No matter how you spin it, if it’s looming over you, it’s bound to cast down on you. And so it will and as it does… you find yourself pinned down by it. There’s nothing wrong with loving the wrong person. It’s allowed, if not encouraged to all. Especially when you’re young. The tragedy comes with age. However, the more time spent doing the wrong thing the more appreciation applies when you find the right thing.
The false reality of love. Feeling like it’s there and it’s real, but in fact it’s not. It’s sex. It’s great sex. But because it’s JUST sex, there’s an emptiness that looms and hovers but if you keep having sex it will never settle.
Then, it stops. He leaves. You can’t have sex forever and the emptiness lands. You wonder what the fuck you’re doing. And you wonder why the fuck you are doing it. It is so clear to you.
As soon as he walks out the door, it’s not loneliness from him leaving you’re left with. It is in fact emptiness. You immediately check your technology to see if contact has been made by someone else. No. Never. That’s over too. You’re just there, empty.
How can I be empty – all I do is fill my life.
40 hours a week to work
50 hours a week to sleep
15 hours a week to yoga
10 hours a week to transportation
?? hours a week to facebook, paying bills, budgeting, grocery shopping, checking the mail, watching a movie, laundry, showering, brushing my hair, looking up something on the internet, picking out an outfit, putting on makeup, daydreaming, waiting..waiting…waiting…,
Waiting for my life to start, waiting for the next best thing. Waiting to fall in love. Waiting to have an adventure. Waiting to be the person I’ve always wanted to be. Waiting to start writing my book. Waiting to finish writing my book. Waiting to have enough money to travel.
I’m stuck in one big crock of shit. The walls are starting to crumble because I’m starting to care less about that shit. And care more about the moments in between. The secret moments I steal. For instance at work, when I’m actually happy because I’m not doing something related to work. Or I’m making the extra effort to enjoy my co-workers company versus standing alone filling out redundant paperwork which serves no greater good except as a tool of tracking and measuring – not of my progress as an employee but rather just to limit the time I use at work to not work.
I have a $400 down comforter. I have a $30 duvet. I never ate on my bed, or let anyone eat on my bed because I didn’t want anyone to spill. He always would sit on my bed to eat. I don’t have a table, but I do have two chairs and a lot of carpet. With time I eventually started eating on my bed too and now my duvet has stains. There’s one, big one, that stares me in the face sometimes. I am torn between giving a fuck and not.
My apartment is not “dirty” but it is messy. Everything is messy. I can’t keep anything in order for too long. First of all it makes me uncomfortable in extended periods of time. So I eventually start to drop clothes where they land and leave them there until a week or two has passed and I need to wash them, or step there.
If I weren’t leaving the country in 3 months I would march right over to Le Targeh and buy a new comforter cover. I would insist I need one to have a full life. While at target I would push my cart to all the different departments and convince myself to buy things out of my budget in order to live a life that fits into someone else’s. Then I would come back home and try on the new clothes I inevitably would buy and look in the mirror at the re-invention of me. Then I would kick all the other re-inventions of me aside to get out of the closet and into the light of the living room and the full size mirror.
Underneath the $19.99 pricetag, and $1.99 worth of material I would still be me. Still be a full body with an empty inside, because I was spending my time doing shit like that instead of anything of any sort of matter or concern to anybody in this world, including myself.
I am sure there are people who are perfectly OK with a life like the one I lead. To be clear – I’m not talking about people in 3rd world countries or any sort of “unfortunate circumstance.” I’m talking purely, and solely, about those on my plane. Other (American) (20 something year olds) who have the world at their feet, but refuse to put more than a toe in.
I want to write a book so true and so real that you can’t help but find yourself playing the main character in the movie. I want to make you cry because of the struggle and triumph the protagonist carries on through. I want to live a life of worth. I want to touch other people’s lives. I want someone to fall in love with me and think I am the most amazing person on this Earth. I want someone to believe in me, as much as they believe in their own self. I want someone’s life to never be the same again after they met me. I want a life worth writing about…
Right now I’m at a place where while I am waiting to leave I have great sex with a guy. The love is fleeting, the regrets are not tangible. The men of my past – you know, that ones that were “the one(s)” – are nowhere to be seen. It’s just me lost in my own purchased maze of consumerism.
It’s like slamming my hand in a toaster, over and over and over. I don’t know why I keep expecting different results. One day you just have to stand up and say “I’m tired of the hurt.” And throw the toaster on the ground and walk off….
2 thoughts on “Fuck You, Toaster.”
I wish I knew what to say to alleviate the angst i hear in your writing tonight. The answers are inside you, Duffy and for whatever reason you are not able to reach them. The novel is in you, but only you can let it out. While you say you want to change people’s lives, you don’t know that you haven’t already. or is it that you want to change people’s lives and have them come back and tell you you did so? We make a difference in the world every day, but rarely do we know what exactly we did because we don’t know what the other person’s need was that we met. Sad to say, but until you wrestle these things out for yourself they will follow you no matter how far away or how many times you move. sounds like “the boy” and you are intimate physically but not emotionally. Whose door is shut, your or his? there is only one door you can open and that is your own. Be brave.
This angst isn’t necessarily a bad thing. All this IS a wrestling match between me and myself. I’m reading this book that is really bringing a lot up. It’s a mix of things from my past, present and future and how I silenced myself a lot to fit in, and now I’m realizing that was not the right thing to do.
The novels are both coming out, but at a snail’s pace. The fear of failure is dissipating and I am seeing more clearly the reason I feel it necessary to share these stories with the world, which is the most important because let’s face it I live the majority of my life thinking “what’s the point?”
I am constantly learning and growing. I am actually really excited about the direction I’m headed in. Going abroad for a year is well welcomed. I think you think I’m running away from things when I move or travel, but I’m not. It shakes things up and puts it in the foreground. So really I feel like when I do stuff like this I’m running toward it so that I can meet in head on and then be quicker to move on.