Writing about myself feels like pulling last week's leftovers from the bottom of the fridge & trying to convince myself that I'm still hungry for them. Except that there's an added element of danger in writing, because there's never the emotional equivalent of a bear trap lurking in your leftovers. There's possible food poisoning, but that's only risking a day spent on/near the toilet. Dredging up old memories to try & write about them--SNAP!
When I'm happy with my life, I just want to live it. Enjoy every moment, whether it's trying out a new restaurant with Wook-Wook, or smoking a cigar on the front lawn. I'd add in the occasional vodka tonic but it's not October 30th yet, so that will have to wait. Only 60 days to go!
The times I've been sad, or discontented, or furious? I just want them over with, & once they're gone, I want them to stay where I put them. I'm still bitter as hell over what I've gone through. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth to remember & it's draining. Why bother? Why not just let those memories sit on the bottom shelf until they've disintegrated?
What good does it do to remember how it felt to realize I was nothing but a body to the guys I dated? That sickening feeling of being flesh & only flesh, that it didn't matter what I thought or what I felt or what I hoped & dreamed for. That all was just a minor annoyance to deal with to them.
To remember that I failed a lot of my friends? I avoided phone calls & texts & made excuses so I could stay at home & brood. There was a sense of wanting to spare them from seeing me so depressed, but I know I pushed them away. That was me, not the depression.
To remember what I dreamed about having at this point in my life? I have the feeling a lot of people, even if they're happy with how their life is now, just like me, they still remember the "could haves" & get sad.
Why? Because it is bitter. And because it is my heart.
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