Saturday, 7 November 2009

How do you want me?

I am impossibly sad. Or fiercely angry. I can't tell.

In a timeframe of less than 2 hours, these two dated, dissatisfied men have done their damnest to eviscerate me.
[and the maddening thing is, their cruel tricks almost worked]*

The option, he said, is to find a family of your own and spend christmas with them.

Let me contextualize that for you:
I was bleating dejected trains about my building christmas dread, about the sniping and the point-scoring that sit down to dinner with my mother, my father and I.
How I hate Christmas, how it's so cold and sad here in this outgrown cocoon made for three.

And then he gave me the other option.
I must be a fool... I thought there were limitless options, permutations, scenarios, possibilities. I thought I could shoot into space as an astronaut, I thought I could tour Europe as a rock star, I thought I could sail to far off shores, I thought I could dive into bottomless oceans, I thought I could run marathons, race rallies, fire arrows, sail seas. I thought I could slay monsters (allegorical of course), bestride worlds, open doors of perception... or just get so high I look down on Heaven itself.

Oh no. There's only that other option. Find yourself a family. Spend Christmas, new year, next year, life, forever, with them. Cheat on them when you start circling forty and the disenchantment stings. Grovel like Hoggle when they find out. Play dumb, play dead, do it again.
That's why you're still single he quipped.
Time stopped. As he clipped the last syllable, that little phrase hurtled through spacetime, across the room, over the dining table like a quantum packet.
Time stretched. I tilted to read the left of it, it came closer, I bended further away, we all warp a little, jelly minatures on a wobble board.
Bang. It blew up in my face.

It doesn't matter to me why you think I'm single, it doesn't matter to me why I am single, it doesn't matter to me that I am.
What matters is that you think I should be double.

I can do this alone. I know I can... you're supposed to be a feminist, you always always said you were.
How do you want me? Am I to take what I can get? That's him you know. Him and men like him. Cheats, cowards, cravens.
You're supposed to love me Daddy. Don't make me take that.

*Not on purpose, never my intention, that's not what I meant, I didn't mean it/to, you misunderstand, you're reading too much into it. - These are not valid excuses and will not be accepted.

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