every now and then.
Everyone just seems to be leaving; to be walking away from you.
I know it's probably an exaggeration so you don't have to fucking tell me, but in the end isn't it just that if you don't leave then you're the one who's always getting left?
It's really just that simple sometimes. Things don't say the same, relationships don't last forever, etc. It really sometimes breaks down to the fact that eventually someone has to leave.
If you're not leaving, then eventually you'll be left.
It just sucks when you're always the one being left, and it's hard leaving all the time.
Currently, I am being left. My friends are moving to new schools, new towns, new countries, new continents. I am telling them all goodbye and waving as they start new chapters and move on with their lives. Day in, day out; I am here. I am saying goodbyes. I am preparing to say goodbyes.
Constant, (noun): A situation or state of affairs that does not change.
As far as the constant that is my life, I am constantly in a state of emotional distress. I am broken, bruised, scared, lonely, pensive, hurt, sad, insecure.
But I refuse to let depression win the fight in a war I wage against myself.
My friends will leave. Boys I like will leave. At the end of the day, I have me... and I need to stop making her my enemy.
I'm gonna call my favourite movie 'Moulin Rouge' for now, considering it's the one that always always comes to mind when I think about favourite movies (plus anything by Nicholas Sparks, but whatever).
The first time I watched Moulin Rouge was many, many years ago. I won't even try and figure out how many years exactly, but I know it's definitely been a while. I was looking for something to watch and flipping through TV channels and it was, just, there.
It was Nicole Kidman in red lipstick swinging to Diamonds Are A Girls Best Friend and then falling, and then it was Ewan McGregor writing about love. It was the innuendo in the scene where he pretends to be the Duke. It was Elephant Love Medley. It was the tango scene. It was... it was everything.
I watched it again, the same day.
And now I just really want to watch it again.
-
Found this list of prompts/challenges on Tumblr. Forty different suggestions of things to talk about. Haven't decided how often to do one, and I'm sure I won't do them all. Some of them are quite personal and I think I might just skip those.
For the love of God, am I to be constantly treated like my brother's understudy?
Tonight, we sat down as a family and went over his report card. First in his class, A average, exceptional grades all around... yadda yadda ya. Far better than I did at his level, with way less effort.
It's just the way the cookie crumbles. I work twice as hard, he does twice as good. It's irrelevant that I came first, tried first. When my parents see my grades, my results... it's a tiny pat on the back - "You could have done better!". By the time my brother steps up to the bar, and his results come around? The whole world cheers for their brilliant boy who makes it all look so damn easy.
It's gonna sound terribly sour and bitter, but I've come to accept that where I stand is on the sidelines. I stand just behind the curtain. Should the star, for any reason, need an understudy to step up and take his place.
I'm obviously not the cute one, the funny one, the good looking one, the smart one.
You see, the terrible, disappointing thing about being in an ambiguous relationship is that some days, you feel like his or her other half. You feel loved, and wanted. Some days what you're doing, what you go through feels worth it. Some days, you're romanced. Some days, you're a lover.
And then some days you're bros and homies and besties. You know you're not anybody's boyfriend or girlfriend. You feel like their friend. It's like you're perpetually being slapped in the face with the slipper of unrequited love. Like you're someone's "just friend".
And then there are dark days. Days when you're neither friend, nor lover. When you don't expect replies to messages. When you don't want to hear their voice and the mention of their name is like a kick to the crotch. Those days, it just hurts. It's being swallowed alive by the insecurity and the instability.
I'm not saying I need to be wifed up by anybody. I'm just not sure how to deal with the constant second guessing and insecurity. Insecurity is always a bad place for me. It's just not fair.
I can deal with avoiding the "So, what are you guys?" and the awkwardness when someone says "You guys would be such a cute couple!" but I dunno how to deal with not knowing what I mean to you.
Recently, I was looking at the image that circulates around the internet of the quote from the Musings: The Tiny Book of Tiny Stories that reads ‘“Well, look who I ran into,” crowed Coincidence. “Please,” flirted Fate, “this was meant to be.”’
I sincerely hope that by turning it into a slightly longer story, I won’t ruin the sheer beauty of it.
-
Coincidence lives a lifetime of serendipity.
He’s twenty three and lives in an apartment with a great view that he got for a steal simply because he bumped into a realtor in the supermarket who gushed about it to him in the line at the grocery store as he paid for his bananas.
He buys two lottery scratch cards on his way home and finds himself $70 richer. Twice. And then he manages to catch the elevator doors the second before they close on their way up to the 72nd floor.
Coincidence really loves his view.
Fate believes in destiny, and isn’t quite sure why she can’t seem to settle down yet.
She’s all about the fortune cookies, and the love at first sight and the kismet. She doesn’t really believe that anything, ever, is an accident.
So she leaves home and heads for work at the nine-to-five she needs to pay the bills, and stumbles into the wrong building out of her own carelessness. They’re holding interviews.
Fate loves her new job.
A club? Coincidence thinks. Well, why not.
Fate really shouldn’t be out this late if she wants to be just-early-enough for her perfect job.
Coincidence doesn’t even like to drink.
Fate is a lightweight.
“Can I have just a Coke please?” Fate tries to say to the bartender, but struggles to be heard over the music. He doesn’t hear her. He shakes his head, and begins to turn to service another, louder, customer.
“Two Cokes,” Coincidence says loudly, his voice perfectly finding a break in the music. The bartender nods and bends to pick two out of the fridge.
Fate runs her finger through the wet ring her glass makes on the wooden counter.
Coincidence dips his head closer, smiling. “Well, look who I ran into,” crowed Coincidence.
“Please,” flirted Fate, “this was meant to be.”
--
I apologise. The continuity in this is so terrible, but I was so bored I had to do something. Even if it is a very bad something. I don’t own the original story. There’s my disclaimer. And my apology.
A special Fathers' Day to the one I love the most, my daddy.
I am a Daddy's Girl by profession (and spoiled rotten), so of course I'm all about that long epistle of a Daddy Appreciation post. (No hard feelings, Mommy, it's just that... well, he's Daddy... and... yeah. I just had to.)
I have very fond childhood memories of Daddy - who let me sit on his shoulders at Disney when I couldn't see the parade, and helped me across the monkey bars and pushed me on swings... but now that parade is called 'life' and he's still the one who helps me to see. Those monkeys bars and those swings? Obstacles that he still helps me across. Things change, but they definitely stay the same.
I have a father who lets me express myself, and loves me because I'm me and that's amazing. A lot of people say they don't truly know who their parents are as people, but I have the pleasure of saying that I know my Daddy as a person. And he's a darn good one.
My Daddy is the best of toughness and the best of softness. He's my rock when I need him to be, but he's also my pillow when I need him to be. I know wherever Daddy is, there's home.
Even when I'm mad at Daddy, I just have to take one good look at him and I'm smiling again. Daddy has an incredible sense of humour (though I don't tell him, because his jokes are really lame sometimes and I'd hate to admit that I'm lame too) and he clearly never grows up, even though he's regretfully getting... old. :(
I'm lucky. No, I'm more than lucky. I'm blessed. I'm so incredibly grateful for the father I have, and I really wish more people could have a father as amazing as mine.
Here's to my Daddy, for being the only man who's ever been my knight in shining armour. For the man who was there before the boys, and will occupy the number one spot even after those boys. For the father who gave me my love of adventure, of expression, of being alive. For the father who stuck around, who taught me that a man could love a woman and build a life with that woman, raise children with that woman; giving me hope that maybe someday somebody could love me like that.
Here's to the hot boy with the big van and the huge hugs.
Here's to the almost eighteen years of love, support, pride and joy.
Disclaimer: This is my preferred method. Results may vary.
Give in to your emotions. If you want to cry? Then you go ahead and cry. If you want to laugh? Throw your head back and cackle. If you want to curl up in bed and listen to depressing music with your curtains drawn? Go for it!
...but don't give in to the urge to gain 30lb. I know the chocolate and icecream will be there for you - trust me, it will always be there for you. On your hips and thighs and your sides and your belly and your flabby arms. I'm not saying don't eat it... but moderation is key. Exercise is also a great way to release anger and feel good. Go for a run. Do some kick boxing. Stretch. Getting moving is part of moving on.
Don't be pathetic. Don't complain to your friends about how your love life sucks, every single day. Eventually the whole supportive friend act will get exhausting and they will gently explain that nobody really gives a rat's ass if he was the love of your life. Life goes on. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and expecting everyone to feel sorry for you. It holds you back.
Delete. Seriously. Delete his number, unfriend him on Facebook, delete every picture of the two of you, get rid of the saved messages. It is very important to get rid of all those pictures of him you taped to the wall above your desk. And don't keep checking his Facebook to see if he's happy or not - just don't. Chances are you've memorized his number, but if he ever shoots you a text? Hit him back with a "Who's this?" Let him know there is no room in your phone for his number. More importantly, let yourself know this.
Stop hating on him with all your friends. Seriously. Don't do this. It slows down the whole moving on process. Plus, your friends don't have any reason to hate him. Chances are neither do you. Accept that whatever happened in your relationship was just as much your fault as his, forgive him and forgive yourself. Stop bitching with your friends. And if, God forbid, you have a friend or friends who won't let it go... cause you gotta get that girlie in line.
Learn to be polite, if not nice or friendly. Don't go trying to best friend him back into your life or anything, but saying 'hi' or giving a little wave never killed anybody. Even if you're being cold shouldered, you can be the bigger person.
Do not find rebound guys. This one is really really really important. Don't use someone to get over someone else; you will hurt their feelings, you will hurt your feelings and you will be very sorry. It's complicated and it's ugly. Before you leap into another relationship, give yourself time. Time to figure out your feelings for old guy, your feelings for new guy, your feelings about you, time to get adjusted to the weight of your baggage.
Your friends are your support group. Remember that good friends are there for you, they want you to be happy, they want you to smile. They're on your side. This is a great time to spend time with them - it'll make you happy, boost your mood. Go see movies, go shopping, go out for lunch, talk on the phone. Keep your friends close.
Be happy. This one might be easier said than done, but it isn't that complicated. Being happy is a choice. You can choose to be happy. It really isn't what happens to you, but how you react to what happens to you. Decide that no matter what happens, you're gonna smile. Smile even if you don't feel like smiling. It's good for your health and better for your happiness.
Now good luck, girlies! We're letting go and it feels good :D
I can't say I know for sure what love is, and I won't pretend I know what love is. Maybe someday I will but this isn't the day. I do, however, have a couple of ideas. And I've gotten some interesting replies. I'll quote those I've collected - giving credit to initialed owners so as to protect my identity through protecting theirs because I'm selfish - and the rest are ones I've been formulating (that are mostly silly, but sometimes serious).
Love is when the length of time is insignificant compared to the depth of time. When it doesn't matter if you've been together for thirty years, or thirty days.
Love is "when you'd crawl over a mile of broken glass, just to hear them fart though a walkie-talkie." J.K.
Love is "when their little quirks make you smile and the little facial expressions they make are recognizable to you and you just always want to see them happy." M.C.
Love is the difference between tolerating someone's flaws and accepting someone's flaws. You tolerate what you can't change and you accept what you wouldn't, if you could. When you can say "this is a flaw, but you wouldn't be you without it and therefore I wouldn't get rid of it", you're in love.
Love is "...when you consider it something of value." T.J.
"Romantic love is merely an idea to me. I do not believe in it." R.N.
Love is when you'd be rolling with them on the bus, just like how you'd be with them rocking in the Rover.
Love is when the butterflies in your tummy have butterflies, and you only just heard their name.
Love is "being afraid to think of your world without someone, (with that in mind then I only really love my family)." Z.G.
Love is finding peace in the midst of chaos.
Love is "being able to submit all your effort into caring for someone and showing them that you care, with constant reminders of course." M.D.
"Love means liking someone even after you've seen them at their worst or some bullsh*t like that. Either way, the meaning is f*cked and the feeling is tiring." J.J.
Love is when they confess to not liking Harry Potter and you choose to keep them around anyways.
Love is "never having to say you're sorry." S.L.
Love is "pizza, ice cream, a warm blanket, a couch and a good movie... but mostly pizza, and bacon." R.W.
Love is "only good in the movies- in real life, it's lame. A little cynical, but it's better to be cynical than delusional." C.G.
"Sometimes it's sharing, but most times not. Other times it's a shoulder to lean on and if it goes both ways all the better. Often times it just makes you weak and vulnerable; an easy target... but it's the sweetest when new, but after? Oh well!" P.G.
Love is when someone sees me for who I am, rather than for what I have to offer... no matter how large, how small, how relevant or how necessary.
Love is "that warm, fuzzy feeling deep inside. When the person farts and you choke out through a cloud of fumes: "is that new perfume?" K.M.J.
Love is "comfort. When you're able to sit with someone and be comfortable, no matter where you are or what you're doing." M.L.
"#sprung - when yu go sleep same time as di smaddy caw yu nuh waan be awake widout dem" "#sprung when yu phone start dead and yu call dem from di nex one widout hang up di fus one caw yu nuh waan go a minute widout dem voice" "#sprung when yu rather cotch pon cold floor wid smaddy dan sleep separately inna unnu individual bed" "#sprung when yu stop wear make up and mek yu hair do wah it like caw dem say dem nuh matter bout dem summn deh" "#sprung when yu just now realise say unnu only talk to one anedda in whispers and widout knowing it unnu always a hold hand" "#sprung when yu a dead fi sleep and a fight it caw di smaddy weh yu deh wid/into still awake" Tweets from @mooremayhem, on Twitter.
Love is when you'd stay up on the phone until three in the morning, mostly listening to them play FIFA with the Mexicans, even though you love to sleep. True story.
Love is when you let them tease you, and trick yourself into thinking it's sweet.
Love is "love, man. Like you legit care about a nigga. You want the nigga to be happy, man, even if you ain't, man. Nah mean? To the moon and back even if it's not your main b*tch. Nah mean? You just care so much bout your b*tch and yo nigga. It's like wow, man. Like wow." F.E.
Love is "when you find that person that makes you feel bubbly through the good times and the bad. That happy feeling that won't seem to go away even when you try hard to reject the idea of being happy with that person." B.B.
Love is "something we've inherited from God himself, and in a way it's the way all of us try to imitate him, even though we've almost completely messed it up. To me though, It's an ever present urge to put someone ahead of yourself whether or not they want you to, which is why it's so draining if it isn't returned in equal measure. Those yearnings (tied with the need for companionship with the object of that love) and a bag of emotions. It surpasses the emotions though, fueled and expressed through action. Without the action it dies. Actions keep at least the embers alight getting through the worst days, and blazes up the passions and emotions on the better ones." M.N.
"I think it's when you have a special feeling about something; no matter what's going on, it's always in the back of your mind just because you care for it so much. Everytime you see it, you get like this weird feeling inside. What love means to me? Love means FIFA." B.M.
"1 If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. 4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. 13 And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love." The Holy Bible, 1 Corinthians 13 (NIV Version) Fun fact: this is one of my all time favourite Bible verses.
So, it's safe to say that love means something different to everyone - some serious, some deep, some cynical, some ridiculous. That's part of the magic, isn't it? Love has just that many perspectives. I guess (one day, maybe one day soon?) I'll revisit this and explore more of what it means to me than a few little punchlines... but until then... As a little nudge at myself, I'll end with:
Love is when you find yourself wondering "is this love?"
Lovingly yours,
me.
----
Check out Carrie Fletcher's compiled take on what love is!
It was bound to ruin the great thing I had going for me.
I dunno why I can't just shut my mouth and accept that there are people who care about me. And I dunno why it's just that much harder to do when it's someone I'm attracted to.
When people get all emotionally supportive and caring and nice, I get vicious and catty and nasty. I scare them away with my ...me-ness.
I won't say what I did because I am ridiculously ashamed of myself, but it was really bad. I don't know why he would ever speak to me again, because I certainly don't deserve it.
The thing is though, I'm not just good at screwing up romantic type relationships, but casual ones too. Friends that stick around despite by bitch major complex are real friends, and I think I have a handful of them who have seen more that my first layer of nasty and hung around.
So, right here, I would like to give major major major props to my best friend, my better half, the only person who knows I'm mad puss piss crazy and doesn't seem to care. My sour muffin! Girl, you have seen numerous layers of what I'm like when I'm at my worst and my worstest and my worstester and you still seem to like me. I have to thank the Lord for a best friend like you.
And I have a handful of other friends, who, despite not knowing and experiencing nearly as bad a me as my best friend, but certainly a ridiculous degree of me and have hung around and for that you all deserve a shiny gold medal. (And a few who deserve some huge ass trophies, I won't mention your names... but I believe two of you read this blog, so to my Reckless and Relentless, and to my cornbread muffin? Big. ass. gold. trophies. so. heavy. you. can't. LIFT. them. Holla.)
Now, I have to figure out how I'm going to fix all the messes I've made in the last couple of days... I just need to stop being so angry, so scared, so insecure and so ridiculous and TELL THE BOY HOW I FEEL. Like, really.
I need to stop bottling up everything and letting it eat away at me until there's really nothing left to do but to let it all out in one bitch attack that really isn't fair to anybody. Communication is key, and it's a damn shame I'm bad at that too.
I am so bad at communication that I am bad at it on different levels: not just the "take-forever-to-reply" level, but on the "rambling-without-ever-saying-anything-meaningful" level and on the killing the conversation at various degrees level too. I just... suck. True story.
But I can't keep putting off the fixing stage- I have slept for countless hours since Sunday night, eaten every single fruit I can peel, watched too much bad TV, made my baby brother sick of me and flipped through all the social media I participate in... there isn't much left to do to put this-... Ooh, look! Carrie Diaries Season One finished torrenting :/
..No! Bad, me! Bad! Fix this. Fix this now. Ughh. Or later? Since he has an exam? Right. Later. I will fix this later.
(I challenged myself to write something that explored what I liked about myself, and this is what I came up with... Kinda rough; expected from someone who's been neglecting poetry.)
---
Curves are the best part about my body—
The upward curve of my eyelashes when I turn my eyes down, their shadows cast against my cheeks
The way my top lip curves at my Cupid's bow, stretched taut and armed with promise
The curve of my jaw when it rests against the curves of your shoulder, your arm, your lap
The simplest curves of my naked shoulder and my bare lower back, sometimes sexy without even trying
The curves of my hips and my waist—"too wide"/"not wide enough", just fine and all mine
The curves of my fingertips and how you somehow don't seem to hate them against your skin
Then proceed to demand what they think I deserve, on my behalf.
Don't get me wrong... I love my close knit, overprotective, sometimes bitchy but usually harmless circle of chicas. But there are certain things that I genuinely don't know how to tolerate, and one of them is when you tell me what I deserve and what I should demand.
I hate to sound like a secretive bitch, but I like to keep stuff to myself. I don't really know how to talk to people about how I feel about the serious stuff, and I like to steal away for time by myself. The introvert in me still struggles to appreciate the tight circle I have.
I don't think there's a single one of my friends who can genuinely say they know everything about me. So when you proceed to exclaim that you "know exactly how I feel", I get frustrated.
But to take it a step further, you want to tell me that this boy most certainly isn't worth my time and doesn't deserve me. I deserve better.
You don't know what I deserve at all. Neither do I. And you can't tell me what is or isn't worth my time - the fact that I'm willing to give this thing, whatever it is, a try means that I do indeed find it valuable enough to be worth my time.
Support me, as my friends. Or know that your opinion has been filed away into "thanks, but no thanks" piles to be disregarded at a later date. I love you, but you can't tell me who to invest my time and energy into.
You can't complain about what doesn't even bother you. How does that make sense? If it's affecting me, and I don't complain then how do you look on from the outside and complain? It just doesn't seem right.
I appreciate that you think that you should let this bother you, because it should and even might be bothering me... but you don't have to attack anybody. You calmly state your side and then sit your ass down and be a friend. Whatever that means. I'm sorry you're hurting because you think I'm hurting, but I haven't asked you to take up my cross and carry. I haven't asked you to absorb my hurts, my feelings. That's ridiculous.
I just don't know how to allow myself to be happy. I'm so scared of someone breaking me, that I don't realize I'm breaking myself. The only person who is hurting me, is me. When I push away every single person who gets close enough to give a fuck about me.
I think I've chewed off an entire layer of my bottom lip and listened to every single song on the Paradise album and I spent two hours buried in bed trying to shake out enough crap out of my head that I could get some sleep.
Words, unfortunately, are failing me. Not just expressing myself here and now, but today's just been ridiculous. I seem to possess only two extremes. I'm either really bad or really good. I bounce from babble and giggle and sing and twirl to distant and solemn and silent and absent, and right back again. I'm all bounced out and I still can't find a balance.
My happy feels fake. My sad feels dramatic.
I feel like I exist in a simple state - like a switch. I can only ever be on or off. Every child has tried to balance a switch between on and off, but it isn't possible. There's no middle state. It's on. Or off.
I was talking to a friend today, about how much I just can't stand touch lately. I don't think it's ever been this bad. I just... don't like when people hug me, or hold my hand, or even stand close enough to brush against me, when they lean against me, when they rest on me. It's not that I hate it, but lately it's been making me jumpy. I cringe away from people. I shudder. I grimace.
So now, I'm not just afraid of emotional proximity. I'm afraid of physical proximity too.
But the scariest part, is that I want him to hug me. I want him to hold me, and tell me silly bullshit about how I'm being ridiculous and I'm making mountains out of molehills and I need to calm down, sleep at night, eat decent meals and stop beating up on myself. I want him everywhere.
It's frigging terrifying.
Yours with words failing,
me.
(This hasn't even been double checked for errors. Apologies in advance. I don't know where my ability to express myself has gone. Maybe it's time to get back into poetry.)
I can feel the whiterumorangadetropicanabluegatorade sloshing around in my tummy, and this is so very bad. So so so very bad.
I'm a good girl, a smart girl, a strong girl.
I know when to stop.
But I'm not okay, and I'm tired of being not okay. How did I dive so hard, get so far and fall so fast? When did I tell myself that it was okay to be bare, be naked, in front of someone else? Since when did trusting someone come so easily? My human instinct of self preservation is telling me I've screwed up.
I really really really like this boy, and it feels right but I know it's wrong.
Because I'm a smart girl. I'm a strong girl. I'm a good girl. I know better. I don't need anybody who thinks I'm funny, and wants to stay up with me all night talking about absolutely nothing. I don't need someone to listen to my stupid childhood stories, and share their favourite songs with me (Ode to a Dream by the Internet is still a really weird song but you get fifty billion cool points for loving Lana del Rey). I most certainly don't need someone I can spend all day talking to. I don't need someone to make plans around, someone I want to be with me when I go out. I don't need someone I choose over doing work. I don't need someone.
But I really like you. (And I'm tempted to use the other L word, but I don't play with that and feelings aren't a joke, so I'm not quite sure what's happening but it isn't safe.) I like how you try to be too cool to be phased by anything (trust me though, that's a hard facade to keep up). I like how you smile. I like how you insist on leaning on me, even though we both almost end up tumbling. I like how you call me nicknames like it's natural, like you've been doing it forever. I like our stupid lame broadback, pink liver inside jokes. I like how you send me to bed when it's getting too late, and how you say goodnight. I like how you're not scared to joke around with me; how you force me to take a joke, how you force me to like myself more. I like you don't take me very seriously at all.
Most of all, I like how you don't seem to resent the speed we've moving at. The only speed I know how.
I really like you, and that scares me.
Most terrified and infatuated and quite possibly sorta intoxicated (by you),
me.
How do you learn to love again? Learn to trust again?
I feel like I need to address my issues with whatever's holding me back from trying again - from making more mistakes, better mistakes, wiser mistakes, so I can move forward from where I am now. Bitter.
It's as good a time as ever, considering I have this huge crush on this guy who is incredible and is my best friend and is just downright amazing. It's like deja-vu; a feeling I remember, but it's hard to tell if it's imagined or experienced.
It's laughing at midnight because I can't bring myself to say goodnight and all his jokes are so lame and silly and I just can't help but finding them funny. It's singing and dancing and air-guitaring at school because I'm just so happy and I don't want to tell anybody why. It's seeing him and getting the flutters in my tummy. It's talking about anything and everything and just having the best conversation of the whole day.
It's falling for someone again.
And that is scary.
I can see myself racing towards the cliff that I'm bound to happily tumble right off and free fall from but I just can't turn the vehicle around. At this rate, I'm going to laugh myself right off the edge and laugh and laugh and laugh until I hit the ground. Silly old me.
Watch me invest so much of my time, my heart, my hope into another guy.
I'm not trying to be a pessimist... It just, kinda, happens?
I just don't know how to let go of the past and step bravely into the future.
I started looking into teenage relationships. (Because this is part of the topic of my IA. I should really be doing said IA. But y'know, if inspiration comes a-knocking and you send her away, you have to wait for her to return.) I started thinking about my own views on teenage relationships, which I'm not even sure are valid because I am a teenager.
It's sorta like "Should cows eat grass?" by a cow.
Okay, maybe not. Bear with me. Huge cup of coffee with lots and lots of sugar to make the taste of blackness go away. I'm a fan of coffee, but I'm not always a fan of the taste of coffee. It's weird.
Anyways. Off tangent. Back to the topic. Teenage relationships.
What do kids know about relationships and love and making a relationship last?
Probably nothing.
But what do adults?
What does anyone?
It's not fair to base our ability to love another person on our age or our maturity levels. What's the relationship between age/maturity and being with another person anyways?
As far as experience goes, I have very little. I've only ever had one committed relationship. Before that there were crushes, and then after that there was a stupid stint with a boy who was as bad for me as mixing my pills and now there's... this.
Whatever this is.
I don't know how to define this. I don't even know how to feel about this. But I'm not going to overthink this, yet. I'm just... gonna give it the chance to be what it wants to be. One of my art teachers once said to me, "The mark of the great sculptor is a great listener. You have to let it tell you what it is; it's not for you to decide." I'm going to look at this as a piece of art - something beautiful, something delicate, something fragile and something full of possibility.
I could break it, or I could listen to it and feel it out and then let it tell me what it is.
So I'm listening.
What I like about teenage relationships, though, is that they're so much while still being so very little. They aren't permanent but still they inspire change and growth and help to make two individuals better. That is, if they'll let it. (Sometimes they reject 'better' and be 'bitter' - I know this, I was and still am a little bit bitter. But I'm working on being better.)
My first relationship taught me an infinite amount of things. If I started to think about them, they'd flow from my fingertips and I'd be here for a long time. I promise one day to think about all those things and tap them out and free them from my mind, but not now.
My flirtationship taught me some very valid lessons too. One of the greatest things I learnt from that is that you can't forget the climb, no matter how great or how terrible the view from the top is. (No matter how much the end product sucks, you just can't erase how much you invested and how long it took. You just have to let it pull you up.) I also learnt the importance of having someone to talk to. Even if just for a little while, every day. Even if they weren't really yours to own. Just someone who cared enough to listen helped ease a burden.
And now... I'm learning the importance of being a good friend before being a great lover. (If ever a great lover.) At least if I fail at being a great lover, I took the time to be a good friend first. This boy sure is something else though. I can't tell the last time I had someone I felt so comfortable around. Not just being close to, but sharing myself with. It's certainly very nice.
Teenage relationships offer a challenge. Teenage relationships leave room for growth. Teenage relationships inspire. Teenage relationships experience.
Most importantly, teenage relationships are the things we reflect on and think "Damn. Those sure were the days."
I hope I'm creating a chapter of love I'll be happy to reread when I'm old.
They say boys only love with their penises. And girls with their hearts. But I disagree. I don't think either of these statements are true.
Girls, I must confess, love with their heads. They think way too damn much when they love someone. It's always about figuring it out, sorting it out, fixing it, defining it, showing it off, etc. Girls overthink. Girls analyze. Girls assess. Which isn't a bad thing. You've gotta give your head the reins sometimes or you'll run right off the track. Plus, we just like knowing everything. Which isn't a bad thing.
And then boys? Boys probably love with their hearts. (I tried to decide which of the body parts they use more when they're in love: hearts or arms?!?!?! Went with hearts...) They just love. I don't know many boys who overthink anything when they really love a girl. They just love her. I guess that's why girls always blow up on them for making mistakes. We just wonder why you didn't THINK THAT THROUGH OMG. Boys just don't overthink everything. They just feel.
(Arms because boys are awfully comforting when they're in love. I mean, they hug a lot. And the good ones wipe away a fair share of tears. And they hold hands and stuff. Which is sweet. They're very hands-y with the girls they love.)
Don't get me wrong though, these are both generalized statements and I'm not saying that they're true for all individuals. Sometimes we girls through reason into the wind and sometimes boys get rational. I'm just generalizing and throwing out my opinion.
Then there's the statement "boys like to get into girls' pants." Now I'm not saying this isn't true.... because we know it is, for the most part. If a boy lies, he's probably out to get into either your pants or another girl's pants.
But when girls lie, why do they lie?
Nuh to get into a boy's heart?
So let's stop nitpicking at the sexes and just spread more love and stuff. This post was pretty short and, well, I just felt like putting this out there. Have a good week.
Posting the first draft of my Literatures In English Internal Assessment piece as a favour to a friend.
-
A
reinterpretation of Meditation on
Red by Olive Senior, a narrative about
Jean Rhys.
–
Madness is a
hell of a thing.
If you’d
asked, Jean Rhys would have vehemently denied madness. Jean Rhys was a pretty
girl, a beautiful woman. She was good at getting what she wanted from men and
she was good at giving men what they wanted.
She first met
England at seventeen, back when she was Ella Gwendolen Rees Williams. It shook
her hand with a cold which would never leave her fingertips and endless green
seas of countryside that would haunt her.
“I hated the mountains the hills, the
rivers and the rain.”
“I’ll be an
actress,” she’d say.
Unfortunately,
her West Indian accent was far too thick and she could never land the best
roles. Not to be dismayed, she travelled with performance companies and chorus
lines—anything to stay in the world of theatre. She seamlessly transformed into
Vivienne or Emma or even Ella Grey.
Lancelot Hugh
Grey Smith was the first man who Jean Rhys discovered would take care of her if
she knew how to make him happy. A bat of her eyelashes here and a swoon there
and he had fallen for her.
When the
shiny copper coins stopped pouring in, pretty little Jean Rhys had to fend for
herself. With a dead father and no acting job, she sought a different set of
men to lean on.
These men did
not have Smith’s kind eyes or hold her and whisper ‘I love you’s against her silken
skin. These men had rough hands that bruised and stank of stale cigarette
smoke… but all of these men left the money on the bed when they left, and these
men always came back.
Jean Rhys
started to drink. (“So much drink / flowing / so much tears / so much …”) She
made wet glass rings stain the furniture, one for every man she sold a piece of
herself to.
“I have an irresistible longing for a
long, strong drink to make me forget that once again I have given damnable
human beings the right to pity me and laugh at me.”
Her scarlet
letter was stitched onto the breast of every dress she owned.
Smith paid
for the abortion of a child they both knew wasn’t his and that was the end of
that.
Jean Rhys was
a rudderless boat, anchored in a murky green English countryside and dreaming
of blue skies and wanting to go home, longing to get away, dreaming of places
but never people; Rhys learned that people leave and die and change. Places
don’t.
Rhys learned
early: if she called herself English, they would remind her she was but a
horrid colonial. She most certainly wasn’t English.
Jean Rhys
knew the power of red. (A red dress worked on men in ways few other things
could. Red would blind their consciences. Red would dazzle. Red was awfully
pretty.)
“I took the red dress down and put it
against myself. ‘Does it make me look intemperate and unchaste?’ I said.”
//
“Your red dress,’ she said, and
laughed.”
A
Christmas-cracker red dress in the back of her closet for when they whispered.
A red wig to shock them. A red housecoat, frayed, for when she couldn’t manage
to escape.
(escape was a pretty word and Jean Rhys was
good with pretty words
and theatrics
and mad people)
Jean Rhys
once wrote a very successful story named The
Wide Sargasso Sea about Mr. Robinson’s mad wife in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre.
(Bertha
Antoinette Mason was locked in the attic with a drunken nurse and abandoned by
her husband because nobody seemed to understand madness. They called her
attacks ‘explosions’, but if mad women
could make things blow up then they wouldn’t be stuck in attics, now would they?
It is written by Bronte that Edward Rochester was enchanted by her
loveliness—but pretty girls are always just a little mad. You can ask Jean Rhys
about this.)
Jean Rhys
just couldn’t shake her inner drama queen. Her breakdowns were awfully
theatric; lots of screaming and scratching… and she pretended to be a ghoul in
her own attic and the neighbours were all convinced by her performance. As a
little girl, Ella Gwendolen Rees Williams made her daddy check under her bed
for monsters… but as a grown woman, Jean Rhys learnt that monsters don’t live
under beds, they live inside our heads.
Depression is
a funny tasting word that comes with a funny tasting set of pills – red, what
else? – that she had to remember to take three times a day. Red pills drove
away her monsters.
“I am not used to happiness.”
//
“…I want to be happy. Oh, I want it so
badly. You don’t know how badly. I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want anything
black or miserable or complicated anymore.”
Jean Rhys
made up her pretty face and dressed carefully, a string of pearls around her
neck and a fine dress. The village children called her a witch, but she
couldn’t even spell her seeds into pushing up blossoms of bright red. She bled
her pain into paper—black ink that smudged and blue murder in her heart. She
honed her craft. She planned to write brilliantly.
In her last
days, she wrote in notebooks and on napkins and in Parisian hotels. She,
fearing that she would be forgotten and never good enough, buried parts of
herself in her writing to be exhumed at a later date. She returned to drinking,
letting the drink flow until she could barely distinguish between Jean Rhys and
Anna Morgan and Sasha Jensen and Julia Martin and Marya Zelli.
“If you want to write the truth, you
must write about yourself… I am the only real truth I know.”
Even with her
last breaths, Jean Rhys would have denied the madness that defined her life.
Her ebb and flow, her come and go. But the madness was in Jean Rhys.
“She lifted her eyes. Blank, lovely
eyes. Mad eyes. A mad girl.”
Every time I say this, someone gives me a funny look.
Like "This cray cray ratchet girl just say she don't believe in marriage?" or "It's not Santa... or the Easter Bunny... it's marriage."
Yes, it's marriage. It happens every day and all that.
But I think it's an outdated and failing institution. Marriages don't work. (This is, as far as I'm concerned, the rule. If you are an exception to this rule, props to you.)
(Feel free to skip this next bit and pick up at the next bolded section if you don't want to read my view on homosexual marriages.)
First, let's talk about how marriages are excluding couples. This isn't a gay marriage protest post, but I'd like to know why a same-sex couple isn't entitled to a piece of paper guaranteeing the security of their relationship? It really isn't your business, but I think if I was a lesbian and I had a girl I'd love to spend the rest of my life with... I'd like knowing that I could die today and she could be taken care of by whatever I've left behind.
Yes, the Bible outlines it as being wrong and on that ground your argument may have some basis. But the Bible also states that the removal of the penis before ejaculation is wrong (so, hey, you guys talking about "I'll pull out", you're sinning), a woman in a man's clothing is wrong (you too, ladies in pants... and Amanda Bynes, we aaaaaall saw She's the Man), the trimming of facial hair of men (bros, that line up? Might be your ticket to Hell...), the mixing of textiles in outfits (you DARED to put on a cotton tee with those denim jeans?!), adultery is a sin - even if you cast your eye upon another with lust and desire (you check out another girl, but you have yourself a wifey a yaad?), the wearing of gold jewellery, pearls, costly adornments by women (hahahaha - your entire jewellery box is standing between you and salvation), speaking about another person's evil (you gossipmongers), despising government ("PNP a slackness!"), getting drunk (I hope you guys had fun on grandmarket night), fornication and prostitution, gambling (we see you, boys in the sixth form study rooms playing poker), idols (that's a pretty Mercedes...), being lazy (an actual thing, don't just take my word for it: 2 Thes 3:10 - 12, Eph. 5:16, Heb 6:12, Ecc 10:18), lying - but also TRUSTING in lies, bad manners (I hope you said 'good morning' when you woke up), sex with a prostitute/with a virgin without marrying her/with a relative/with someone who is already married/with a virgin, betrothed-if she cries out, you should be put to death and if she doesn't you should both be put to death, tattoos (YOLO trampstamp now, Hell tomorrow?), being a witch or having anything to do with a witch (how many of y'all read Harry Potter? I know I did..) and seeking riches. These are only a few. You can check out some more here or here or here.
And James 2:10 says "whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one part of it has become accountable for all of it". In Matthew 7:3, Jesus himself mocks you for attempting to remove the speck from your brother's eye while the plank blinds you.
Denying them the right to get married doesn't stop their relationship from happening. So before you go devoting your precious time to ensuring that these couples stay unwed, go sort out the man or woman having sex with someone else in your bed. Sorry, not sorry.
This is my opinion. I'm not forcing you to agree, but I'm asking you to be respectful and diplomatic about your disagreement. Thanks.
I've been told that when I get older, my views will change (and I'm opening myself up for the possibility of this - I'm actually eager for this... I love to hear OTHER people's views on marriage, in the hope that it will help to shape mine, as a matter of fact, a male friend or two of mine have contributed greatly, but I'll get to that soon). I'm still not satisfied.
I can't actually see myself devoting my entire life to someone else yet - vacations with them, waking up to them, etc. I like being able to escape from people or a person in particular if I don't feel like I can deal with them, and return when I can. It's like being handcuffed (or fingercuffed, heh heh heh...) to that same person. Forever. *shudders*
The ROUTINE. That may just be the worst possible thing, ever. I hate routines. I don't like doing the same thing over and over and over. If it becomes predictable, it becomes stifling and it makes me unhappy. And someone whose opinion I have always respected once said, "You wake up every morning beside the same ooman, nyam the same sh*tty breakfast,[ go to work and complain to your friends about the things that ooman always doing,] come home and nyam the same sh*tty dinner and go have the same boring sex if she nuh have some excuse why you shouldn't and go to bed so you can get up and do it again". Interestingly enough though, one of my guy best friends said something to me recently that got me thinking. He said that the marriage most likely to work is the marriage with your best friend. And it made a lot of sense to me.
But until I find a man who is both my lover and my best friend, and is someone I can happily imagine waking up next to every morning (even with morning breath and messy hair) and sharing a family, a home and a life with? I'm with those anti-marriage people.
People are always asking me stuff like "So... you don't plan to get married?"
I have bigger plans. I plan to see the world, study abroad.... I have an entire bucket list. But, ironically enough, getting married is on this bucket list. I want to be proven wrong. And I especially want to have a wedding of my own - I love love love love weddings.
A couple of interesting articles:
(Note: these aren't necessarily my opinion. The fact that they are shared on my blog proves nothing. It wasn't necessarily something this Mandeville girl said, or felt... or agreed with. I just felt like sharing.) (These are actually in ascending order of awesomeness; they get more interesting as you go down.)
Happy New Year! I hope this year brings you happiness, joy, peace and nuff nuff nuff love.
h'Anyways.
romantic (adj.) - Inclined toward or suggestive of the feeling of excitement and mystery associated with love.
It's subjective, really.
Maybe you think romantic means chocolate and roses and candlelit dinner on Valentine's Day. Which is completely fine too. If that's what gets your romance wheels going, then press along.
But I don't think that's romantic. I think that's commercial and stereotypical and spoonfed. I feel like it's the idea of romance that's taught to us. We're taught to ooh and aww when a man gets down on one knee in front of the Eiffel Tower, or presents us with a bouquet of red roses.
I've only ever received a rose once. The gesture was sweet, but the rose died anyways. The card was nicer - with the sweetest note ever. It meant a whole lot to me. I still have both the card and the note, even though they really exist mostly as painful reminders.
I'm not fond of flowers. As a matter of fact, I can barely distinguish between types of flowers. I think they all look the same. I guess everyone can identify a rose. And I can identify orchids and sunflowers. Sometimes lilies, which are really pretty. Otherwise, they're all just... flowers. They don't even smell that great.
So someone presenting me with a bouquet of assorted flowers is rather meaningless. The gesture behind the gift is romantic, but the gift itself isn't.
Then what in the world is "romantic"?
Pizza.
Pizza is romantic.
I swear this isn't like one of those "#fatgirlproblems" hashtags or something. I think the idea of pizza is romantic. Because pizza is casual, the perfect idea of casual. How much more casual does a round baked meal cut into triangular slices in a square box, topped with grease and cheese and grease and meat and more grease get?
You don't eat pizza in front of strangers. You don't eat pizza at fancy dinners. I don't know about you, but I really only ever eat pizza around people I'm comfortable with.
There's the thing though. Comfort. I think comfort is romance. Being with someone who you feel at home with. When you can be dressed down, hair up, no make-up and feel okay with that.
Not someone you put on a pretty dress and curl your hair and dust your eyelids for. (Not that there's anything wrong with getting dressed up; I've actually acquired a fondness for the occasional dress-up.)
That suggestion of love is someone you can accept you as you are when you're comfortable.
You don't have to spend all your money on jewels (it's advised that you not do this, considering I've worn about three pairs of earrings in the past year), you don't have to get me flowers (I won't appreciate them and they'll die anyways), you don't have to take me out to expensive restaurants (I'm a picky eater and I live on comfort foods - ice cream pastas, pizza, rices, chicken and desserts - anyways, plus I don't like eating in front of loads of people), you don't even have to plan a splashy proposal (I think they're cute on TV or in movies, but if someone took me to Paris and got down on one knee with a fat rock, I'd probably run away and have a breakdown in some bathroom because I hate crowds and I don't like being the centre of attention anyways).
I like handwritten letters, and gifts with lots of sentimental value (and usually little actual value). I like Chinese food. I like watching movies wrapped up in the couch. I like the idea of finding someone I can go to church with. Someone I can wear my yellow pajama shorts around.
Romance isn't Edward and Bella, with Elizabeth Mason's century old engagement ring and honeymooning on Isle Esme. Romance is Grandma and Grandpa, married for dozens of years, comfortable in a home and a family and a life they share.
