Convalescence does not become me. I am sick to the bone of staying within the confines of my house, my chest imprisoned by bandages that torment me with their constant itch, the beginnings of a rash brought about by my medication. I hate my work laptop and the ever increasing number of e-mails in my inbox from little people scurrying around to execute the orders of overpaid bosses who swoop in to drop shit on projects that they hitherto had zero interest in. I'm beginning to hate the laptop I currently type on that promises me a vast realm of entertainment but keeps letting me down. War and Peace is fucking with my mind, I'm barely halfway through, and the red circle on the cover that proudly announces "A LIFE CHANGING NOVEL" mocks me endlessly. The only other partially unread book in my bedroom is a non-ficitional tome on the plight of African nations since breaking free from colonialism, a very good book in every right but depressing enough to make you want to spend the rest of your life living in solitude away from evil Man.
And I may have mentioned it before, I don't really enjoy watching TV (except for CSI, which isn't showing tonight).
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A friend once asked, "Why do intelligent women allow themselves to get dicked around by men?". Once I got past the compliment, I felt the too familiar embarrassment of having to struggle for an argument supporting my unhealthy addiction to D____. (Fortunately the question was asked in a club setting, over lime margaritas and vodka Red Bull, and hence didn't require a response.) The felling blow, one that none of my friends has been cruel enough to articulate, was that I had virtually asked to be dicked around. Not only had I let the cycle repeat itself over and over again, it was I who had initiated the process each time. At the end of each cycle I would be reduced to a mess of tears, regret, bitterness and anger, and yet within a few months I would willingly enter a new cycle again with the firm belief that this time round, everything would work out.
And now a tiny voice within me is trying to convince me to dial his number again. It tells me that it's only to find out how he's doing, it's only to show that the bust up was nothing more than a cathartic release that we both needed, that now all the cards are face-up on the table and we can talk openly, honestly, truthfully.
I have deleted all his contact details but his number remains etched in my memory. My only hope is that he leaves this country before I cave in to that tiny voice.
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Ok. The whining stops here. A yoga instructor once said that self-pity is the biggest ego trip, and rubberbandman is right.
And I may have mentioned it before, I don't really enjoy watching TV (except for CSI, which isn't showing tonight).
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A friend once asked, "Why do intelligent women allow themselves to get dicked around by men?". Once I got past the compliment, I felt the too familiar embarrassment of having to struggle for an argument supporting my unhealthy addiction to D____. (Fortunately the question was asked in a club setting, over lime margaritas and vodka Red Bull, and hence didn't require a response.) The felling blow, one that none of my friends has been cruel enough to articulate, was that I had virtually asked to be dicked around. Not only had I let the cycle repeat itself over and over again, it was I who had initiated the process each time. At the end of each cycle I would be reduced to a mess of tears, regret, bitterness and anger, and yet within a few months I would willingly enter a new cycle again with the firm belief that this time round, everything would work out.
And now a tiny voice within me is trying to convince me to dial his number again. It tells me that it's only to find out how he's doing, it's only to show that the bust up was nothing more than a cathartic release that we both needed, that now all the cards are face-up on the table and we can talk openly, honestly, truthfully.
I have deleted all his contact details but his number remains etched in my memory. My only hope is that he leaves this country before I cave in to that tiny voice.
========
Ok. The whining stops here. A yoga instructor once said that self-pity is the biggest ego trip, and rubberbandman is right.
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1 comment:
Don't call the prick. He's a fuckwit. You deserve better. Etc.
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