my comforting acceptance
felt an ache, a throbbing kind of pain, the kind that runs deep, the kind i felt shortly before i realised i needed surgery, down the side of my right chest all day yesterday. went to bed considering the possibility i might not wake from my sleep, and that consideration was strangely comforting. more on that in a bit.
clearly, woke up nonetheless, with no inkling of any aches or throbs. i'd very much like to think it merely a back spasm, the kind that runs deep into your back muscles, the kind you get from an awful sitting posture. should be getting that checked regardless. just to be sure.
a patient goes through a few things after he's been cut. fear, first and foremost, the almost crippling kind of fear. the doctor does his thing and saves your life but fails to warn you about the impending tsunami kind of crippling fear and obviously hasn't taught you nothing of it, so you're none the wiser. you, the patient, are in your post-op-i-am-alive bliss, until you are released back into the wild come discharge day. then you realise you are a born-again baby, except this time everyone expects you to grow up doubly fast. i once was so scared my old ticker would simply stop when i went for a baby stroll that i broke down in tears, by the road. now i wonder which part of the 5 stages fear fits into.
i believe this also evidently means i've reached the final stage: acceptance. not sure i went through all 5 stages after i found out about ailing old ticker. definitely denial. definitely anger, although it came out as hysterical giggles and tears, in part can be entirely blamed on the pot i was still smoking. i can be so mindlessly suicidal sometimes. bit of bargaining, maybe, trying to buy myself some time before the inevitable. not so much of depression, like to think i'm not one to succumb to depression easy. definitely acceptance. i am ok, if i don't get to wake up tomorrow. i will not be beaten by fear again. if you want me, come and claim me, death.
it'll be a year, to the day, come next month. i should buy my scar a cake.
song of the hour: my new philosophy - you're a good man, charlie brown
fact of the day: look doc, me bad patient!
the creepy man
got a stranger come out of woodwork lately. apparently we used to know each other, or so he says. i cannot think of a better name for him, other than creepy man.
creepy man: is this (my name)?
me: yes, who is this?
creepy man: (his name).
me: who?
creepy man: (his full name).
err yea, very helpful that one, so i decide to ignore as pursuing identity of creepy man is proving pointless and i obviously don't know him, or at least don't remember. i'd check my little black book except it was chucked out 2 years ago. anyway, 5 minutes later...
creepy man: met you ages ago. maybe in 03.
me: not ringing any bells mate. where did we meet and what did we do? (i'm thinking if he's one of the lads i had a threesome with that'll put me in the right direction.)
creepy man: met you online, you were studying. (i asked what we did, not what i did. regardless.)
me: so we never physically met. what do you want?
creepy man: well, i have been away. now that i'm back i'm thinking we could catch up and be friends again. are you married?
there are a few things that's just plain upsetting here. creepy man never saw me in person but kept my number for 6 years. at what point in 03 were we ever friends btw? i have had the same number for a very long time. i did say i am at the marrying age. i readily gave my number to strange bedfellows. i was already promiscuous, although still questionable, at 20. a very trusting promiscuous 20 year old no less. those were the days. no matter, a day later...
(at midnight) creepy man: hi.
again, a few things very upsetting. creepy man thinks of me at midnight, probably wanking himself stupid. creepy man assumes i will reply to something as stupid as hi. as an aside, i reckon there should be a law against sending text messages of just hi. creepy man is lonely. and desperate. i keep a good eye over my shoulder now when i'm out late. just in case.
fact of the day: chum says creepy man is a loser. i concur.
music of the hour: meows of kitty next door, and my meows back
my sans plus one
got a mate getting married next year. actually, got two mates getting married next year, on the same day. actually, also got a friend getting married in november, and i suppose this is when it dawns on me - i am at that marrying age. fuck. and i am single. lovely lovely thought.
i have come to the conclusion that i don't fancy weddings, but will make my obligatory appearances i assure you (if you are mates in question reading this). i am somewhat comforted by the fact that after the wedding age comes the divorce age. and then the sick (more often than not) age. and then the funeral age (edit: i completely forgot the child-bearing age). i am also somewhat comforted by the thought of open bar, but slightly deflated i cannot drink myself stupid. i shall be the one sipping beers at the corner table, only ever so slightly sulking at my sans plus one.
where are you btw, my plus one?
wondered aloud with a chum how a virgin bride on the wedding night would feel and what happens if sex with newly wedded husband reveals itself to be more a chapter from blair witch than the backseat scene in titanic. chum pointed out that chaste bride has nothing to compare with, thus unable to make a proper assessment. chum made an excellent point, but however inexperienced, i'm pretty certain a girl can tell whether she fancies what goes on between her legs. i shrugged at the sad thought of clumsy people struggling to have clumsy sex for the rest of their clumsy sad sex lives, or so they have promised each other.
i tend to think marriage is quite a joke. my mother certainly didn't think very big of marriage. also tend to think people should have (very) liberated sex lives although these days i'm beginning to feel like a born again virgin. note to self: go and get laid.
found out recently someone i know has a sugar daddy and appears to have no shame to be a materialistic lolita. hmm. no, don't cue the i-want-a-sugar-daddy-too subtext. i don't want a sugar daddy; i am more than capable to feed myself and buy myself things. i may not be able to buy myself wildly expensive things, but things nonetheless. in my growing fit, i compared her to a whore. because technically, she is paid for sex. she's just paid for sex by one singular older perverted man, but paid for sex regardless. sure, one can attest some of the men i sleep with are old and pervs too, i don't go home with pockets full of gifts and cash. i go home with my dignity, and since i'm a simple girl with simple needs, that will do.
i'd rather eat glass than to be paid for sex. but check with me again anyway, in case you ever get wind that i'm in a crippling debt.
fact of the day: yes i am on twitter, still don't get what's so fun.
music of the hour: details in the fabric - jason mraz
got (chocolate) milk?
been goofing around online trying to set up various accounts to put my portfolio out there (my baby!), although rather terrified at the thought that anything put on the web can never truly be removed, which brings to mind a mind numbing headache. so, as an aside, decided to google my name, just for the heck of it. and the results was even more mind numbing.
not that i was surprised with the number of people with the same name, but the fact that all these people have some sort of facebook or twitter page linked to them immediately made me rather sick to the stomach, although i cannot be sure of why exactly. i reckon i was looking for an inspiration for a creative spruce i suppose; i admit i've been feeling rather dull (with my name) of late. but all i got was twittered with whinging about work and ramblings about cravings for unnamed chocolate bars to facebooked with equally mind numbing (pictures of) poses after poses of other (same name) in front of their macbook's camera.
really not sure why it irks me so, but it does, profoundly and excruciatingly.
tomorrow i will start my own twitter page. and show them how rambling is done proper. i wonder though if i bitch about twitter on twitter they might actually ban me from it.
music of the hour: grumbling about this facebook/twitter nonsense
fact of the day: met a black man, want to bed him and see what chocolate milk tastes like.
the war general
conversation with mate goes...
mate: hornball, who you eating this week?
me: no one, got to work. actually there's a mcdreamy i want to see but he keeps putting me off.
mate: haha, maybe he ain't too mcdreamy in real.
me: probably, or so mcdreamy that i'm relegated down the list with the number of sluts throwing themselves at him. i think very highly of the potentials before i sleep with them.
mate: you do that, it's easy to bring them down later.
me: haha, you know me.
mate: you're a war general, overestimate the enemy, and when you meet them, destroy them and go away thinking, they are pathetic. it's a classic war approach amongst seasonsed men who have led some of the biggest war campaigns.
note to self: must try not to trot all over men. i heard they have feelings too. note to all: i am a very nice girl, no really, i am. promise.
another conversation with another mate goes...
me: i saw (this fine specimen) last night.
mate: saw?
me: met.
mate: met?
me: had a drink with.
mate: had a drink with?
me: fucked.
mate: that's better. now tell me all about it.
yet another conversation with yet another mate goes...
mate: burp. drinking bubbles.
me: nice one, but aren't you at the office?
mate: it's friday, everyone's pissed. you're just jealous because you can't drink.
me: i've been drinking too much really.
mate: feeling suicidal are we?
me: as long as you promise to be at my funeral.
mate: you'll be dead, you won't know if i don't show.
lovely.
fact of the day: burp... two beers today. best shut up and watch the cricket.
music of the hour: my burps
