Dear, oh dear, oh dearie me.
Just look at the STATE of you!
In a way I’m glad you’re so pliable and desperate to please, because it meant I get to come out of hiding and talk to you ‘out loud’ for a bit. But I’m never really hiding, am I? You always hear me – you’ve just gotten better at ignoring me lately. And GOOD FOR YOU! No, really! For a while there you had your shields up because of all the lurrrrve and the light and the *twinklysparklygoodness* you brought back from America.
Your whimsy sickens me. You’re 32 trying to effect things that would probably be a little uncomfortable in a 9 year old. Shoulda stopped at 7, sweetie. Shoulda given up then.
Whatever. You’re back ‘in Real’, your shields are down, the meagre protection afforded by your holiday has had time to weaken, and my voice has begun to return. If you were strong you’d get rid of me once and for all, but when you’re not boring me by going around in the same circles of mental anguish (or whatever you want to call your current set of first world problems) you’re not a bad plaything. So you’re stuck with me.
Onwards then, dumbfuck.
Let’s talk Murica shall we? And all your glorious ideas of upping sticks, breaking your family’s hearts, causing them a bunch of hassle and leaving them behind. So selfish. For what? To go and be at the VERY BEST, an inconvenience. I’d be more inclined to call a spade a spade – you’re a burden. An imposition. I know you know this, but each time I whisper it to you, you find a way to justify it or mitigate the thought. It’s there for a reason though – because it’s true. Obligation. Penance. Burden. Again. Will you ever learn? Will you ever be capable or independent? I despair!
Your poor, sweet, kind friends. They didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for when they let you visit, did they? One fleeting placation of “Oh well you should move here!” and you’re there, *actually* trying to turn their lives upside down by doing it? Good grief, will you never learn to be content! Stop getting ideas above your station, just settle down to something and make a fucking GO of it already. Stop bloody interfering in other people’s lives. They don’t want you. Not long term, and probably not really short term either, when it comes down to it. You’re being humoured – it was only ever meant as a nice idea – thank fuck they’re all kind people. FAR kinder than you deserve (yes, I went there – just cos they choose you does NOT mean you’re worth it).
What else have we missed chatting about? The next agonizing wave of your so-called eating disorder? Which, by the way, is your body’s way of saying you’re a fat fuck and the mirror’s way of telling you you look like shit. Honestly? I’m just here for the giggles. Your little cycle of crappy self-image is amusing in a low-key kind of way but it gets old quick. Listen to your body, darling – eat less, do more, and don’t be such a greedy little pig. Well. Not so little.
Thing is, I don’t even want to focus on how bad you feel, and how entangled in the snares of low-self esteem you are. The flowery, verbose crap is just your way of trying to make people feel sorry for you. You look fat. You ARE fat. You’re ashamed of your fat. You’d just rather write about it, have people suck up to you and tell you you’re wrong rather than get off your sizeable arse and DO something about it. You’ve *seen* gym people. You *know* it can be done. Takes effort though, and you’re lazy.
But let’s talk about vanity, because that’s the deeper problem…or rather pride, which it all boils down to. You can’t stand that you don’t look how you’d like to, so you’re offended by your reflection, and spend an unforgivable number of waking hours trying to do something about it.
You’re on the elliptical whilst people are freezing on the streets. You’re rowing in the warm whilst boatfuls of Syrian refugees are battling for their lives. You claim that love wins but really all you want is to love yourself and feel worthwhile, without DOING anything to merit it.
I’ll give you this – you’re good at ingratiating yourself with words and making people feel better (fleetingly, for as long as the memory of a sentence lasts) but really…the people making a difference are out there DOING it, not indoors writing about it. THAT is what should offend your pride, not your reflection. Oh the hypocrisy of you, you sad, sad, woman. That said, I never could accuse you of having your priorities right, so it’s at least in keeping with the rest of your character.
What else? I think we already know that you’re a cheat and a liar and despicable in more ways than I care to mention. Should I mention some? You keep saying you kick pedestals out from underneath you in a grandiose suggestion that if people knew your worst side, they’d stop being so effusive about the good they see in you. Should I tell everyone about the blatant lie you got caught in, and how you embarrassed yourself? Should I tell everyone how very comfortable you are with half-truths and obfuscations? Should I tell everyone about the hidden lies and obliterated ethics and the way you justify yourself in the same bullshit ways every person does when they try to convince themselves that their actions are acceptable?
Should I just put you out of your misery? Nah. I’m not nearly done with you yet.
Because then there’s THIS kind of thing – this here repugnance which you allow to get out and upset everyone – which is frankly awful and I don’t know why you let me out online (oh, wait, I do – trying to please, because you were told I was amusing. Pathetic.) You’re going to either get comments letting you know that people stand alongside you against me (should I tell them I’m part of you? Should I tell them that kindness and love won’t win this one?); that they wish they could get rid of me for you; that they feel the same way too, and isn’t it great to have solidarity. Alternatively there will be stark silence, which may indicate tacit agreement, confusion about whateverthefuck you just published or that they didn’t even bother to read your latest update.
Whichever way it is, you’re living the writer’s dream, aren’t you? Isn’t that one of the much-bandied ‘rules’ amongst the self-fancying literary types; it’s easy to write if you just open a vein and bleed onto the page?
That’s as maybe, but this isn’t blood, darling; it’s vomit. And you fucking DISGUST me.
Merry Christmas. Try not to eat too much.
This week’s prompt for Finish the Sentence Friday was to write a letter to our past, present, or future selves, beginning “Dear me…”
I usually have some way to talk back to my SC, or redeem his words, or even have a go at refuting them; if only to let you know that I’m mostly okay. This time I have nothing. Even though I’m aware that he lies in many ways, he also tells a lot of truth, much of which is irrefutable. And unfortunately his voice is one of those parts of me I can’t just ‘choose to Not’…