If You’re Reading This…

You have eyes, I guess. I’m not funny, I know that.

Anyway…

I was just looking through the music website I really like. I honestly have been wanting to apply for a long time. But I’m a cowardly indecisive little shit so, yeah. Then, I wanna ask someone if I should just send my application to the website, then I racked my head for a person… then asked myself, who would I ask, anyway?

I just realized that I don’t have a best friend.

The person who would know all your secrets, complaints, dirty laundry, all that shit.

I have friends, I have different groups. High school, college, work, and some online friends. My family, of course. But I really don’t tell them things. By things, I mean the deep, lying-in-bed-at-night stuff. I share important things when it’s kinda relevant at the time, and if I just really would explode if I didn’t tell anybody. And it depends on the person, actually. The result is it’s like I’ve given different parts of me to different people in the form of secrets and admissions. Kind of a horcrux. Maybe. That’s the only analogy I can think of right now.

I’ve divided so many things in my life that I didn’t notice that I did this, too. Divide secrets and feelings into different friend groups.

I think I’ve told more of the deep shit I’m thinking in this blog, which is kinda sad.

Maybe because I really don’t tell people things. It’s really hard for me to talk about my thoughts and feelings about things that are really, really close to my heart and are deeply personal.

Maybe because I don’t wanna burden them with all my shit (but if they follow me on twitter it’s kinda the same maybe. Haha.) and I’m just really better with written communication. That’s one thing I really should fix. Wouldn’t get that far in life if I don’t improve my crappy verbal communication skills. It’s easier to open up when you have time to compose your thoughts. When you’re not staring at expectant (or sad, angry, judgemental) faces. That kind of thing.

I’ve exhausted all my thoughts and feelings for now. All I wanna do now is listen to good music and watch the Perseid meteor shower. Or sleep. I don’t know. Whichever comes first.

Okay. Talk soon.

Keyboard diarrhea

I wish I could think about the future without wanting to cry and sometimes, tear my hair out. That this crippling fear can still go away, and that it would be replaced with excitement and most of all, certainty.

But surprise, surprise, (I say this with all the sarcasm I can muster, and trust me, I have a lot.) it’s not that easy. Every year it feels like it just gets harder. I grow old, and I kinda grow up, but the problems grow, too. Like those hydras, mythical creatures with seven heads and could kill you any minute if you take your eyes off of them. Cut a head, two will grow back. I just want to go back to days that my only problems were when I’ll eat next or how I’ll avoid taking a bath again; not money or dying relationships. Cry over boo-boos or when you don’t like dinner; not over not knowing who you really are or something that rubs salt in the wounds that your heart are trying to desperately heal.

I wish I know what to do. In general. How to move in life. How to keep everything afloat. How to deal with relationships. How not to fuck everything up. How to get back up if you fuck everything up. What I’m saying is, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing in my life. I don’t even know why I exist. At all.

It equally comforts and saddens me that come the year 3000, every struggle, fears, and problems I had–all of us had–simply wouldn’t matter anymore. That once you cease to exist, those will slowly cease to exist as well. Out of sight, out of mind. Ha. Why would it even matter, when we’ll all die anyway? It’s sad, but liberating at the same time. Mostly sad, though.

I feel like I could be pulled into different directions right now. No matter how different those choices are, it will take me somewhere I really don’t know what will bring. Stay or go. Leave the country, start a new life. Create a (almost) blank slate. As if that slate wouldn’t be already tainted anyway. God, I really like the new country, new life option, though. Could I pick that?

Ugh, when did I become such a fucking mess? How can I clean this up?

‘Kay, this is enough. Talk soon, I guess. Or maybe later.

How proper hygiene can sometimes break your heart: a study

“Can I put a toothbrush in your bathroom? I mean… I kinda always stay here anyway,” he said, looking hesitant as he waves a toothbrush around.
“Yeah, yeah, sure you can,” I replied, acting nonchalant, as if my heart’s not beating faster. Just because he wanted to leave a toothbrush. At my place. A sign of permanence, at the very least. A sign of commitment, at the very best.
“Thanks!” he replied with a smile as he went to the bathroom, presumably to put his toothbrush there.

Months went by and a toothbrush is not the only thing of his that is in my flat–shirts, CDs, books, even his goldfish–made its way into my flat, and life. That is until they’re not there anymore.

One night after a long day at work, I went inside the flat just to find it strangely clean. There were no shirts and socks lying around. His little makeshift bookshelf-slash-CD rack on my desk was cleared off. Even Fishy was gone. I then noticed a scrap of paper on the coffee table, with a hastily scrawled I’m sorry written on it.

I sat on the couch. I called. Went to voice mail. I texted. Just read. White noise was prevalent in the flat, when normally it would be filled with Kanye’s voice and sounds of laughter. I sat there for a long time, thinking about what went wrong–what I did wrong.

I realized that maybe nothing went wrong, that it’s just time for us to end, that our time is up. Nothing wrong with that, except for the fact that he didn’t have the fucking guts to finish it in person. I don’t have time for people like that.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t cry later.

After a long shower (or a long cry in the shower), I went to the sink to brush my teeth when I saw it. The toothbrush he left time ago.

He left his fucking toothbrush behind.

I almost cried again but no, I told myself, you wouldn’t cry over ghosting assholes anymore, you can do this. I took a deep breath and smiled a little. Took his toothbrush out of the little cup and put it under the sink with the cleaning solutions.

I needed a new toilet brush, anyway.

via Daily Prompt: Toothbrush