Earlier this year, I was seeing someone (let's call him the man from Quarter-1) and I'd mentioned this page to him. My planning of putting two pieces a week regularly went out of the window as I spent all my time staring at the screen of my phone, alternating between giggling and going red in the face. My writing became sparse and for the most part, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because I was truly having fun. I was stoked beyond belief and nothing else seemed important.
I recall having a discussion with the man from Q-1 on this and he showed concern. He wanted me to keep pursuing my hobbies, when I was trying to decide if he was good enough so I could add fussing over him as a hobby in itself.
That explains a lot why that didn't work out.
A quarter of the year later, in totally bizarre circumstances I met someone else. The supposed man from Q-1 was out of the picture completely. I wasn't looking for anything at all. Despite that, this somewhat happened. This is the man from Quarter-2.
There were sparks alright, but not without the cloud of doubt. What were we doing? Were we doing anything at all? I could tell you if I knew, but to this date, I don't. The good part is, I've stopped trying to unravel the mystery.
Somewhere between action (and lack of thereof) and speculation, we began bickering more than I have argued with anyone, ever. I tried all possible rational explanations- maybe this is going to do more good than ever. Perhaps, we were going to come out so strong that we could take over anything. Maybe, it was all in my head.
All in my head, it was. A large fucking vertically challenged chimera, that's what.
In the process of trying to save someone and later save myself, I lost two months, my pride, emotional response and every shred of self-respect I had. I did things that my 16-year-old self would cringe reading (read: bawling my eyes out). To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was bawling my eyes out for a man, for employment, for academics, for myself but that is how I remember myself to be.
Every morning I'd wake up, I'd howl in the shower. This act on repeat by putting on a fabulous outfit, going to work, staring at the screen to slap the keyboard, and come back. I tried calibrating my life with the lipstick bait. One overpriced lipstick to get over a man, each time in case of an impending colossal heartbreak.
I was poorer by 3.5k and still fussing over the motherfucker.
Was this some kind of voodoo? The tears of my biological clock revolting at the idea of hitting snooze or just my hormones acting up? I don't know.
To this date, I have no idea.
I could say I'm doing one hundred percent great and over the trauma or past the drama but I'd be lying. The truth is, I allowed myself to built versions of things that were not said out loud, in a gigantic proportion. I allowed myself to think I deserve those things and I'm the rightful owner of all that and more, for once. I deluded myself into believing there's one such thing as a cinematic ending, for whatever it maybe- happy or sad or mellow or traumatic.
Instead, there was reality check. That version was akin to using Internet Explorer which you have deluded yourself into believing that IE is better than Mozilla Firefox. Explorer could be great, but not for you, especially when you need a snappy browser. I'm a wee bit traumatized from this experience, and for the most part unhappy that I put myself through this misery for no rhyme or reason when I could have just spent the energy trying to write.
Six months into this disastrous, fucked beyond measure year, I realized the biggest fucking thing about writing here, on this page. My Achilles heel to writing, and writing well, is love. Or something that deludes me into believing it is love. Or could touch, smell and react like love does.
That's it. It explains everything. Why I had six half-written drafts that I didn't have the energy to post.
A few months ago, a dear friend told me the shortcoming of my approach with online dating. "The problem with you is that you are looking for love and not for hookups."
I vehemently denied. Later, when another friend confronted me on my funk, I denied with utmost surety that love is not on the agenda.
"Motherfucker, what do you want? Why are you sad? What did you think you were going to do with this person anyway? Neither of you are in the mood to bone, you're not together and you don't want to have the burden of maintaining a boyfriend so to say. What the fuck do you want?"
Got me thinking, which it hasn't done in about two years. What is it that I really want- personally, professionally, physically and mentally.
I'm pleased to say it's been over a month and I have no answers. However, I'm more pleased to announce my return on this page.
Summer's over for the both of us.
But that doesn't mean we should give up on love.
I recall having a discussion with the man from Q-1 on this and he showed concern. He wanted me to keep pursuing my hobbies, when I was trying to decide if he was good enough so I could add fussing over him as a hobby in itself.
That explains a lot why that didn't work out.
A quarter of the year later, in totally bizarre circumstances I met someone else. The supposed man from Q-1 was out of the picture completely. I wasn't looking for anything at all. Despite that, this somewhat happened. This is the man from Quarter-2.
There were sparks alright, but not without the cloud of doubt. What were we doing? Were we doing anything at all? I could tell you if I knew, but to this date, I don't. The good part is, I've stopped trying to unravel the mystery.
Somewhere between action (and lack of thereof) and speculation, we began bickering more than I have argued with anyone, ever. I tried all possible rational explanations- maybe this is going to do more good than ever. Perhaps, we were going to come out so strong that we could take over anything. Maybe, it was all in my head.
All in my head, it was. A large fucking vertically challenged chimera, that's what.
In the process of trying to save someone and later save myself, I lost two months, my pride, emotional response and every shred of self-respect I had. I did things that my 16-year-old self would cringe reading (read: bawling my eyes out). To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was bawling my eyes out for a man, for employment, for academics, for myself but that is how I remember myself to be.
Every morning I'd wake up, I'd howl in the shower. This act on repeat by putting on a fabulous outfit, going to work, staring at the screen to slap the keyboard, and come back. I tried calibrating my life with the lipstick bait. One overpriced lipstick to get over a man, each time in case of an impending colossal heartbreak.
I was poorer by 3.5k and still fussing over the motherfucker.
Was this some kind of voodoo? The tears of my biological clock revolting at the idea of hitting snooze or just my hormones acting up? I don't know.
To this date, I have no idea.
I could say I'm doing one hundred percent great and over the trauma or past the drama but I'd be lying. The truth is, I allowed myself to built versions of things that were not said out loud, in a gigantic proportion. I allowed myself to think I deserve those things and I'm the rightful owner of all that and more, for once. I deluded myself into believing there's one such thing as a cinematic ending, for whatever it maybe- happy or sad or mellow or traumatic.
Instead, there was reality check. That version was akin to using Internet Explorer which you have deluded yourself into believing that IE is better than Mozilla Firefox. Explorer could be great, but not for you, especially when you need a snappy browser. I'm a wee bit traumatized from this experience, and for the most part unhappy that I put myself through this misery for no rhyme or reason when I could have just spent the energy trying to write.
Six months into this disastrous, fucked beyond measure year, I realized the biggest fucking thing about writing here, on this page. My Achilles heel to writing, and writing well, is love. Or something that deludes me into believing it is love. Or could touch, smell and react like love does.
That's it. It explains everything. Why I had six half-written drafts that I didn't have the energy to post.
A few months ago, a dear friend told me the shortcoming of my approach with online dating. "The problem with you is that you are looking for love and not for hookups."
I vehemently denied. Later, when another friend confronted me on my funk, I denied with utmost surety that love is not on the agenda.
"Motherfucker, what do you want? Why are you sad? What did you think you were going to do with this person anyway? Neither of you are in the mood to bone, you're not together and you don't want to have the burden of maintaining a boyfriend so to say. What the fuck do you want?"
Got me thinking, which it hasn't done in about two years. What is it that I really want- personally, professionally, physically and mentally.
I'm pleased to say it's been over a month and I have no answers. However, I'm more pleased to announce my return on this page.
Summer's over for the both of us.
