Someone called me a pig. Currently soaking in blissful belief that the intended focus was actually on 'BABE' rather than on 'PIG in the city'. Rather pleased with his generous compliment. Lovingly sticking pins in his photo.
"As sure as I am that any attempt to make me unsure ends in sure death that is as surely prolonged as it is painful."
"Since I surely have deserved such a painful and sure death yet surely have not received it, I presume you're unsure about your statement."
"Surely you can spot gracious mercy."
"I am unsure of your capacity for mercy."
I'm still worth more than five bucks but for a space of ten minutes I was so sure that if he'd demanded that I eat grass I would have eaten some mud along with it just to please him. He plays with words, too?? I love him!
Y'all make Meeting Someone Else sound so easy. I get to know new people everyday, but the falling in love part? How's that supposed to happen? Is there some sort of circuit I unwittingly left closed in my head so I can't switch off thinking about Mr X?
Some days all I have to do is stroll around and wait to be approached by weird strangers because I apparently attract that sort of attention. One afternoon a few months ago a balding old man initiated a conversation with me from which I learnt that he used to be a teacher and his daughter graduated with a degree in Economics and also became a teacher and his son is getting married and "What do you want to study? Law? Really? The long hours of lawyering will kill you! The attrition rate is really high! Firms suck young lawyers dry like bloodthirsty vampire bats! You still want Law?"
Har har. Doesn't everyone in The College do 18-hour days? Being a lawyer must be, like, vacation.
And then last Saturday there was a guy who kept pestering me for information that could readily be found on notice boards EVERYWHERE. He was pretty cute and geeky (Heh, geeks are hot!), the latter of which wasn't surprising because I was at a chess competition, but I flatly denied him attention because dude, this girl has someone else on her mind. Finally I took pity on his desperation, relented, and initiated the next random conversation with, "Do you want my phone number? So we can, you know, chat tonight or something." Big innocent smile. (I was so relieved when he stopped littering random and silly questions all over me after that.) With a transparent and failed attempt at concealing his eagerness he took down the number: "Six three eight nine, two thousand."
"Thanks." "Call me tonight." "Sure!"
I wonder if he called.
I would have liked to know how the conversation transpired, between him and the receptionist at the local mental institution.
Dad started driving before I could get in the car and for a few seconds I had a wheel on top of my toes. Ouch.
I'm sure tomorrow I'd be tempted to write something like: If I had to be run over by a car just to see Mr X again I would do so gladly! Over and over again!
Still, I wish I broke something so I would have a legitimate excuse to avoid him tomorrow.
Does anyone want to place bets on how long it'll take me to stop bitching about Mr X? My money's on, like, five years.
When Mr X and I were together, he once remarked that I was "barely scrapping through school". This is a statement I will never let him forget for as long as we both live because I am too grateful.
Upon hearing that comment, I sulked while he smiled and declared, "It's true!" and because I couldn't defend my wounded pride by quoting the E grade in Math or the F grade in Geography, I sulked some more. My sulking seemed to have an effect on him because he apparently downed an entire jar of honey and reassured me, "Don't worry, love doesn't depend on grades." And added as an afterthought, "But if it did, you'd be in trouble." I think I love him.
Being of the Just In Case religion, though, I refused to risk losing him because of academic inability and in the following term I topped class in terms of overall grades.
Then he dumped me. Asshole.
Anyway, the value of such a religion has proved its worth again more recently. Over the past week I'd been considering an overseas education for only all the wrong reasons, namely: To forget Mr X, to forget Mr X, and to forget Mr X.
To prove to myself that this endeavour was not a half-hearted one, last night I deleted every file on my computer that contained references to Mr X and spent the next five minutes feeling accomplished. And spent the hour after that in tears while drafting a letter to Kleenex requesting to be their poster girl. Later I remembered that, because of the abovementioned religious beliefs, I'd backed up every single file on a separate drive and so I immediately went about frantically duplicating those files.
My stupidity is astounding, but you have to admire my perseverance in attempting the impossible.
In which I decide that my date must also appreciate the Pirates II soundtrack
In the mornings before school assembly I always squirrel myself away in one of The College's lecture theatres (LTs) to enjoy the air-conditioning, the quiet, and sometimes the absolute darkness. This habit of seclusion was actually borne out of necessity: After Mr X ditched me I turned hermit and found many hiding places to go about setting a world record for proportion of lifespan spent crying. I truly believe that if there must be a world record holder for weeping in the three days following the break-up, it would be me with my perfect score.
There's a piano in the LT whose keys one of my best friends W would beat up every morning, and if I had to put a finger on the most healing part of these periods of meditation it would have to be my utter pity for the abovementioned piano metal strings, the mettle of which is put to the test on a daily basis under W's unforgiving fingers. Even life isn't that cruel to me.
This morning before W arrived there was someone else already at the piano. From behind a curtain I listened to "He's A Pirate" from the soundtrack of Pirates II!
Just bear with my ongoing fixation on Pirates II for just a while longer, y'all. And I was SO! CERTAIN! that the pianist was witty and dashing and kissable. Also probably strippable. A head taller than me; rowdy hair; long slender fingers like Mr X's; probably owns a cute ass and a fat wallet. I held my breath for a while and then started making these little mmmming sounds thinking that maybe when he peers from behind the curtain I'll have the chance to tell him that the song he is playing? Absolutely sets the mood darling you can come home with me. RIGHT NOW. By the way, what's your name? Mine's Angelique but you can call me tonight.
After fifteen minutes of nerve-wrecking anticipation Prince Very Charming finally emerged from behind the curtain and left the LT.
Except he wasn't really... him. ):
And because I prefer sausages to taco, I was really, really disappointed.
Today marks four entire months without you. This month we've communicated more frequently than we had had during all of the three months before, which I would never admit to being thrilled by. But every time you offer a monosyllabic answer you fill me with the overwhelming urge! to mail a hi-tech water balloon to your address, timed to burst when within inches of your face. It's sad how five minutes later that thought would be replaced by schemes to break into your house in the dead of the night to steal your fucking shirt, the one I now hate with a vengeance precisely because I liked it so much in the first place.
I think in the past month I've finally become completely honest with myself, resulting in the many blog entries honouring your possible demise. I had been angry at our post-break-up bitchiness, the kind of anger that stems from more grief and fear than annoyance itself. But this anger was dealt with months back.
This month I wrote scathing entries because I was angry, and rightfully so, that you brought up the possibility of reunion when such an intention was non-existent. And I'm not going to hide my resentment any more because I realised that passive aggression was even worse in the long term. Sometimes I wish you'd slapped me instead because it would be less hurtful and much easier to blog (i.e. bitch on my blog) about without sounding like a psychotic over-analysing ex-girlfriend, which both of us know is, of course, a false depiction of my true nature.
Me psychotic? Oh please. That must be the understatement of the century.
Recently I have found Orlando Bloom to be the solution to all my problems. He is the first person to truly make me see the possibilities beyond life with you, and it's pretty albeit a little brainless. For a few days I degenerated into a blubbering fool staring at Orlando for hours on end, and on the third day I needed intellectual stimulation so much that I started on homework and didn't stop until everything was done. (If any girl comes to me for break-up advice it will from this point onwards definitely include Orlando: Focus on his face long enough and your problems will solve themselves. It worked for me!)
In about ten days from now I will have to meet you at a function I tried to weasel my way out of unsuccessfully. I thought it over and, just to comfort myself, decided that I'd have to start treating you like a normal person one day, as opposed to constantly hatching plans to hint at reconciliation. I don't want to meet you precisely because I want so badly to meet you.
In late July I promised myself, for the sake of the sanity of all mankind, not to write sick, sick entries with lines like: "If you should chance upon this string of words could you please tie them around your heart? So maybe I can follow the thread and find my way home." because I realised that past entries written in such a -- Dare I call it 'style'? -- make me want to throw up my guts. Which will then throw up guts that throw up gut-puking guts of their own. Of course I still come up with such corny lines -- How else do you think I found that one? -- but whenever such unwelcome guests arrive I just inject caffeine into my brain and wait for the phase to pass.
Everything in life is just a phase until the phase of life itself meets the phase of being dead and digested by bacteria, and this realisation has changed me for the better in that now I would sooner post pictures of your crotch on my blog than keep my rage boiling inside just to save you the embarrassment. Now we're even. I don't love you any less but restraining myself from such catharsis unnecessarily shortens my lifespan, and maintaining the length of my lively phase is decidedly more important than your dignity. I really love you. Really. If I didn't, I wouldn't have thought of sending you that decapitated gingerbread man, now would I?
Eunice baked delicious gingerbread men and I obtained one of the decapitated ones from her just for you. I think now it should be clear how much I soooo love you when I tell you that I'd gone even to the length of packaging it in a cute pink box, complete with the "You made me lose my fucking mind!" lovenote, ready for delivery as a joke to maybe brighten up your day with thoughts of your lovingly homicidal ex-girlfriend. Let me emphasise that they were delicious, as in would-die-for delicious: Against-Mormonism degree of being Utterly Sinful. To give up the wicked delight that is ravishing said decapitated gingerbread man must be the noblest thing in the world.
However, the next day you pissed me off, so I ate the gingerbread man. Sorry.
"It's like the way you were when [Mr X] dumped me, you see. I'm just returning the favour. Except that I'm not going to give you chocolate... Well... Want a finger instead?"
"My computer can't die!"
"Have a finger."
"I don't want a finger."
"How about two? I can give you the finger, one on each hand."
"I don't want your finger. It'll be bloody and gross."
"You can have all ten of [Mr X]'s fingers. I could retrieve them for you. MY PLEASURE."
It's raining noodles! Hallelujah! And the noodles shall inherit the earth!
If you know me, pretend you don't. If you don't know me, don't pretend you do.
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