Weekend Wasted
Another weekend. Wasted. I'm trying to be good and do my work and not think of him, and I'm doing a terrible job. Yesterday I read through every postcard and letter and it reminded me how short our tryst actually was. It feels so much longer. And I haven't gotten my postcard this week, which makes me sad. It's about the only thing I have to look forward to.
Forward to which I can look?
Anyway, then I got dragged to someone's house for pizza and a movie, which of course had to be a romantic comedy. The whole time I kept thinking, why is that so impossible for me? Pitiful, really. And the girls talked about a friend who can't seem to let go of an obviously bad ex and I feel bad for her but I understand too.
And I woke up this morning and watched another movie about love, but it's French so it's not so sentimental and everyone isn't perfect. They love each other in spite of difficulty. So it's almost worse because I wonder why it's so impossible for someone to love me. I'm imperfect. Maybe too much. But I have feelings like everyone else even though I am constantly in the discard pile like the wretched three of clubs. If only I could have been a three of hearts, then people would want me because I'm so much brighter and the point value is higher.
And tonight I'll be dragged to a Halloween party and I don't want to go, but I can't say no because I don't want to be rude or pitiful and have people feel sorry for me because I have no friends. And I don't even have a costume, so I'll be forced to come up with something stupid that will make me feel self-conscious; as if I needed any help in that department. Last night I found myself hoping the pizza would give me food poisoning so I wouldn't have to go to this party. I will know 2 people there, and one of them I just met once. I don't like mingling. It makes me nervous. And in the back of my mind I will be wondering if he has called and cursing myself for leaving my silent cell phone at home. And I'll get home and there will be no messages, like always.
My chest hurts.
And look at all the work that I have neglected because I have been too busy feeling sorry for myself. I am not the artist that creates masterpieces from anguish and despair. Happiness is so much more inspirational. How sappy. God I'm a fucking jerk.
He says I need therapy. Maybe he's right. But I don't want to go. I don't want some self-righteous academian telling me that I'm not entitled to my feelings and put me on some dreadful medication that will push me out of my own body. And I don't want to talk about it with someone who doesn't know me or him or anything but Freud and Jung and god knows who else. They just wouldn't understand. I'm not a babe lost in the woods. I know what I want. I know how I feel. I know who I am. I don't need guidance.
I need divine intervention. God needs to fix this shit he started and give me a break. Fucker. He's like the Dubya of Fate and Kismet. He fucks up everything he touches, and the religious right defends him by saying shit like 'we can't know his plan' or 'he knows what he's doing, and we should just have faith' and 'everything happens for a reason'. Bullshit.
Another weekend wasted.
Forward to which I can look?
Anyway, then I got dragged to someone's house for pizza and a movie, which of course had to be a romantic comedy. The whole time I kept thinking, why is that so impossible for me? Pitiful, really. And the girls talked about a friend who can't seem to let go of an obviously bad ex and I feel bad for her but I understand too.
And I woke up this morning and watched another movie about love, but it's French so it's not so sentimental and everyone isn't perfect. They love each other in spite of difficulty. So it's almost worse because I wonder why it's so impossible for someone to love me. I'm imperfect. Maybe too much. But I have feelings like everyone else even though I am constantly in the discard pile like the wretched three of clubs. If only I could have been a three of hearts, then people would want me because I'm so much brighter and the point value is higher.
And tonight I'll be dragged to a Halloween party and I don't want to go, but I can't say no because I don't want to be rude or pitiful and have people feel sorry for me because I have no friends. And I don't even have a costume, so I'll be forced to come up with something stupid that will make me feel self-conscious; as if I needed any help in that department. Last night I found myself hoping the pizza would give me food poisoning so I wouldn't have to go to this party. I will know 2 people there, and one of them I just met once. I don't like mingling. It makes me nervous. And in the back of my mind I will be wondering if he has called and cursing myself for leaving my silent cell phone at home. And I'll get home and there will be no messages, like always.
My chest hurts.
And look at all the work that I have neglected because I have been too busy feeling sorry for myself. I am not the artist that creates masterpieces from anguish and despair. Happiness is so much more inspirational. How sappy. God I'm a fucking jerk.
He says I need therapy. Maybe he's right. But I don't want to go. I don't want some self-righteous academian telling me that I'm not entitled to my feelings and put me on some dreadful medication that will push me out of my own body. And I don't want to talk about it with someone who doesn't know me or him or anything but Freud and Jung and god knows who else. They just wouldn't understand. I'm not a babe lost in the woods. I know what I want. I know how I feel. I know who I am. I don't need guidance.
I need divine intervention. God needs to fix this shit he started and give me a break. Fucker. He's like the Dubya of Fate and Kismet. He fucks up everything he touches, and the religious right defends him by saying shit like 'we can't know his plan' or 'he knows what he's doing, and we should just have faith' and 'everything happens for a reason'. Bullshit.
Another weekend wasted.
posted by Ocean | 1:31 PM
1 Comments:
There is nobody there to feel pain. There is just the feeling of pain. Making it 'mine' perpetuates the idea that there is something to lose, or something to gain. This is not word-play, eastern, western, buddhist or anything like that. It's just how it is. As you absorb yourself in anything, even in your pain, your 'self' vanishes and the point is revealed. The point is not at the end, the why, the prize, the man of your dreams, it's at the beginning. There is nothing wrong with reality, all that's wrong is the feeling that you're somebody - which has to bring on pain (which is also fine - but a signal to change direction), as you try and hold it all together. Let go. Act as if there were no consequences. Certainly it's no movie, and thank god for that. And thanks for yer post.
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