Angoisse

So my recent angoisse has proven to be a consequence of my inclination for dramatic flair. I scrutinize situations to the extent that I no longer see the variegated sunflowers on the canvas and instead see the faint depressions that every brush stroke left behind on the oil paint. I am the one guilty of forcing superfluous meaning in the words of every written world. When my shampoo bottle instructs me to rinse and repeat, is that just a grand allegory for how we forget and wash away our morbid history only to be doomed to repeat our egregious errors? But with all of that said, the point is that I tend to react violently to situations that probably wouldn't evoke the same response to a less volatile, normal human being. I am cesium coming into contact with water, while most people are more on par with lithium. So now that I have some temporal distance between the myself and The Week of Horrifically Embarrassing Insecurity, I feel at ease. Most of that comfort is probably due to the fact that things ended up working out more or less. My personal life has taken the golden brick road to happiness and being utterly twitterpated. Part of me despises myself for being so terribly human in this regard and part of me does not give a rats ass about what jaded me thinks. That Kelly Clarkson song really speaks to my soul right now. I don't comprehend how I could be so incredibly preoccupied with another human. I used to be the one that would be highly judgmental and bitingly spiteful of people who were so invested in their significant other. Now that I'm on the B-side of things, I find myself to be cliche and vomit-worthy. It's ridiculous how much I care because it's not like we are anything specific. We both copped out of deciding where to take things and its as though we were practicing being politicians given how ambiguously and tangentially we spoke about things. I'm anxious and scared of how things will play out especially with the time ticking away till the term is over and summer is officially here. It also doesn't help that I'm abroad in the fall, so that would be a composite of about seven months of not seeing each other's dumb faces. My anxiety stems from the fact that I know that I'm already invested way to much and it would take more than government money to bail me out like it did for GM. I'm too attached and it's going to be like a persistent tooth-ache to not see him. So I guess I didn't really move past my angst. I just translated it.

The Deterrent

I'm not sure why this happens again and again, but once again I have made myself subject to cardiac pain. You think I'd have learned by now to be more cautious, more prudent, more sensible, or at least more skeptical. But I guess I've genetically inherited my father's romanticism, which includes but is not limited to a hundred red roses and the whole nine yards. Damn. As much as I pride myself on being a strong, independent individual, I find that I leave myself wide open for others to play with throwing knives aimed at my heart. And to no degree are these marksmen ill-intentioned. They just inadvertently seem to be blind and deaf to my futile attempts to talk them down from the violent sport. And much to my chagrin, my first instinct is to not find fault with the cloth that covers their eyes or the cotton stuffed in their ears, but rather to blame myself for not shouting in more earnest or for allowing myself to take the post as a target in the first place. I know better than to find myself culpable for the feelings of someone else. I do. Sadly, I am not predominantly a rational animal. I'm a sentient being, one who feels more strongly than she can rationalize.

So I've taken all of this grief, the disappointment, the pain and turned it into the most vile poison. Hate. Not for the sport, not for the marksmen. For myself. I feel ugly as though I've suddenly seen that I am not the fair lady but rather the wizened hag in the optical illusion. As though all this time, I've eluded myself to see the beauty when everyone else saw the crudeness. So I've taken up the mirror that magnified the surface of my skin twenty fold and have started picking. And picking. And picking. I've gazed into the pores of my skin, the dark pits of disdain, and at the fine hairs of my limbs that appear as insidious tendrils of shame. I prod and jab at my figure composed of infantile flesh and grimace. But all this hate directed outwards cannot hold a candle to the hate I feel for the very blood that runs through my veins and the very anatomy that holds me up to be the homo sapien that I am. Everything that is of my essence is wretched. Everything I touch seems to suddenly take life and run away from the thing it last touched. I cannot make anyone stay. Not my father and not him.