On my 24^th birthday I stayed in, which was a pretty odd choice given my normal weekly (or sometimes daily) trips. But birthdays always seem to have a strange effect on me. They grip me by the throat and make my thoughts wonder off to a miraculous place called conscience, nostalgia, or whatever it is caused by. My mind starts doing the math of what I have achieved in my life and how I am living it. And it always adds up to minus zero. Rationally I could say I did amount to something. Work is going fine, even though I stay out late nights doing nothing, studies are fine as well. Could be better if I put in some more effort but who wants that? And socially, well I do have a lot of friends.

The pondering apparently takes none of that into consideration. The pondering leads me to other places such as: if I died, who would really care? Did I ever have an effect on anyone so that my funeral would not be unattended.

It’s an overwhelming, self-destroying thought, that pushes me towards the suicidal fragrance of life. Wouldn’t everyone be better off without the whole mess I create? Without the mood-swings that slumber around the corner ready to arise and take over my entire planet of solitude. And with my beliefs (none) the grief would end. At least for me. And thinking that anyone else would ever consider crying over me does not occur to me. Take my parents. I never was any good. I only caused trouble and still do. I try to do what’s right for them, but somehow my mother never agrees with what that is or what it should be.

So I stayed in, staring at some silly social network page, watching people giving me all kinds of crappy birthday wishes. People I hadn’t even seen for years seem to have not forgotten to open their site and see the reminder of my birthday. Things like that make me think: how many of them would actually remember my birthday without the foolish reminder on the right side.

And then it appeared. A hardly noticeable remark an ex of mine posted on my page. Saying only “happy birthday ;-) xxx”. An ex I had been with when I was 13, and who I hadn’t heard or seen since I was 17.

29-07-2011 om 21:27 geschreven door Remember Me  

I always lived a rather wild life. With the partying, the drinking and the sex. But it was always on my terms. I would go out, into the dark claws of nightlife. Having to explain myself to no one, I was able to stay out all night. To party on until the dawn of day, until the sun started piercing in my eyes and the liqueur soaking my every intestine took over my will to live.

Most nights out took place in a dark club, with smoky air and people dancing with their eyes shut. Or in some cases, wide open. You could see the people dancing around, like they were in trance. Captured by the eyes of a tall dark stranger that held his hand at all the wrong places. Not realizing that, with every finger rub they allowed to pass by their buttocks, lingering feelings were released and they came one step closer to being unable to say no. To being unable to leave the other person where they were and go home all alone.

I remember the nights it was me standing there. Nothing could stop me if I was looking to hook up with someone. And guys were so easy. Just look at them once, glare at them, tease them by kissing some random other girl and insinuating the possibility of a threesome. Some guys you could just go up to and start talking with, saying words that made their mind explode but did not promise anything. After all, I just asked some questions. A question I liked to raise as much as possible, to all sorts of people, at different times, different placed, with different amounts of alcohol running through their blood. And not once it did not work. Leaving the idea of a threesome hover in the air is a guaranteed night of fun. Guys are so easy.

Girls however take more work. At least around here. You see all these soaps where girl on girl action happens like nothing really matters. Like it is normal to go out and just fuck them then and there. However, I never ran into a woman who wanted to take part in these actions. Was it because I did not look gay enough? Or is there really a difference between men and women when it comes to one night romances with no strings attached?

I roamed around a lot, going from one person to another. With girls I made promises which I could never fulfill. With guys I just left some teasing phrase pass through my lips, and they were all mine.

Most of these romances didn’t last any longer than one, maybe two night. Through time, I lost track of the people I ran into, to people I seduced, or that seduced me. Because, although I say guys are easy, I’m not any better. I must have looked like an easy enough prey to unbridle their sexual desires upon.

I often think it was the freaky part of me that intrigued them. No one was able to get a grip on me, and the scars running down my arms were often not concealed. Once, a guy came up to me acting like we were soul mates because “we shared the same history”. I found it lame and never stood still by it, but was that a pick up line?

I look at them, through glazing eyes, piercing right into their minds. The careless interest that must have shown took a grip on them. I was able to just stand there, and keep their eyes locked unto mine. To draw attention to the better parts of me without it being sexual at itself. And yet, they were imprisoned in my castle without any escape route to follow.

26-07-2011 om 19:53 geschreven door Remember Me  

And then the dark thoughts arrived again. While playing music in the background, my thoughts are more unorganized than ever. The anger inside me explodes with every word that comes out of someone’s mouth. With every mistake they make, every wrong assumption of my life and how I should live it.

I don’t know from where the anger derives. I get pissed at every little thing and all my thoughts start swirling around. “Any of you fucking pricks move, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of ya!”*

And where do all these thoughts come from? Today I got pissed because I couldn’t explain logical reasoning to an 84 year old, demented, woman. She’s demented for crying out loud. It should be logical to ME that there is no explaining to it. That it takes more than just showing how it doesn’t work to get through to her. But I can’t. I can’t find the patience in me to repeat it 3 times. I say it once. And when she doesn’t get it, I lose my temper. And yes, I keep repeating it. In a hasty, crude voice that betrayed my filthy mood one too many times.

Sometimes I sit around wondering: is it really just a mood? Is it really just my temper that get’s the better part of me? Or is it just me? Am I this obnoxious shrew who can’t stand the sight of anything or anyone that comes in her way, and are the so indulging good periods in my lifetime the disguise of my own fixated personality?

When the dark thoughts arrive, derived from the empty nothing that goes on in my life, I feel the need to scar myself. The need to pick up a knife and carve right over my veins to see the piercing red blood drip from my limbs onto the floor or whichever is nearest by. The psycho in me gets this tendency to taste the blood and swallow it as a sort of soothing ritual to calm down all hopes and fears running through my veins, in vain.

Was I always this derailed? Scientific research shows that psychopathic behavior has both biological and environmental origins. So where did my eccentric personality originate? Was it running through my mother’s blood and did she pass it on at birth. Or did the insignificant little sperm cell, driven to infiltrate the unsuspecting egg, carry it along with him. Or her. Did my environment do this to me? Or is it ever too easy to put your own mistakes, your own misguided behavioral appearances, on the shoulders of those around you. Whether if it’s biology or just their influence.

Meanwhile I open my internet, just to see him online. Him, the only one who got me to grieve over him for more than half a year. The excruciating pain of watching him with someone else, of suspecting him to talk to someone else, has taken over all control. I try to restrain the thought of him not loving me. He once did. What could have changed? It lasted well over a month! But restraining the thought will not help me, since it is never going to happen, and I need to move on.

Is he causing this pain? Can it be that only one person I know takes over my entire operating mode and turns it into utter bullshit.

My thoughts stray again, and I ponder how to win him back. If not in a sexual way, than in a friend way. A “he was easy to talk to and I was able to share my every problem in a sarcastic humorous fashion” friend. Not one of those others where I AM the complete psycho and to whom I spill my guts when drunk. Not one of those who reason with me, listen to me and try to understand me, although I know they don’t. Not one of those that I put up a smile for, just because they feel their own pain and don’t need any other pain. But in the way we once were friends. In the way it once started.

And how I miss him. And how he completed me. How he filled a void in my life that I needed to get rid of, just by being him. Being the annoying, self-absorbed and childishly irritated dude he had always been. With his strange moods over ridiculous matters and his all overwhelming urge to correct my faulty grammar. With his sarcastic humor and his so-called racist comments from which it is still not clear to me whether he means them or not. With his marking my every CD or band I listen to. And how I miss him. And how I feel the need to text him “I miss you”. How it takes every restraining factor in me not to seek contact with him again. And how I just want him to say 1 word to me: f.o.r.e.v.e.r.
Or if possible 3: I.l.o.v.e.y.o.u.

But I can not be this pathetic bitch again. I can not reach out to him once again, like I did 2 months ago, when I sent him all explanations I could, telling him what he mend to me. Why I did not want to lose him. And why I hold on to him so tightly like he is the only thing that is keeping me breathing.

My thoughts are all over the place again. And for you, who do not know me, this is absolutely making no sense at all. So I should try to gather it and give you the full story of my life. Or better yet: the full story of my past year. The year before I turned 25.

25-07-2011 om 22:01 geschreven door Remember Me