My mother once told me the same thing. She looked at me with a sad expression on her face and said, "Darling, you can have anybody you want." I didn't think she was telling the truth. Why would I do that? Why does this keep happening to me if she's right? Why do people abandon me, why do they take advantage of me, why do they make me so depressed? I've also never kept any of them. I just had them for a while and then let them go. I'm always letting go. The majority of the time, it is forced. I despise being in such a situation. I want to be the one who gets to leave others at the altar; I'm tired of always fiddling with my dress's neckline and worrying if I'll get my deposit back. That, I believe, is how it works. Because of the size of my heart. It's enormous. Thousands of individuals are in love at this place. Even those I met for barely 5 seconds 6 years ago. It's strange. Perhaps some people have a limit to how much love they can give to someone. I'm sure I don't. It's like a massive reservoir that no one ever visits. It simply sits there, sizzling in the sun and looking lovely. Except for one thing, no one wants it.
For a little moment, hearing that from my mother made me happy. Compliments accomplish this. Your brain works away at the happy thoughts like a woodpecker on a fucking tree after a short second of euphoria. They claim she's a liar. She sympathizes with you. She has to say things like that because she is your mother. Stop acting as if you don't realize you're ugly. You will never be wanted by anyone. And on and on, and on, and on. I want to shout and kick all the windows out. I can never get that voice to quit ripping me down and shut up. With that voice, I'm going to die. I'll be consumed by it, fall into it, and drown in it. My brain is quite clever in this sense because negative thoughts are accompanied by evidence that they are correct. My mind will remark, "You're so unattractive!" Then show me a speech or an action by someone else's hand that can be regarded as indicating that I am undeniably repulsive and repulsive. It does this every day, every day, 365 days a year, forever. Reruns, spin-offs, sister series, award shows, and wrap parties are all possibilities. I'll take care of everything, even the HBO remix, and the red gown.
I discovered that I, too, am a little compulsive. Well, I knew it wasn't going to be a surprise, but it was. I constantly get songs stuck in my mind, and I listen to music for hours every day, repeating the same songs. I constantly repeat my previous behaviors, obsess over what other people are thinking, and obsess over what I'm thinking. I continuously pick apart my thoughts, interrogating and putting myself on the spot as if I were in the Supreme Court. I'll approach my thoughts carefully and calmly as if I'm a divorce lawyer thinking about the kids, or I'll go scorched earth on them and scream so loudly in my head that I swear I'm hearing things.
Realizing that this is it is somewhat surreal. My thoughts will continue to do this indefinitely, and I must learn to control them or I will remain messed up. My current major issue is that fucking girl on the internet. You can get whomever you want, she replied confidently. So, how can I undo what he's done? What can I do to make him want me? How do I convey self-assurance over the phone? Do I dismiss him? Do I send him a different text? I don't want to do that; claiming to be someone I'm not would be dishonest. But being myself hasn't worked out so far; after all, that's how I ended up here, right? Is it necessary for me to be more aloof? Should I be less concerned? How do I go about doing it?
My mother also informed me that I ask too many questions, which is something that men despise. They despise it. It threw me for a loop. I was torn between two worlds, wasting away between a rock and a hard place, punch drunk and sickly. Do I appear to be quiet and submissive, asking no questions to meet someone? Or do I stay true to myself and bear the anguish that is inflicted upon me daily? At the very least, I'm being honest to myself this way, right? Is that all there is to me now? Is that you, the girl who asks people questions they don't want to answer? Is that all there is to me now? Is that you, the girl who asks people questions they don't want to answer? That doesn't feel like the right pair of shoes for me; I've always felt more at ease psychiatrizing others. It gives me a strange warm glow to be able to truly listen to individuals, then offer counsel, and have them express quiet satisfaction with my response. I'll hand it to them, and they'll stare at me with this close-knit respect that barely escapes their skin. That is what I live for. There isn't anything better. The sensation that you've looked into their lives and handled the pieces with great care, washing them in the sink and drying them with a towel. That's probably why I usually bug my family to tell me about their life. It provides me a lot of insight into who people are on the inside. My favorite subject to research is their ex-partners. Which ones did they like, and which would they return to in a heartbeat? What do they recall? It's incredible. I believe I'll end up working as a relationship counselor, a sex researcher, or something equally ironic. People will comment on how unique your topic of study is and what drew you to it. And I'll scratch my fucking head and say, Errrrr, I'm probably here because none of you have ever been in love. That makes me feel like an extraterrestrial. As in, from the farthest reaches of the universe. I'm from a planet that no one has ever heard of, yet everyone always praises Earth. They say things like, "The Earth is so amazing, I don't know what we'd do without it." I can't picture my life without it. And I'll show up with blue antennae, strange skin, and all that nonsense, and say, "I can." I'm sure I can. That is the story of my life.
I suppose I'll have to quit talking about aliens for the time being. It's too reminiscent of those old Simpsons episodes. The creepy ones. They were rather good. In some ways, they were superior to the ordinary ones, particularly when they replicated popular horror stories. Maybe I'm an extraterrestrial. I'm curious if one of the requirements for alien recognition is that one must appreciate such episodes. If that's the case, I'm not human.
I'm finished now. Let me know if you discover how to keep a guy in 10 days instead of losing him.....
Related: Same Old Mistakes
