I throw up. I grew up with the Princess Diana syndrome - it's just not restricted to bulimia. there is so much more to it, I'd like to quantify it someday. I know too many women who throw up, so I would not call it odd. Sometimes, I throw up in my mind. It's quite real, for that time. Like dying in a dream.
I keep fumbling on my laptop and hurt my nails, spoil my manicure and wonder whoever reads on whatever?
Since the invention of E-mail, at my puberty; the most mails I have received, are from shoppers providing discounts - on everything inclusive of a penis, which I thankfully do not have!
Sometimes I think, how traumatic, to be born a man! How irrationally judgmental and demanding.
I often simply stare, never looking directly in the eye. I have learnt the coy glance without throwing the obvious coy look. My mother taught me that one, unconsciously, I suppose; she worked that look when my father's rich friends visited. I can not communicate, men have extreme reactions to a beautiful woman talking - either they are mesmerized or they are disgusted.
Women have the same reaction to a more beautiful women eating. It's offensive, you know. I often eat prior to leaving the house + all the alcohol keeps you full. I talk as little to the men around as I can - the fear of sounding too smart or too dumb rests on my shoulders.
I often act impressive, and impassive to their achievements.You know, all men, and I mean ALL men feel that women are dumb, in some way or the other. Be it your father, friend, brother, lover, pimp... they all talk in that annoying, 'don't strain your brain, darling' tone. They find it adorable that their knowledge supersedes a woman's ignorance on 'Kung Fu - grasshopper or a trojan in a lap top or the bonnet of a sedan'.
I communicate with people like I used to with my neighbor, through our tin telephones. We said and heard all we needed to hear and were happy. Es ist it. With all the Facebook, Twitter and Shittier crap.... people are on islands far away and on mind-lofts that are further distanced.
"I keep screaming into a void and till my words gather moss, rot and start to disintegrate.
I worry for all the unsaid, unheard things.
I now call thoughts things.
It's a kind of frightening cruelty that I seek to evade.
Eons ago, I read some soothing words somewhere, I search for that book endlessly.
I am an actress living my film in an aside. I talk to me too much now, in my head are debates, chaotic conversations and even accusing fights - sometimes a destinarian resignation that only comes form feeling physical pain.
I fear I may lose it, then I fear that I may not. That I may have to live with partial madness of a cynic and that of a drugged optimist.
I rewrite my story from memory, to fill the endless blank pages of my life with something sensational - to not let it seem mundane and a stupid waste."
Men are my subject of interest and exploitation. I am the USED. small gifts in return of bigger bargains. "it's a bad deal, Q, a very bad deal." "But I need a car, a chauffeur, a wallet, a hand around my arm, a pair of lips to talk about the world, bottles of alcohol, lines of coke. I have needs too!" I stumble and my throat swells in a overwhelming feeling to cry, instead I throw up.
Wise capitalist once told me, 'the value of a woman is noted by the amount of men she can attract and not sleep with.' I am d kind of woman wise men repel, and successful desperate empty hasty men want to admire.
And marry.
that is the worst! Marry, why in god's name would you want to marry me? Why?
"I do want to marry, sometime. but i don't want to marry you. For now, just learn to bang right. I'm quite tired of giving you instructions."
Between, did you not fall in love with me instantly because I was not the kind to nag you with the "M" word?
MEN ARE SUCH FOOLS. They always want what they can not have.
Wise capitalist once told me, ' women are most attractive, when they won't give a man what he wants.'
I would like men who are uncommon, ugly or carelessly rich. But which other woman won't? I hate cheap-stakes, talking about gifts always in future tense. Fabulous says, 'it's an ugly man's way of retaining a beautiful woman.... the carrot at the end of a string.'
Maybe, like her, I should get myself a job. something fabulous. like a writer, or a photographer or a museum curator - they all use such fancy words to beehive men. Something that makes men believe that their lives have a meaning, a purpose, a goal. Something that they can show off... " I am dating Y... who is the Director of Jamboreejumpings" or something as irrelevant on those lines...
Men, like women, want to marry a designation, a place, a skin color, a figure, a wardrobe, a kind of 'taste' in all things popularly good. Men pretend, just as commonly as women pout.
It's been a year since I have had decent sex. It's been a life time since I've had great sex... I may never have mind-boggling sex... Indian men can not have sex (leaving a handful whom I have not had sex with); with their, limping little poodle penises. And we live in the land of Kamasutra! Seriously. And they fucking blame a woman for faking an orgasm. what do u want us to do... get bored and go off to sleep over your sasquatch egos?
Maybe I should jump over the fence, get a pussy.
Maybe this living life business is just not my thing.
Maybe, I need to get a job, get a vibrator and get my own pair of happiness.
Maybe another Xanax will help me think clearer.
Maybe, I should go on weed or shrooms instead. Be a part of the 'green revolution'.
I am thinking and talking constantly. I am thinking woman. I am disturbed by the banal that people ignore. I too cry over Ethiopian children, I even buy Ethiopian cigarettes to help their economy.
Maybe, I should become a social worker.
Maybe make a trip to America wearing a saree. Europe has no money left.
I need to make a living; maybe get a man?
I read the depth in the 1,040 words above and I want to romaticize my illness as a psychosis. Maybe, I should write a book on the superficial genius of the charades within our deeply intellectual and financially opulent society.
Maybe I can title it - 'Society is dead.' And talk like a corpse, dancing in mirth.
Maybe I should consult a psychologist before hand.
Maybe retain the madness to elevate the bizarreness of the book.
Sigh* Smile*
I think I'm going to throw up again.
