Stained

Why do girls always have to watch out for this gross possibility when contemplating the motives of that strange species, the young adult human male?

Actually, I wouldn’t be one of those girls. If that male had unpleasant intentions, I could handle. I’d know what to expect and I’d know how to counter it. But if his intentions were virtuous, I’d be at a loss.

Here’s one situation in which I panic. In a matter of months I’ve morphed into someone who is not accustomed to happiness. It’s not like I hadn’t aspired it, I reached out for it and I burnt my hand. Therefore, it is straight-up biology that my brain tells me never to put my hand near it again, ever. Not all pots are boiling water yes yes, but I can’t see beyond the bottom of the kettle see. Even if there isn’t a fire under it, I’m convinced it’s an electric kettle. I have no doubt in my mind that they are set there to hurt me.

This ridiculous fear of mine has dribbled onto other aspects of my life. Now I can’t even hold a hot mug of coffee witbout worrying that it might scorch my hand. Due to my ludicrous, maybe imaginary dread, I stick to cold drinks. I’m okay with not having variety really. I like things the way they are. I don’t want, much less need change in my life. My friends are enough to get me by my whole life. The last thing I need is to feel at a loss over what to think about him, what he thought about me, to discern from what he said and done what he might be thinking about me, where he was hoping things between us to go. I shiver with displeasure at the idea of this giddy happy delight… simply because I know I have done nothing to merit it. I am not deserving of happiness.I’d be more comfortable with a guy who’d come to me, earnest and forward, and say “I assure you, that I would leave you for no good reason in approximately 6 months and by then I guarantee you, that I have already been sleeping with some other chick.”That, I can handle because I’ve been there, done that, worn the T-shirt... twice.I hate the fact that they have left such a mark on me. I hate the idea that I’ve become so cynical when I’ve been dreaming of baby names since I was fourteen.

I hate the truth that I am so consumed by my obsession with keeping a distance that I probably am never again, able to trust and love like I know I could. Because I think that I have a lot to offer. But I am broken. All I have to offer are fragmented pieces of myself, so charred the carbon could kill.

Thrown for a loop

When flesh is born, it is sin as soon as it enters this world. Blessed with freewill, we are bound to make one wrong decision and tell one lie too many, scream rebellion at a parent in a holy hour or steal a wicked glance into the immoral.

A propaganda that burnt bridges from the future, an upheaval that resounded through ma’s heart, an indulgence too difficult to turn the other cheek.

And I want to say that trudging through this mud has been a great experience and that I’ve come out stronger and all that crap. But I’m broken on the inside, worry eating me alive and anxiety gnawing on my veins. I sleep at 5am. Three hours later I’m rubbing my eyes and pulling on my hair. My nose starts to itch and I couldn’t help but wish I had something I could hurl across the room. I want to scream and scream and scream and scream till I could not scream any more and feel any less. Remnants of my life is spinning around me but I wish they would just fall to the ground and shatter my burdens. My hands are twitching. I want nothing more than to chuck my laptop out the window and take pleasure in watching it smash merrily. But I cannot afford that luxury. I would just have to post this and rationally take my hands off the keypad after I turn on another 213 song.