 |
| My Floordrobe |
I have about 50 unpublished posts under my "Saved as Drafts" section. I feel that....uh, I have thoughts to share--only, these thoughts are not necessarily complete. I really hate that - the ideal of finality, as if a thought needs to come full circle, have some sort of epiphanic orgasmic-like revelation. But perhaps it does; perhaps, these conclusive thoughts are the only ones worth sharing, or at least that's what the model has been for eternity. This new revulsion for me perhaps stems from the fact that every Jesus, Joseph and Mary seems to be having their moment of clarity (and, as this blog is a storied witness, I tend to have these quite a lot) or perhaps it's because I just don't care anymore (Although, between you and me, it might just be a case of the green-eyed monster; he's been plaguing me a lot lately). Just like my college education, I'd like to think that these so-called epiphanies that I've so carefully collected and stored - like someone exhibits a vivacious bookshelf, displaying all the literature that explains how worldly and cultured they are - have actually benefited me in one way or another. Lately, however, I've been dealing with a bit of graduate's remorse. I'm not sure if college was really all that worth it. Now, if I choose to go down this road, I'll probably self-destruct - so I won't. Instead, I'll tell myself that it really was worth the time, stress and money because I met some really inspiring people (none of them peers). Similarly, I'll tell myself that my epiphanies (if they can really be called that) have continually helped me get to where I am. It's just that, when I read other people's epiphanies, I can't help but chuckle - then I realize what an idiot I've been. I quickly shiver and, as my tomato red face would tell you, I'm ashamed - ashamed to think that I've ever felt that I was one bit original or strong, even. I've realized, more than anything, how incredibly ordinary I am. Everything I think, write, read and speak has already been done. My next step is to accept it and move along. I'm currently exhausted with all the reading I've done lately, so I don't want to write - I hate writing. I hate writing, I hate reading, I hate listening. I just want to say that college really messed me up. University's freakish psychosocial experiment deconstructed my entire being; it destroyed me. Even worse, there was absolutely no compensation, they've offered no help in reconstructing me. This is when my social conscious should be kicking in - this is when I should say what a privilege it is to even be literate, let alone be a young female (prestigious) college graduate. The thing though, is that I care about nothing. I am bitter. I am numb. I am also happy. I don't like realizations, expectations, or exploration. I like literary nonsense, I like psychobabble. I care about visible collarbones and rib cages. I care about my mom and dad and sister and brother. I care about being absolutely ignorant because the other side completely destroyed me. I don't understand any of my friends, and secretly admire some really distant acquaintances. Music elitists are slowly destroying my love for melody and lyrics, I hate how much power they have. I like my bony wrists and hands - that's it. I work hard to make sure the rest of my body eats itself away. I am jealous. I am average. I'm a coward. I cry whenever I read any critique and I don't do well with rejection (does anyone?). And before anyone jumps to the love conclusion - I mean rejection from a strictly human level, as in, a rejection or critique of my human introspective qualms. I wish I could tell anyone who dislikes me, that they are right in what they think and if they can just leave me alone. I want them to believe any aversive idea because I'm the coward who cares too much and not enough. Truthfully, I should, really should delete this thing, but I'll settle for privatizing for a while. I'd like to think that I write these for myself, but a diary would serve that purpose more adequately. I write this so that my sister and my best friends can read. Nothing more, nothing less. The thing is, I'm not sure they do, so I've kept it open for anyone else to see. I've had some kind words and some other ones too. The apparent (and already so exhaustively discussed, ahh) problem with the Internet is the case of screen balls, where hiding behind a screen gives anyone authority on everything. In that, I wish to be the average, ordinary, in the midst-of-a million people crowd in Singapore, person. I hate attention and I hate being singled out. I just want to write out my nonsense so that my sister and friends will see where my head's at without having to actually say it to their face. If anyone has a problem with me, you win. I lose. Can we leave it at that?
I have two interviews soon: one for a company I absolutely despise, and one where I think I could be content. A few posts ago, I promised to never talk about this shit. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, self. I tried, I really did. Did I really? No.
