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I love men like I love French fries

I love French fries. I can never resist them. I don’t have to eat them every day but I don’t think I can go French fry-less for longer than a week.

Even though I’ve been told my cholesterol level is something I should keep an eye on, I still haven’t given up on fries or consciously start eating less of them.

And I’m not picky either. Of course good quality fries are the best but I’d settle for the typical supermarket sort. Hell, I’d even eat them cold. Not as good as when they’re hot but still fries.

As I was eating some cold, rather nasty-tasting fries from a fast food outlet, I was thinking to myself how awful they tasted because they were cold. And I thought how ironic that I would stop eating certain foods if I didn’t like the taste of them but not fries.

For instance, I eat bananas only if they’re of a certain ripeness. If it isn’t ripe enough, the taste is bland. If it’s too ripe it’s mushy.

Yet why don’t I apply the same principle to French fries? This lot was one of the worst I’ve had. And yet as I thought this, I kept shoving cold fries into my mouth. And occasionally I ate one that tasted semi-decent. But mostly that packet contained horrible ones.

When I’m in love, I would keep hanging on in a bad relationship even though I don’t like it. I’d think it’s a bad phase we’re going through. Though I mean to resolve or discuss the issue, then he does something nice and I remember why I fell in love with him. And I promptly forget the bad stuff until it happens again.

I’m at fault too, for continuing to eat the cold fries even though I know they’re horrible and so not worth the calories. I should’ve stopped, throw away the lot and either get fresh, hot French fries or eat something else.

But I don’t, because I paid good money for these disgusting cold fries. And I hope there would be some semi-decent ones among the fries.

So I eat and eat every shoestring fry until they are gone. And I am left alone to deal with the shame of eating cold disgusting fries and the misery of not having any fries to eat.

Alone again, naturally

This year has been full of disappointments. Plans that were made, cancelled. Friends who I thought cared about me, actually couldn’t care less. Everything I look forward to and cared about ends with me being alone.

What is it about being alone that I hate so much?

I think being alone means people don’t like me or love me very much. Worst of all, I don’t like myself very much sometimes.

So if the world hates me and I hate myself at the same time, who will love me?

If no one will, I think the world will be better off with one less unlovable person.

Yes, I sound suicidal but I’m not. I’m too cowardly and scared of pain to attempt killing myself. I have no confidence in myself of succeeding in suicide should I attempt it that the shame of failing to take my own life is a deterrent in itself.

Does that mean I will indulge in risk-taking behaviour? Yes.

Does that mean I will indulge in self-destructive behaviour? Yes.

It doesn’t matter in the end because I don’t feel loved.

I don’t mean people don’t care about me. I can name a few who do. But caring about me and loving me are two different things.

I just want to be smothered by love. Then maybe I won’t be so afraid of loneliness.

What’s too much information?

A few days ago I met up a friend for lunch at a mall. We parted ways after as I wanted to go shopping. I don’t mind company when shopping but only if the person wants to do it too. If they don’t, I rather do it on my own.

Later that night, we got to chatting and the conversation turned to what did I shop for. I told him I got a pair of jeans, some undies and bought dinner. He replied that was a little too much information for him and understood why I didn’t want him tagging along while I shopped.

Perhaps the latter is true but only because I don’t enjoy having someone watch me shop for things he isn’t interested in. It’s like I’m wasting his time if I made him do that.

As for the tmi part, it didn’t occur to me that the fact I bought underwear is too revealing. I mean, we all wear underwear (okay, some don’t). So what’s the big deal if I bought some and mentioned it? I didn’t describe the undies. To me, it was just a fact and has no sexual connotation to it. Maybe from his point of view, underwear is something private cos it’s what we wear under our clothes. And that he didn’t need to know that. (Well, he didn’t need to know I bought jeans and dinner but he didn’t have a problem with that information.)

On the other hand, there are guys (and some girls too surely) who openly tell people about their bowel habits. Now I find that personal, a little gross and not at all necessary. But I could use the same arguments I raised with the underwear issue. Doing number two is something we all do, so why am I uncomfortable talking about mine or hearing about other people’s?

I think the usual answer applies – different upbringing, perspectives, etc. But I wonder what does this say about me, that I find underwear an acceptable topic in a conversation but not number two.

The search for meaning

Lately, I’ve been plagued by the thought that my life seems to be absolutely devoid of meaning. Plans I’ve made, changed, leaving me with the realisation that I have no plan b.

I think this is my quarter life crisis.

A lot of things I want seem so out of reach. If I can’t achieve any one of them, then what is my life for?

I’m not suicidal, but I’m right now at a point where I don’t have the will to stay alive if I were in a life or death situation. I don’t feel loved and I don’t love anyone. I don’t think I make much of a difference dead or alive.

Maybe there are people who care for me, but that’s not what motivates me. I want to be loved, I want to love someone so much that I’d do anything for the person and feel that it’s worth it.

I feel like a hamster running in a wheel. Doing the same things over and over. Hoping something will happen. Things do happen without you seeking it, but I’m impatient and these things don’t necessarily turn out the way you want it to. So making changes in an attempt to find meaning may backfire.

I want more. I wish I know what exactly to do to get there. I want it to come to me, because the last time I tried to make something happen, I pushed too far and lost it.

Until then, I’m no better than a zombie. Trudging through life, trying to numb the pain, loneliness and despair. Just going through the motions. Hamster running in the wheel.

another end – but a different ending

“Like many people, I tend to get frantic when I think I might be abandoned again. I do destructive things: I hold on too tightly to whoever is in my at the moment; or I offer them a means of escape over and over again until they think I’m pushing them away. I’m so terrified of being left, and my core belief in that eventuality is so strong. When I realize how precious someone is to me, I give them every out I can think of. They’re going to leave anyway, I reason, so I might as well feel the pain now instead of holding my breath waiting for it to strike in the future.
And all the time, I’m longing for them to stay with me, understand and forgive me, love me in the midst of my fear and despair. Only someone who has experienced abandonment can make sense of such senseless behavior. And I’m afraid of myself. I live on the lip of insanity, and there are times when I feel myself sliding into that dark maw. I’m terrified of what I might become and of how I might appear to the people I love. Would they recoil from me at the moment I need them the most?”

- Elizabeth Kim, Ten Thousand Sorrows (pp. 214)

for some reason this quote really speaks to me. i have not read this book, nor do i intend to. from amazon, i learnt that the author was an orphan and her feelings stem from the abandonment she suffered during childhood as she was shunted from orphanage to various foster parents (i think).

i’m not an orphan but the fear i have and what i do when i feel it is strangely similar. i’ve been doing it since my teenage years and it seems i still do it, judging by recent events.

yet another friendship ended. of course i am partly to blame. it takes two to tango, right?

in the back of my mind i knew the friendship would not last long, it was just a matter of time. i thought we would just drift apart, as most dying friendships do, an unexciting ending.

instead, it was the opposite of unexciting. absolutely, unnecessarily dramatic. tears and anger and storming out.

i should have handled it better. we both should have handled it better. i guess we bring out the worst in each other.

the next day, i felt numb, hurt, wronged, betrayed. how could she do that to me? and put all the blame on me?

the day after, i e-mailed my apology, which was a little too late. she had removed all connections to me. and naturally did not respond to my sorry.

usually, at this point, i would feel angrier for being rejected. a convenient emotion to mask my pain.

this time, i didn’t. when i think of her, i don’t feel angry. i still feel hurt and wronged and betrayed.

i think it’s because i understood how my behaviour contributed to this ugly ending and by saying sorry, i took responsibility for it. maybe she felt it wasn’t good enough, but it’s more than i can say for her.

and it feels strangely liberating.

in all my previous endings of friendships, i never said sorry (even though i felt it) because i was too proud and hurt by what i felt they did wrong to me. this time, i did it differently and i’m so glad.

i’m not holding my breath that she may change her mind after cooling down. if she does, cool. if she doesn’t, also cool. we’ll both move on.

all that matters is that i know i tried my best and if that isn’t good enough for some people, then they’re just missing out.

when someone does something wrong, don’t forget the things they’ve done right. (read this somewhere.)

the worst i’ve ever been.

don’t know where to start. don’t know how to start. never thought i would be as depraved as i am. i’m ashamed of what i let happen because of cravings.

there’s no one to confide in because i fear being judged. even i am judging myself for what i did, what more if people actually knew what had happened.

i just can’t put in writing. it seems more real if i did.

it’s easy to think you’re better than most when you haven’t been placed in a situation that tempts you, enticing you with the things you long to have.

it feels like an addiction. it is in a way.

i need something to distract me.

we’re all on the hunt for something in life. when we wake up, we hope for a good day. at work, we seek more money, more power. at the mall, we search for the best deal.

i need to stop hunting. especially for the things in life that give me temporary pleasure but kills me inside in the long run.

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