Some Blog

Wash away my sins

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

I know what it looks like. I get it. I understand your point, but I really need you to stop. Stop talking to me about the 2% that exists because, as the past few days of writing here shows, it’s fucking with me. I don’t think I can do this for much longer. And we can’t go forward and we can’t go back, and all you have is that tone in your voice that makes me think. I tell myself the things that we both know, how the reality is that you need time and patience, being new to the game, and me, being the veteran, with the scars to prove it, I have to be kind and understanding. I have to be the mature person here for both of us because you have no idea what you’re doing, but as I sit here, typing like a fiend, I can’t help but resent the fact that I have to assume the role of the responsible one, by default rather than design.

They laugh when they hear, and they know that I will be fine, land on my feet as always. It’s in my way, my nature, my core. It’s what attracts the others. I will be okay, going into the abyss, coming out with a tan and a story about the great beaches on the other side. The risks, as always, are the times of my life.

I resent the idea that I am the one who would be shallow. It pisses me off that you place that onto me, because it’s what people have always done. I hate that being pretty, or pretty enough to be attractive, or attractive enough in the dim light of bars, makes me automatically different, and not different in a good way. After all this time, why is it that I am the one who has to carry that burden? I thought you would have known me better than that, and in the early hours of this morning, I was unable to verbalize what I was really thinking. Perhaps that bottle of wine had something to do with it, or maybe I was just too tired of trying to justify my choices again.

Time and reflection accord me the ability to state with clarity and assurance that I am not nearly as simple as you think. I am so above that, I don’t even think about it, because as much as you would like to think otherwise, I was raised better than that. I can see past what you think I see and delve deep into who you are and make up my mind. And it fucking hurts that you think it, that you think it at all and that you think it about me. Say what you will about strategic planning or about my refusal to consider an option that is not my ideal result, but at least I’ve never thought of you that way.