Just what the sign says. I'm nervous. Specifically, I'm nervous about something that's happening tomorrow. If you know me, you may know what it is, and if not, you don't know me well enough for me to tell you. It's not my personal business, as such; therefore I can't run about telling my friends all the gory details.
Suffice it to say, I'm *appalled* that the best I can come up with is 'nervous'. What a slap in the face that is... and I *know* it's a slap, and believe me, if tomorrow results in an avalanche of shit smacking the fanblades and flying about coating every surface within flinging distance, I will be so, so far beyond nervous. I will feel *completely* *TERRIBLE*. I cannot overstate it. I will feel like the worst person who ever walked the face of the earth--I will want to harm myself, I will be in a state of near-total, horrified, guilty despair.
That being said, all I can do is wait and see what happens. How the cards fall. Which way the wind blows. Etc, etc.
But oh, have I done it this time. Have I finally managed to do something I'll have trouble living with? Have I finally, after years of playing it safe, intersected periodically by mad bursts of impulsive self-destruction, finally managed to do something I'm going to regret for the rest of my life?
I hope everything's okay. For me, but not just for me. I just hope everything goes okay.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Fairytales
I've been thinking about them a lot, lately. Whether or not they come true in real life, if they do are they as gruesome as their literary form, what's the alternative to a fairytale ending, etc. Somehow, that's led me to the Legend of King Arthur, or, as one translation was entitled, The Death of Arthur.
What I remember most, about reading those stories and books as a child, was how I felt completely torn between Lancelot and Arthur, yet had NO sympathy for Guinevere whatsoever. I *hated* her, with a burning, angry, intense passion. I wanted to slap her face. I wanted to push her off a balcony. I could have garotted her with a piano wire. And I just wanted to hold Arthur and stroke his weary brow and listen to the details of his stressful day and comfort him in ways which, as a ten or eleven year old, I didn't even understand... and at the same time, I wanted to fling myself into Lancelot's arms and kiss him and bite him and scratch him in a fury of greedy desire (yes, at ten or eleven, lol).
I remember understanding how wrong it was, that Guinevere, with the best man in the world by her side, should yearn for his best friend. It seemed good to me to wind up with Arthur OR Lancelot--either one would have been acceptable--but to claim both? Sheer greed. Sheer unfairness. Sheer unfathomable luck. She had two of the best men in the world (albeit fictional versions of them) and I just knew, I would have been better for either of them.
I was so jealous. Reading those stories, I was half-mad with jealousy, that a fictional character (and not even a very good one, just a pretty, indecisive, silly female) would have two such fine examples of man to choose from, and I had nothing. I knew then, better than I could explain, that there were no lion-hearted kings walking this earth, no white knights riding out of the mists, just skinny gawky teenage boys with bad skin and worse manners. I wanted to weep; I wanted to believe I was weeping for Arthur, or even the destruction of Lancelot's morals, or the whole sad sorry ruination of men in general; but I knew it was for myself.
That was more than half my life ago.
Nowadays, I've been around just enough (literally *just* enough--our survey says, I've spent much less time shagging about than most people my age) to have proved myself right. Maybe I've only had intimate contact with a handful of men, but it's taught me more than one lesson I'm not likely to forget soon.
Men are pigs. Men are liars. Men are unfaithful, and undisciplined, and unknowingly destructive. They are greedy, and selfish, and shallow, and stupid, for the most part. They are generally not worth the time and effort you put into them, and they are almost always too dense to even be capable of understanding their own flaws.
And I think I've found one I want to keep. Unbelievable.
What I remember most, about reading those stories and books as a child, was how I felt completely torn between Lancelot and Arthur, yet had NO sympathy for Guinevere whatsoever. I *hated* her, with a burning, angry, intense passion. I wanted to slap her face. I wanted to push her off a balcony. I could have garotted her with a piano wire. And I just wanted to hold Arthur and stroke his weary brow and listen to the details of his stressful day and comfort him in ways which, as a ten or eleven year old, I didn't even understand... and at the same time, I wanted to fling myself into Lancelot's arms and kiss him and bite him and scratch him in a fury of greedy desire (yes, at ten or eleven, lol).
I remember understanding how wrong it was, that Guinevere, with the best man in the world by her side, should yearn for his best friend. It seemed good to me to wind up with Arthur OR Lancelot--either one would have been acceptable--but to claim both? Sheer greed. Sheer unfairness. Sheer unfathomable luck. She had two of the best men in the world (albeit fictional versions of them) and I just knew, I would have been better for either of them.
I was so jealous. Reading those stories, I was half-mad with jealousy, that a fictional character (and not even a very good one, just a pretty, indecisive, silly female) would have two such fine examples of man to choose from, and I had nothing. I knew then, better than I could explain, that there were no lion-hearted kings walking this earth, no white knights riding out of the mists, just skinny gawky teenage boys with bad skin and worse manners. I wanted to weep; I wanted to believe I was weeping for Arthur, or even the destruction of Lancelot's morals, or the whole sad sorry ruination of men in general; but I knew it was for myself.
That was more than half my life ago.
Nowadays, I've been around just enough (literally *just* enough--our survey says, I've spent much less time shagging about than most people my age) to have proved myself right. Maybe I've only had intimate contact with a handful of men, but it's taught me more than one lesson I'm not likely to forget soon.
Men are pigs. Men are liars. Men are unfaithful, and undisciplined, and unknowingly destructive. They are greedy, and selfish, and shallow, and stupid, for the most part. They are generally not worth the time and effort you put into them, and they are almost always too dense to even be capable of understanding their own flaws.
And I think I've found one I want to keep. Unbelievable.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
My Ex's Blog
Is just a pure pile of unbelievable SHIT. I have never read so many lies, half-truths, made-up nonsense, and absolute fantasy all rolled into one mediocre journal entry. Many of the entries are nearly as imaginative as the one I read today, but that one seriously takes the Cake of Ridiculousness.
First of all. FIRST of all. First of ALL.
WTF does my boyfriend-in-waiting's name have to do with the price of crack in Sunderland? How is this remotely relevant? What does it matter? He changed it when he was 8 years old, for godsakes; I hardly think he was a hardened criminal by then. And even if he had been, it would have been a juvenile record, and no one would be able to find out anyway, so there'd be no reason to change his name in the first place.
As it happens, there are personal, family-based reasons for the change. NO, he was not molested--he's on good terms with both his parents, all his assorted relatives, he calls his mum and uncle at least once a week and his dad when possible--but, well basically, he's taken his mum's surname following his parents' divorce. His first name? He flat didn't like it, and it is WAY too common in this country, so he changed that at the same time. Hey presto, a name you can be comfortable with; and it's nothing to do with being on the wrong side of the law.
Secondly--WTF is my soon-to-be-ex-husband smoking? Because my BIW has never had a previous girl, he's going to turn into a crazy, uncontrollable, bad-tempered jackass because he might have a little more responsibility than he used to in the past? Oh, husband, grow the fuck up. Talk about viewing *everything* through the narrow, tainting, misanthropic lens of your own sordid feelings and experiences. Just because YOU can't cope with the reality of what everyone else calls 'life' doesn't make everyone else equally incompetent. Learn to be a fucking man, you spineless, mindless, whingy bastard, and if you can't, at least learn not to take shots at someone purely for being more of a man than you.
YES, I said it. Floppy fringe, gay accent, general Southern fairy behaviour notwithstanding, he is so much more of a man than you are. Moreover, he's a good man--and that in particular is something you'd know nothing about.
Oh, husband-who-we'll-call-Pedro-for-the-purposes-of-the-blog. Pedro. You misguided fuck. Will you never understand?
If you had been *half* the man he is, I'd never have looked elsewhere.
Moving on, to my third point; how much do you NOT understand this, at all? ''Seducing my wife;'' he couldn't seduce a newly-divorced 40-year-old with the lowest self-esteem imaginable, much less a young, pretty, reasonably confident woman. He'd crap his pants if he tried. He'd piss himself. He'd be a shaking, nervous, gibbering wreck--which I'd know, because I kissed him on the cheek once and he nearly fell over, OMG-WTF-RL-GRRL-style.
Don't kid yourself. Seduce your wife, indeed. You wanna look at that from the appropriate, and completely opposite, angle?
And, for my fourth and final point. "He's no Prince Charming...."
Too bloody right he's not. A prince would be like you and your useless brother, a couple of spoilt, selfish little kids, who sit on their lazy backsides while their mummy runs around after their 30-year-old asses, cooking and cleaning and making packed lunches and ironing their shirts and just generally shielding them from the harsh unfairnesses of life. A prince might be someone who, when he can't be arsed to work, goes on the sick for 6 months at a time, or lets his wife forgo university to get a full-time job while he's on the dole, or who can't fix a goddamn broken toilet seat for 2 years straight. THOSE are examples of princes. God forbid that I should ever, ever be stuck with one of those again--because princes don't want princesses. They want slaves.
Like fuck am I anyone's slave.
And like fuck am I some blushing maiden in a tower somewhere, while we're on that subject. I'm a WOMAN, in all the best and worst incarnations of that word. I am, in no particular order, a compassionate shoulder to lean on, a friendly conversationalist, a great fuck, a fun night out, an arguably more fun night in, a spirited debater, a tease, a good laugh, a possibly talented writer, a relatively logical thinker, a realist, a pragmatist, a dreamer, a romantic, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover, and potentially one of the finest examples of life partner anyone could hope to snag. I am beautiful. I am unique. I am capable and intelligent and interesting and likable and shaggable and so, SO many things you never took advantage of; yet all the while, you very much took advantage of ME.
Never again. That will just never happen again. I've managed to find someone who *sees* me, as I am, not just my good points, but also my flaws, and he sees them as they are. He sees the minutiae composing all the smaller facets of who I am, but he doesn't miss the way it all fits together. He is concerned with the little details, but he doesn't neglect the bigger picture.
I can well believe that someone like you, would have trouble understanding someone like him. But I'll try and put it into perspective for you; think back, 7, 8, 9, nearly 10 years... there was a girl, a sweet, shy, trusting, thoughtful, perceptive, intelligent, moral, unique, interesting, potential-laden girl, a girl like no one you'd ever met before, just waiting for someone to give her a chance to show them how fantastic and amazing she was, underneath all that shyness and lack of self-confidence.
Now imagine that it's not a girl, but a grown man, whose worst vices are a touch of Japanophilia and his love of a rousing game of Left 4 Dead, and whose attributes include all of the above, plus a hell of a work ethic, a sense of personal responsibility, and more general kindness than any man I've met before or since... and you'll kind of understand what I see in him.
No Prince Charming? No shit. He's more of a white knight; but instead of trying to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away, oh-I'll-handle-it-dear style, he's actually not rescuing me--he believes in me enough to help me rescue myself.
Don't you get it? It's not about whether he drops me in the shit or not, in the end... it's the fact that he knows, if he did, I'd just handle it. Because I am. Capable. Of running my own life.
He doesn't try to isolate, or bully, or manipulate, or coerce me into needing him--he wants me to *want* to be with him. Not because he thinks I can't make it on my own, or because I'm just a little woman and I need a big strong man to look after me and sort my life out--but because he's aware that I AM getting my life in order, and I'd like someone equally pleasant, and bright, and capable, and likable, and just plain fun, to share that life with.
And now I've found him. I have finally, maybe, no-chickens-counted-but-fingers-well-and-truly-crossed, found him.
And everyone who's got a problem can just FUCK RIGHT OFF.
:)
First of all. FIRST of all. First of ALL.
WTF does my boyfriend-in-waiting's name have to do with the price of crack in Sunderland? How is this remotely relevant? What does it matter? He changed it when he was 8 years old, for godsakes; I hardly think he was a hardened criminal by then. And even if he had been, it would have been a juvenile record, and no one would be able to find out anyway, so there'd be no reason to change his name in the first place.
As it happens, there are personal, family-based reasons for the change. NO, he was not molested--he's on good terms with both his parents, all his assorted relatives, he calls his mum and uncle at least once a week and his dad when possible--but, well basically, he's taken his mum's surname following his parents' divorce. His first name? He flat didn't like it, and it is WAY too common in this country, so he changed that at the same time. Hey presto, a name you can be comfortable with; and it's nothing to do with being on the wrong side of the law.
Secondly--WTF is my soon-to-be-ex-husband smoking? Because my BIW has never had a previous girl, he's going to turn into a crazy, uncontrollable, bad-tempered jackass because he might have a little more responsibility than he used to in the past? Oh, husband, grow the fuck up. Talk about viewing *everything* through the narrow, tainting, misanthropic lens of your own sordid feelings and experiences. Just because YOU can't cope with the reality of what everyone else calls 'life' doesn't make everyone else equally incompetent. Learn to be a fucking man, you spineless, mindless, whingy bastard, and if you can't, at least learn not to take shots at someone purely for being more of a man than you.
YES, I said it. Floppy fringe, gay accent, general Southern fairy behaviour notwithstanding, he is so much more of a man than you are. Moreover, he's a good man--and that in particular is something you'd know nothing about.
Oh, husband-who-we'll-call-Pedro-for-the-purposes-of-the-blog. Pedro. You misguided fuck. Will you never understand?
If you had been *half* the man he is, I'd never have looked elsewhere.
Moving on, to my third point; how much do you NOT understand this, at all? ''Seducing my wife;'' he couldn't seduce a newly-divorced 40-year-old with the lowest self-esteem imaginable, much less a young, pretty, reasonably confident woman. He'd crap his pants if he tried. He'd piss himself. He'd be a shaking, nervous, gibbering wreck--which I'd know, because I kissed him on the cheek once and he nearly fell over, OMG-WTF-RL-GRRL-style.
Don't kid yourself. Seduce your wife, indeed. You wanna look at that from the appropriate, and completely opposite, angle?
And, for my fourth and final point. "He's no Prince Charming...."
Too bloody right he's not. A prince would be like you and your useless brother, a couple of spoilt, selfish little kids, who sit on their lazy backsides while their mummy runs around after their 30-year-old asses, cooking and cleaning and making packed lunches and ironing their shirts and just generally shielding them from the harsh unfairnesses of life. A prince might be someone who, when he can't be arsed to work, goes on the sick for 6 months at a time, or lets his wife forgo university to get a full-time job while he's on the dole, or who can't fix a goddamn broken toilet seat for 2 years straight. THOSE are examples of princes. God forbid that I should ever, ever be stuck with one of those again--because princes don't want princesses. They want slaves.
Like fuck am I anyone's slave.
And like fuck am I some blushing maiden in a tower somewhere, while we're on that subject. I'm a WOMAN, in all the best and worst incarnations of that word. I am, in no particular order, a compassionate shoulder to lean on, a friendly conversationalist, a great fuck, a fun night out, an arguably more fun night in, a spirited debater, a tease, a good laugh, a possibly talented writer, a relatively logical thinker, a realist, a pragmatist, a dreamer, a romantic, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover, and potentially one of the finest examples of life partner anyone could hope to snag. I am beautiful. I am unique. I am capable and intelligent and interesting and likable and shaggable and so, SO many things you never took advantage of; yet all the while, you very much took advantage of ME.
Never again. That will just never happen again. I've managed to find someone who *sees* me, as I am, not just my good points, but also my flaws, and he sees them as they are. He sees the minutiae composing all the smaller facets of who I am, but he doesn't miss the way it all fits together. He is concerned with the little details, but he doesn't neglect the bigger picture.
I can well believe that someone like you, would have trouble understanding someone like him. But I'll try and put it into perspective for you; think back, 7, 8, 9, nearly 10 years... there was a girl, a sweet, shy, trusting, thoughtful, perceptive, intelligent, moral, unique, interesting, potential-laden girl, a girl like no one you'd ever met before, just waiting for someone to give her a chance to show them how fantastic and amazing she was, underneath all that shyness and lack of self-confidence.
Now imagine that it's not a girl, but a grown man, whose worst vices are a touch of Japanophilia and his love of a rousing game of Left 4 Dead, and whose attributes include all of the above, plus a hell of a work ethic, a sense of personal responsibility, and more general kindness than any man I've met before or since... and you'll kind of understand what I see in him.
No Prince Charming? No shit. He's more of a white knight; but instead of trying to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away, oh-I'll-handle-it-dear style, he's actually not rescuing me--he believes in me enough to help me rescue myself.
Don't you get it? It's not about whether he drops me in the shit or not, in the end... it's the fact that he knows, if he did, I'd just handle it. Because I am. Capable. Of running my own life.
He doesn't try to isolate, or bully, or manipulate, or coerce me into needing him--he wants me to *want* to be with him. Not because he thinks I can't make it on my own, or because I'm just a little woman and I need a big strong man to look after me and sort my life out--but because he's aware that I AM getting my life in order, and I'd like someone equally pleasant, and bright, and capable, and likable, and just plain fun, to share that life with.
And now I've found him. I have finally, maybe, no-chickens-counted-but-fingers-well-and-truly-crossed, found him.
And everyone who's got a problem can just FUCK RIGHT OFF.
:)
Thursday, 4 June 2009
I'm Sorry Again...
Again, I owe some people some apologies; namely, my in-laws. They are, without exception, some of the nicest people I have ever met.
They are also, the men especially, literally convinced they live under a family curse. A curse. A curse of bad luck.
I just don't know what to do with that. I was brought up to believe in God, and to have faith that all things work together for good, and... well... just that sort of thing. I pray before I go to bed at night. I quote Scripture, from time to time. I occasionally read my Bible.
And I absolutely DO NOT believe that the way forward, is to always assume everything is going to fuck up on you.
I understand that we all get slapped in the face by life, from time to time. I get that. I am reeling from blows that happened to me years ago.
Of course, I've ALSO been slapped in the face by my husband. That would be part of the point of why we're getting divorced. Because in the end, we're no good for each other.
He's certainly no good for me.
But I'm sorry that I've been angry and bitter about it. I'm sorry I want to blame his parents for his failings--it's just, I have spent so much of my life loving him, and although I don't anymore, I will always want to believe the best of him. That things aren't his fault. That with a fair crack at life, he would have been better, happier, healthier. Maybe he would have been. But NO ONE gets a fair shot at life. Learning to be an adult is about learning to just get on with it, in spite of life's crapness.
These last few weeks have been so hard. I haven't slept through the night once. I have doubted myself and doubted my ability to cope and doubted my motives. But deep down, I genuinely feel that this is the way to what's best for me and my kids.
We're gonna be just fine. And I'm so sorry that other people may be hurt to ensure that, but I can't turn away from what I believe is the right thing to do. What I can do is: lay off narky, snide comments, and expecting everyone to fall in line with my plans, and just doing what I have to do, with the least amount of hassle. Which is what I'll do from now on.
I'm sorry if I've been unkind to, or lost my temper with, anyone in the last few weeks. It's only proof that this isn't as easy for me as it sometimes seems.
They are also, the men especially, literally convinced they live under a family curse. A curse. A curse of bad luck.
I just don't know what to do with that. I was brought up to believe in God, and to have faith that all things work together for good, and... well... just that sort of thing. I pray before I go to bed at night. I quote Scripture, from time to time. I occasionally read my Bible.
And I absolutely DO NOT believe that the way forward, is to always assume everything is going to fuck up on you.
I understand that we all get slapped in the face by life, from time to time. I get that. I am reeling from blows that happened to me years ago.
Of course, I've ALSO been slapped in the face by my husband. That would be part of the point of why we're getting divorced. Because in the end, we're no good for each other.
He's certainly no good for me.
But I'm sorry that I've been angry and bitter about it. I'm sorry I want to blame his parents for his failings--it's just, I have spent so much of my life loving him, and although I don't anymore, I will always want to believe the best of him. That things aren't his fault. That with a fair crack at life, he would have been better, happier, healthier. Maybe he would have been. But NO ONE gets a fair shot at life. Learning to be an adult is about learning to just get on with it, in spite of life's crapness.
These last few weeks have been so hard. I haven't slept through the night once. I have doubted myself and doubted my ability to cope and doubted my motives. But deep down, I genuinely feel that this is the way to what's best for me and my kids.
We're gonna be just fine. And I'm so sorry that other people may be hurt to ensure that, but I can't turn away from what I believe is the right thing to do. What I can do is: lay off narky, snide comments, and expecting everyone to fall in line with my plans, and just doing what I have to do, with the least amount of hassle. Which is what I'll do from now on.
I'm sorry if I've been unkind to, or lost my temper with, anyone in the last few weeks. It's only proof that this isn't as easy for me as it sometimes seems.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Oh Dear...
THAT was a unique and special couple of weeks.
An update, to any and all who read this--THE DAY after I published my last post, my husband left abruptly, taking his computer, some videos, clothes, and a few books, and leaving me pretty much everything else. As a... gesture of goodwill?... he's replaced the PC, and I'm grateful for that. Even more, though, I'm grateful that he's gone.
You cannot imagine what it was like, living with arguably the most depressed man in England. He'd been treating it, with some effectiveness, through the magic of modern medicine, but the results were inconsistent, to say the least. And while I *know* that in these last few months, I've been responsible for some of his stress and/or suffering, I *also* know that our problems started years ago.
Like, the first time he lied to me. Which will have been about a week after we started talking... I've no idea how I got into a marriage like this, where the other party's greatest fault is chronic, habitual, unavoidable dishonesty. I detest liars, and everything to do with lying (mendacity... can't abide mendacity). But I digress. Lying is easily the root of the problems here, but in the end, there was a lot more to it than that.
Some people are just incapable of happiness, and it tends to run in families. I look at my husband, at his parents, his brother, and I see that sometimes, there are those who simply have no interest in the day-to-day business of just BEING happy. It's like they have no taste for it, they prefer to rage and scream and rue the day they ever did this/did that/were born. Miserable. Miserable, miserable people, who believe the worst before the best, and protect their own interests at the cost of everything else, and know nothing of forgiveness and openness and charity and generosity.
Isn't it funny how the word 'miserable' breaks down into 'able' 'miser'. I think that's the root of most misery, truly: an inability to be generous with one's heart/soul/consciousness.
They try. They do try, at times, to see the brighter side of things... mostly, all they manage is a vaguely philosophical shrug, before returning to the idea that they're better off alone, as a tiny, insular, antisocial little unit.
I will not be kept in their cage anymore. If they are happy living without friends, without interests, without the sparks of creativity and inquisitiveness and wonder that fire my imagination, then I'll just have to leave them to it. And even if they're NOT happy, the time has come for me to bid my farewells.
There are so many more things in this great wide world, than a feeling of dissatisfaction, and persecution, and general ill-wishing. I am going to find something else, something better, and I am going to spend every day of the rest of my life LIVING. I am through with the regrets that plague those around me--I will make a new life for myself, and by God, I will make it the best life it can be.
And I will learn (for I, too, was not fortunate enough to be born one of those perpetually cheerful souls) I will *learn* to be happy. To drink in each taste of life as it comes, and make the most of it. I will learn to savour the taste of all my experiences, taking the bitter with the sweet, yet not becoming bitter myself; and I will somehow, through some means, make something of myself.
I am hopeful. I am wide-eyed with wonder, at this new world before me. I can smell freedom, and it is the sweetest scent ever to tease my senses. The air itself feels like he gentlest touch of sunshine on my skin, and far, far away inside myself, I am... I am...
For the first time I can remember, I am, more than not... content.
An update, to any and all who read this--THE DAY after I published my last post, my husband left abruptly, taking his computer, some videos, clothes, and a few books, and leaving me pretty much everything else. As a... gesture of goodwill?... he's replaced the PC, and I'm grateful for that. Even more, though, I'm grateful that he's gone.
You cannot imagine what it was like, living with arguably the most depressed man in England. He'd been treating it, with some effectiveness, through the magic of modern medicine, but the results were inconsistent, to say the least. And while I *know* that in these last few months, I've been responsible for some of his stress and/or suffering, I *also* know that our problems started years ago.
Like, the first time he lied to me. Which will have been about a week after we started talking... I've no idea how I got into a marriage like this, where the other party's greatest fault is chronic, habitual, unavoidable dishonesty. I detest liars, and everything to do with lying (mendacity... can't abide mendacity). But I digress. Lying is easily the root of the problems here, but in the end, there was a lot more to it than that.
Some people are just incapable of happiness, and it tends to run in families. I look at my husband, at his parents, his brother, and I see that sometimes, there are those who simply have no interest in the day-to-day business of just BEING happy. It's like they have no taste for it, they prefer to rage and scream and rue the day they ever did this/did that/were born. Miserable. Miserable, miserable people, who believe the worst before the best, and protect their own interests at the cost of everything else, and know nothing of forgiveness and openness and charity and generosity.
Isn't it funny how the word 'miserable' breaks down into 'able' 'miser'. I think that's the root of most misery, truly: an inability to be generous with one's heart/soul/consciousness.
They try. They do try, at times, to see the brighter side of things... mostly, all they manage is a vaguely philosophical shrug, before returning to the idea that they're better off alone, as a tiny, insular, antisocial little unit.
I will not be kept in their cage anymore. If they are happy living without friends, without interests, without the sparks of creativity and inquisitiveness and wonder that fire my imagination, then I'll just have to leave them to it. And even if they're NOT happy, the time has come for me to bid my farewells.
There are so many more things in this great wide world, than a feeling of dissatisfaction, and persecution, and general ill-wishing. I am going to find something else, something better, and I am going to spend every day of the rest of my life LIVING. I am through with the regrets that plague those around me--I will make a new life for myself, and by God, I will make it the best life it can be.
And I will learn (for I, too, was not fortunate enough to be born one of those perpetually cheerful souls) I will *learn* to be happy. To drink in each taste of life as it comes, and make the most of it. I will learn to savour the taste of all my experiences, taking the bitter with the sweet, yet not becoming bitter myself; and I will somehow, through some means, make something of myself.
I am hopeful. I am wide-eyed with wonder, at this new world before me. I can smell freedom, and it is the sweetest scent ever to tease my senses. The air itself feels like he gentlest touch of sunshine on my skin, and far, far away inside myself, I am... I am...
For the first time I can remember, I am, more than not... content.
Friday, 15 May 2009
Who Feels Like Accepting My Apology...?
WOW.
I'm in the middle of an acrimonious marriage that's refusing to become an amicable divorce, is all I can say. That, and SORRY you guys. I'll apologise individually later, because, well, telling people to fuck off individually, by name, is one thing: naming them and giving details of who they are to me is completely different.
I don't mind offending people, but I'd hate to embarrass anyone by mentioning, say, how sweet they were to some random German girl, and listing that as one of the reasons I should never have told them to fuck off (because really, they are a lovely and often selfless person).
I don't mind calling everyone I know an asshole, but c'mon. I'm not about to start saying how sweet you all are, each in your own little ways.
Except maybe you, Dan (Daniel, indeed, lol). You are just enough of a girl, that I can probably apologise specifically to you, and mention all the gently inquisitive, tender, reassuring, amusing emails I get, every time you think I'm upset... thank you for all that. I'm very sorry I threw a fuck-you your way (naturally I mean a fuck-you that's not meant literally... I'd *love* to throw a fuck-you-fuck-me-let's-fuck your way, lol).
And do you know what? That mostly goes for the rest of you. You're my friends, and if I can ever manage to get myself disentangled from all this, you should hit me up. We'll see what happens.
For sure, I don't want any of you to fuck OFF... so please just ignore my last ranting nonsensical post.
I'm in the middle of an acrimonious marriage that's refusing to become an amicable divorce, is all I can say. That, and SORRY you guys. I'll apologise individually later, because, well, telling people to fuck off individually, by name, is one thing: naming them and giving details of who they are to me is completely different.
I don't mind offending people, but I'd hate to embarrass anyone by mentioning, say, how sweet they were to some random German girl, and listing that as one of the reasons I should never have told them to fuck off (because really, they are a lovely and often selfless person).
I don't mind calling everyone I know an asshole, but c'mon. I'm not about to start saying how sweet you all are, each in your own little ways.
Except maybe you, Dan (Daniel, indeed, lol). You are just enough of a girl, that I can probably apologise specifically to you, and mention all the gently inquisitive, tender, reassuring, amusing emails I get, every time you think I'm upset... thank you for all that. I'm very sorry I threw a fuck-you your way (naturally I mean a fuck-you that's not meant literally... I'd *love* to throw a fuck-you-fuck-me-let's-fuck your way, lol).
And do you know what? That mostly goes for the rest of you. You're my friends, and if I can ever manage to get myself disentangled from all this, you should hit me up. We'll see what happens.
For sure, I don't want any of you to fuck OFF... so please just ignore my last ranting nonsensical post.
Fuck you guys
No, seriously. Fuck every last one of you.
Fuck you, William. I know you've never done anything to hurt me, but hey, fuck you anyway. Douglas? Fuck you. I know you'd like it if I meant that in a different way, but fuck you. Daniel (I had to stop and think about your actual name, lol) fuck you too. Again, I'm not sure why, but fuck you. John? Fuck you. Just because, well, why not. David? LOL I would *quite* like to fuck you, but I think I won't. And Paul, FUCK you....
OH NO WAIT WE HAVEN'T DONE THAT IN MONTHS AND YOU STILL WON'T GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well. Just fuck me. THIS is my fucking life. And I don't have a single thing to say, and I'm still saying it.
...........................................
I think I'll just go to bed now... everybody enjoy the suddenly brighter aspect of the room I'm no longer in.
PS, If I've hurt your feelings, well, you've all got my number. Send me a text, and I'll either apologise, or I'll hurt you some more. Who feels like taking a chance today?
Fuck you, William. I know you've never done anything to hurt me, but hey, fuck you anyway. Douglas? Fuck you. I know you'd like it if I meant that in a different way, but fuck you. Daniel (I had to stop and think about your actual name, lol) fuck you too. Again, I'm not sure why, but fuck you. John? Fuck you. Just because, well, why not. David? LOL I would *quite* like to fuck you, but I think I won't. And Paul, FUCK you....
OH NO WAIT WE HAVEN'T DONE THAT IN MONTHS AND YOU STILL WON'T GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well. Just fuck me. THIS is my fucking life. And I don't have a single thing to say, and I'm still saying it.
...........................................
I think I'll just go to bed now... everybody enjoy the suddenly brighter aspect of the room I'm no longer in.
PS, If I've hurt your feelings, well, you've all got my number. Send me a text, and I'll either apologise, or I'll hurt you some more. Who feels like taking a chance today?
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