If I were to be really honest about things, I think I wouldn't be honest at all. Being honest complicates and confuses things and if truth be told, I don't know how to do that anymore. Be honest. Because the truth eludes me, still; or maybe it's staring me right in the face and I simply choose not to see it. Nelsonian blindness amounting to dishonesty. Or maybe it's obvious to everyone but me. Because if I really think hard about it, or rather if I remove the thinking function and leave myself with the feeling function, I would discover that nothing much or of significance has changed at all. And realising something like that scares me more than anything else in the world right now.
I'm not supposed to be this person, you know. I was never supposed to be this person. And I still don't know what to do about anything.
Well, nothing matters in the grander scheme of things so what the hell.
There is a sense of deflation every now and then, like a balloon with its air slowly squeezed out of it, an almost motionless, steady trickle. Damn sian lah is what we call it in Singapore. And that constitutes half the problem.
It hasn't been smooth-sailing the past few days. It was PMS a few nights back because I got my period halfway through touring the zoo yesterday (and ergo I was left bleeding without a sanitary napkin and the fucking toilet didn't have sanitary pad dispensers, how fun and exciting, not) and mood swings often come with menstruation. I hate being female sometimes. I almost hate being female all the time. What is the point? I have no boobs, it doesn't matter that people seem to think I'm attractive because I don't feel that way, and I am alone. I am not lonely, but I am alone all the same. It's never been about having someone, but the person that you have. Substance over form, substance over style. We fall in love with the most unlikely of candidates and you surprise the fuck out of yourself in the process. But then again, so fucking what? I am still female at the end of everything. And that really, really sucks.
Seemingly endless bus rides and staring out of the window, thinking thinking thinking. Still that girl with tears in her eyes. And to quote Khai, "She hung up the phone and cried, and cried, and cried."
And I'm only writing this because I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about any of it. I don't want to talk about anything to anyone - not right now, probably not ever. Because there's nothing left to be said anymore; all the meaningful words have been used up and we're left with nothing. So don't bring this up please, all of you. Don't ask me how I'm doing because I'm fine. We're all fine. I finished Julian Barnes' Talking It Over and I'm surprised by how unimpressed I was. For once, he didn't manage to make an unsympathetic, disgusting, morally-bankrupt and abhorrent character sympathetic. Oliver was a fucking prick throughout the entire novel and I imagine he'd continue to be a fucking prick throughout the sequel. How does a man fall in love with his best friend's wife, betray said best friend, marry his best friend's wife, and not feel guilty and actually feel justified throughout the whole thing? It's mind-boggling. The novel was disappointing. But it makes sense, considering it's one of his earlier works. I can't remember if it came before or after Flaubert's Parrot but yeah.
It astounds me, the kind of choices I made in the past. I wonder what in the world I was thinking. More importantly, I wonder if I'd ever feel that way ever again.
Aiya sian lah. Really. Bloody birthday this Saturday. I can't begin to describe and explain how much I hate my own birthdays.
At least I have a pretty dress, right? Right.
Also? I need to read Love in the Time of Cholera.