It's not that serious

Wednesday, May 15, 2024

I used to pray at the alter of success, but now I settle for used wet-tissues discarded by others like me. The ones who made it. I'm happy for them, I really am. If the girl who started this page at 15 met herself in the present day, she'd be aghast at the person she's become but we all settle. I had to settle as well. 

I have cribbed, cried, thrown tantrums, fought with the universe, made up, tried to make up and repair this broken relationship I have with fate, and then become hopeless. Sometimes I wonder if this resilience came to me with the second lease of life. Fighting for your life can be a lesson for a life, I suppose that's a success metric nobody can take from me. Covid - 0, Me - 1. 
It's my friend's birthday today. I remembered it every day for the past fortnight except it slipped from my mind last evening. I was busy drafting an important text, that took over 12 hours and multiple iterations. I think the last time I made so many edits to a text, it was my last freelance assignment many moons ago. She had to remind me to wish her. Then I spent the next two hours catching up on a call with her, followed up with my sister, and spent the next 30 trying to get Zomato to give me a refund for fucking her birthday gift up. 

For someone who spends over 50 hours weekly working on improving an app and its functionality and gets 0 credit for it, you'd think I would know my way around troubleshooting other apps. The thing is, I fucking hate dealing with dolts and only dolts thrive in this space. Or seemingly, find themselves in important positions. Pick any corporate leader working in the new media space and I'll show you what I mean. 

I spent almost over 30 hours being pissed mad at the boy. My friend at work understood, "I had to schedule my anger around ovulation so I could be rational about it and not let my emotions get the better of me," she understood on her way back from work. Being a woman isn't easy but scheduling anger outbursts to coordinate with your sister's move and the nerves and taking it out on the semblance of a partially available but reticent support system is a stunt only firstborn daughters can undertake. If I tell you what led to the outburst you'd laugh, or well, be concerned for how little it took for me to lose my mind. But again, I don't fret about the big things. 

I could fret the lack of response from both our ends on where we stand in each other's lives, or that we're going with the flow for a disturbingly long time as penpals but I don't sweat these things. I only sweat shit like dick-measuring comparisons, where I know the other person means no harm but how dare you cross that boundary and how dare you question your place in my life? I would go to war for you but I wouldn't let you make a joke at my expense where you compare yourself to my ex because are we even dating for you to do that comparison? 

He should consider himself lucky that he's cute. It's the era of KillaTrav himbos and mine fits snug like a rug in that template. 

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