Perhaps, just perhaps, the bloody bastard did get stuck. So apparently, today is- or yesterday was, depending on when you're reading this- international world boyfriend day. Now, disregarding the fact that I am free, single, disengaged and unattached, I think this celebration is one of the stupidest things i've ever seen on social media. Girls' posting pictures of the same guy, and causing a ton of drama, girls posting pictures of themselves and thinking it's cute or funny to advertise their loneliness in this manner, guys having to explain to girl number A, why girl letter 4 has his picture all over instagram, when the world knows that main chick quadrant Q just got pregnant last month.
It's a darn stupid day. Why do we even need a day to recognize the persons that we should already be showing appreciation to every second of each day because we never know when we can lose them? Wait, I forgot about Valentines' day; so rephrasing that question, why do we need another one of these useless, virtually meaningless days? Why do we need another? Answer me this. Now, if you celebrated NBD, more power to you, kudooz, yippee and hurray, but what I wouldn't mind celebrating is a day for lost loves, almost loves, and never even got close to loves.
We need a day to rant. A day to sit down and purge our feelings for the men and women in our lives that did us dirt wrong, or maybe even the one that we did wrong to. You persons in relationships and partnerships have it all, with your anniversaries and your valentines', and your national girlfriends' days, and you national boyfriends' days. What about the people that don't have wives, nor husbands, nor boyfriends, nor girlfriends? Have you ever known the struggle of having to sing both parts of a duet? Single, broken hearted people, need days too. So i'm starting this trend, today, is Happy almost-could have been-just didn't last- practically my ex boyfriend now- day, and boy, do I have a couple of people to rant about.
Now, while I do understand completely how easily this post can be misinterpreted, I simply, just don't care. Judge all you want, but I shall be heard.
Heartbreaks are a part of growing up, in fact they're a part of everyday life. You might have went to McDonald's and their ice cream machine wasn't working, or you might've broken your fingernail or even smudged your fresh do, your favourite team might have lost their match after you made a big bet and you've now lost all of your rent money. Anything, my point is, heart breaks happen... but the blasted things hurt, even though we know they are inevitable.
He wasn't guy number one, nor was he Mr. Wow, but CurrySauce was a good guy. We would laugh at jokes and speak for hours when he wasn't too busy or when I remembered to respond, and my, was he gifted. I had watched him grow from the corner of my eye for years before speaking to him on a level deeper than friendship. I had learnt of his heartbreak and tried to will him back into the person he was before the girl, whom I shall refer to as Duck, broke his heart... but I could only do so much. Despite the days when we'd hang out and we'd have moments where I felt as if I'd witnessed a glimmer of hope, a slight revelation of some sort, or change, by the end of the night i'd have been told why he can't continue to try to get over his past. Duck was still in his heart; and I would have understandingly let go, even of our friendship, because it was what's best... and a few weeks later, I would run into him at school one day smiling at some one that wasn't me, and perhaps, i'd think, he found his Geese.
He was quick witted and funny, smart and his accent stained the very atmosphere around him. "Say fish," i'd tease, "Fich" he'd reply. "Say chocolate," i'd say, "Schocolate," would be his solemn response. He was quick in his rebuttals, smart with his words, temperate with his hugs and fast on his feet. I'd have introduced him to his Holy Grail and helped him to become more than what he thought he was, which he would have confessed to me one night when I had successfully wooed him and tapped into his emotions. Bachata, was my second Hispanic obsession, the first I shan't speak of, because that was from a dark time when I was far too young to comprehend romance. There are photographed moments of us dancing to nothing and me happily gazing away while he stared at me, or perhaps it was through me. I'm yet to figure it out. I say yet, despite knowing that I never will because that's what ruined us. My need to decipher his being, make sense of every word and pick at pieces that made him who he was. He felt I wasn't strong enough to deal with the monster behind the man, without knowing that I had dealt with the monster everyday and was yet to meet the man. Bachata, would have left me emotionally one sad night and I too him, but only physically. I would visit him as a surprise one day and find that he'd met his Belle, or rather she had been there all long, to tame the beast and love the man.
Selfishness in my eyes, is a sin. And crazy enough I couldn't have seen this nasty disease that was embedded inside this human being. Can you imagine being given the world, not appreciating it, but desiring the ENTIRE SOLAR SYSTEM? This infant, this imbecile, this vagabond of a man, was just that. Selfish. I'm on the verge of erasing this whole thing, because I just am not sure if he's even worth writing about. Lifestyle, was a glamour puss. He'd brag about the things he's done, the people he's seen, the jobs his parents had, their condo, their cars, his friends, his abilities, and his days in the gym. Lifestyle, was an A1 snob, he'd met my sister, Jay, and I doubt she liked him much, not that she ever likes anyone, but I should have considered it. I should have heeded her unspoken words. For there would have been days thereafter, that i'd have been forced to witness him slink into his depression and be blinded by desires for things he could not have without being appreciative off the things he already did have. I'd have watched him be the ungrateful bastard he is, and I would've still cared. Why? because i'm pure hearted and it just could not have been helped. We'd only last a few months though, because I'd wised up and let go of his toxicity for good, finally, after knowing him for more than two years. I'm yet to see him get something for himself, or be something, or go somewhere good and beneficial to his well-being. Two birthdays have passed since I ended things, and he's still lost. I guess Ruth B wasn't the only Lost Boy in this realm.
And once I met a man who would make my words anagrams of his name:
"You're like a tatted artistic maniac, and the pain is your aphrodisiac. But you're slowly running out of open skin left to leave yet another beautiful scar... And you know that now. So you've started a new canvas even though the world knows that you really just wish to shed your old skin, frame it, and start repainting yourself again, instead of the canvas that's really just a rebound.
And the other crazy thing is, that when I think about it, I was a canvas too, except, instead of lines and shapes and vibrant colours that could possibly mean something, I have rushed, uneven slashes of black and white, and i'm bent at the edges and torn a bit from the attempt to erase a black line that's now the palest shade of grey.
And because you are still aware of the possible beauty you could have created from my canvas, even with the confusion and the tears and the bends at my edges, you've yet to throw me out.
You paint your new canvas, or reminisce on your inked art and then on the days, when you've forgotten your coffee and even on the days when your bare feet drag against the cold floors to get more, you stop for a second to stare at my confusion leaned ever so gently against the wall. And you'd slide down with your back against the wall and your knees to your chest and stare at me and you'll see that you've forgotten me. You've forgotten the reasons for the white lines: the happiness, the laughter, the beauty, the difference, the youth, the innocence, and the never fading willingness to be whatever you wanted me to be... and then you'd remember the dark slashes you put there: the fear, the pain, the anger, the sadness, the lost faith, the doubt, and the feeling of never being enough, even though you were the artist and you could've made this canvas beautiful.
And you'll stretch forth and hold me and trace your soft tipped fingers (because killers always have the softest hands) across that one sad faded grey line... the possibilities, the love, the dreams, the feelings, the could have been, the should have been. And while tracing, your finger will feel the raged tear and you're aware of, that you did.. and for a brief second you pity me , you pity yourself, you pity my heart, and you pity your self taught inability to have made it right, and then you formulate the excuses that it's too late to fix it, because, it's already destroyed, no matter, the white lines.
And a bit too aggressively, you'll toss my canvas back against the wall, a bit too close to the recycle bin. And you'll get up, grab your coffee, and continue on with your life until another day when your coffee gets cold or you needed just a bit more. And i'll sit there against the wall thinking that you'll continue me one day and even if you don't, I'll make you happy, even for a brief second, one of these cold coffee days."- I still think on the coffee days.. I guess you don't drink it anymore.
Sometimes you get close to forever, and you can taste it, you can feel it, you can smell it, you can see it but then.. you lose it... and it becomes almost. He was supposed to be my forever. Then he became my almost. My Ulach. Almost is never enough, because, almost, broke my heart.
I remember his voice, the first time I saw him, his haircut, and his eyes. I remember, the little things and I cherish them. I remember the way he'd look at me when I tried to hide my face which was covered in pimples back then, and he'd still think I was pretty. I got used to the comfort of his voice lulling me to sleep at night on the phone as we talked about things that we didn't know weren't even going to happen, but I wished upon stars and prayed to God for. He'd tease me about things I didn't know, and things only he understood.
"I love you," he said "Why?" I asked, "Because you're just like me," he replied.... He'd change though, and I guess ... I stayed like him, and maybe that's why he stopped loving me, because I wasn't as strong as the army now made him to be. Or maybe he just forgot the little things. Like me staying with him at the hospital when his friend got sick, or that time that we fell in the mud from him trying to be Hercules, or when we got in the fight over the trench. He says he remembered the first photo I sent, back when he cherished my smile, and he says he remembers the last photo I sent, now all he sees are my thighs.
Ulach was to be my forever. Almost, was to be my forever. I guess forever ended 9 months ago, after only four years. I guess forever, had some fine print that I didn't read. I guess Almost is the new forever. I could have written him books, from which he'd only glimpse a few words in the end, and here I am still waiting for even a paragraph in return. I've always been a writer, and the only swift, fluid movements, came from my pen against paper, transcribing my thoughts, but now he dates a dancer, and we all know I could never have been a striper. I watch from the sidelines as he glorifies her every move. I guess some forms of art are more intriguing than others.
Happy international almost-could have been-just didn't last- practically my ex boyfriend now- day to everyone who's played their part in my sad love story, and to the rest who will. Despite me telling you some of the sad depressing parts of this story, I must mention that I hold no regrets, I'll never go back, I beg no mercy and I've healed all wounds. Yes, I said it, heartbreaks hurt, in fact they can kill, but look at me, i'm not dead, and this is what i celebrate on international almost-could have been- just didn't last- practically my ex boyfriend now-day. My survival. Sure, I ranted, but in the end, at least now, i'm able to look back and see that whether I got hurt or not, I did good to someone, even for a brief moment.. Besides, can you imagine the things I can now teach my kids, the tales I now can tell, and the lessons I now can pass on?? This is just a part of the game, a part of the legend, and another beautiful part of une vie a plein bord - a life full to its brim.
this is the sin'derella project.
