I am not thirteen anymore. Haven't been thirteen for a long long time. I have had no secret diaries since. I show almost everything I write. And don't care what comes of it. I am unafraid. On a deeper level, I am aware and absolutely sure nobody cares. So.
I am not thirteen anymore. I can get a drink when I like. I can go to the park unaccompanied. Read forbidden books. But sometimes there is no reason to get out of bed in the morning. Or even open my eyes. Of course, I have a job at which I am seasoned at under-performing. But besides that, supposing I didn't have the job, I wouldn't get out of bed and rub my cracked feet on the bed-sheet and stare at the ceiling. And I've done that. Sat on the couch all day, watching TV, nonstop for hours and hours. I wouldn't allow myself a spare moment lest I start thinking.
You see, I ain't thirteen anymore. I've got real problems. Problems that have very difficult or no solutions. And I cannot gather the enthusiasm to face them at all. I am a sloth and cannot change. I cannot adapt no more, Diary. Dearest. My problems are mine and I gotta watch TV to keep it out of my head, I've discovered that's the secret to my short term complacence, if not joy, and I stick to it. With devotion and sincerity.
I compare myself with others. Not all the time. But when I do, I crumble into tears. Mostly in the washroom at work. Thank god for tissue huh. I just cannot figure out though what have I done not to deserve the happiness that is there in the lives of others aplenty. After I wipe my tears I promise I will be grateful for what I have, that I will manage my expectations, but I forget soon enough, Diary. What do I do, Where do I go.
I have this constant palpitation like thing in my chest. I fear I am missing out, on everything others are reaping benefits from. That I am falling behind. I would like to project joy. But I cannot. I stench of my own self pity.
The one who is not thirteen anymore
I cannot get over my obsession with cheap fruit. Ripe papaya, thirty bucks a kilo, bananas forty bucks a kilo, musk melon, thirty five, pineapple, again thirty. I buy a fruit a week, cut them up real nice, carry a fork with me wherever I go and eat them in the afternoon. Sometimes the papayas are slimy, the bananas are near black. But eat them still. I have always hated apples, and you can never trust oranges or grapes for how sour they might turn out to be, so I never prefer them. And pomegranate takes too long to peel and box and carry. So yes, I have my order of preference. With reason.
But why do I feel poor then? Is it because of my preference for cheap fruit? Is it because I am getting nowhere? Is it because I actually don't make as much money, as in cash. Or because no matter what I save, my savings are a pittance. Is it because I cannot make my money work hard? Is it because I have got no cushion. I am going to be middle class and work myself to exhaustion and a slow death, or a quick one preferably.
Is it because I don't have the clothes for it? Is it because my skin don't shine as much? Is it because I stutter when I need to speak of important things? Is it because I have zilch skills at impression management? Or because my growth in life is excruciatingly slow? Is it because I don't travel much? Is it because I end up staying home a lot? Is it because I don't pursue writing as much. Is it because of my fear of knowing that I ain't good enough on the surface or deep inside either.
Is it because of all this? That I find everything depressing. Endlessly so. And I distract myself with food and television. Or am I imagining my problems. Or am I just buying cheap fruit. I cannot remember which.
If only they would stop spamming me, I would be a better version of myself. The one who doesn't twist her thumb into the handle of her handbag slung from her shoulder while crossing the road. May be, if they stopped spamming me, my face would grow smaller and I wouldn't have this penchant for midnight smoking. If they stopped spamming me, I would get up earlier, sleep earlier, have longer days and on the contrary, longer nights as well. If they stopped spamming me 24 fucking 7, I would not have to distract myself constantly from what's important to me with the utter nonsense that consumes all my time. If only they stopped sending me texts about Ladies' Night offers and about cash back of three hundred bucks, or if I needed a motherfucking credit card, I would be less angry all the time. If they left me alone, if they just left me alone and kept that useless secret of how many reward points I had (couldn't care any less), or what stocks I should pick, or till when their mega sale is extended to, or how much discount they offer (no matter what I do, I am poor, poverty is my religion). If only I could find a way to unsubscribe and close the chapter. I send texts and mails and missed calls and never stop unsubscribing, yet they keep spamming me from newer avenues. They are tireless and I am dead. In the long run. In the short run, I am so exhausted and waiting for any leeway to allow me to become a better, less fucked up as this version of myself. I am.
If they just let a human being speak to me every time I called the customer care, I would be a far better person than I so pretend to be. If I didn't have to select the motherfucking language every time, each and every time and dial 1 and then 4 and then 7 and then 0 again and then 9 and then # to repeat the options because I was distracted and had passed into a coma by just dialing and then * to go back to previous menu, because there is nothing here. This menu is just as empty and pointless as my current life. And then call back again and again and then get lost in loops and hoops waiting to speak to a human being who could ask how they would help me today, yes that. But nobody ever. And once they do, by that fraction of chance in the cosmos, they fucking hangup before I have even begun asking what I need to know. You understand my misery. I doubt you would. My call is not important to you, so don't you tell me that again. They would sincerely wait for me to tweet them some shit and they would listen. Sometimes, not even then, that audacity. I am largely inconsequential woman, I get that, large and inconsequential, but I have earned the right to speak to a human being. Dontcha fuckin hang up on me, ever.
I just can't. Just can't.