38: Trying to remember what it was like to fall in love and be in love with someone (Part 2 of 2)

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38: Trying to remember what it was like to fall in love and be in love with someone (Part 2 of 2)

My brain is once again alive with the tunes of the dead of night and so it will be impossible for me to sleep until I finish using up the creative juice in the bag for this post.

When I was fifteen, I set up a ghostwriting service on a site, where I ghost-wrote stories for clients and was paid for it. I dug up my past stories and took a look. Many of my clients had me write romantic plots or stories for them, which I happily did. At the time, it was as if I understood the magic formula to love. I wrote the stories. The clients were happy with the work. I was paid.

I used to look back on the stories a lot after I took down my service permanently. The stories I’d written would be with me forever. When I looked back on them, I remembered the tears I’d shed writing the important scenes and the incessant and urgent thumping of my heart when I was carefully choosing the right words to capture the intensity of a passionate embrace, kiss or look. I recently dug them up again and read through them. It had been a while since I’d dug them up, since I had been busy with life after the ghostwriting service.

It occurred to me that I could no longer feel the way I used to when I had chosen the perfect words to describe all those scenes. My heart did not race. There were no tears building up to the scenes, let alone shed. I could not relate to the characters’ pain and heartache. I could not feel anything at all.

At first, I was somewhat passively terrified, because I used to explore all my emotions thoroughly and experience all my emotions with fiery enthusiasm (but now only a few emotions come and go, and they’re not all that strong). I used to write from the heart when it came to romance. Looking at my most recent attempt at a novel, I am still writing from the heart. It’s just a lot more cynical and realistic, thanks to my new world views, I suppose.

I guess a lot has changed between being fifteen and sixteen.

All I can think of is that I used to enjoy being wildly in love with the people in my life, and now I only find solace in words I use to describe unworldly and unrealistic experiences a banal and boring person like me would never experience. I find it comforting to write about less intense things like short scenes of realistic life-like … wait it doesn’t make sense. I don’t know.

There was a time when I did not write every day like this, and that was the time I was able to go out and fall in love.

 

~ Serendipitous

P.S. I would not give up writing every day just to fall in love with someone again. Another difference between the ages of fifteen and sixteen.

1.42 am

~Time for bed~

And dreams which slip from my grasp like delicate thread when I try to write about them in my dream journal.

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37: Trying to remember what it was like to fall in love and be in love with someone (Part 1 of 2)

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37: Trying to remember what it was like to fall in love and be in love with someone (Part 1 of 2)

Nine years of age. A boy with dark ginger hair and freckles called you pretty and told you he had a crush on you. You were immediately “in love” with him, or at least smitten by him. You were only children then, and you were aware of those “relationships” adults had. You were only trying to replicate the “relationships” of the adults. Some months later, you found out he was “cheating” on you and had told another girl that he had “feelings” for her. You remember being absolutely crushed, devastated, crestfallen. The boy with dark ginger hair and freckles doesn’t count as your first love. You remembered being depressed every day for a while.  It was only when he left the school at the end of the year that you could finally learn to be happy again.

Ten years of age. A boy of exotic heritage caught your eye. Apparently he had had a crush on your best friend at the time. You were instantly besotted with him. Perhaps it was his intense, green eyes, or the way he showed you a lot of affection and only had eyes for you the whole time. You broke it off because you were afraid your mother would find out and punish you. It was so close to the selective test (only one year prior). It lasted three weeks.

Eleven years of age. A boy of Chinese heritage and sky-high intelligence in the grade above you walked into your classroom and began to teach your class about the new learning management system online. His voice sparked something within you. His smile was infectious; his wits were impeccable. You spoke to him more and more often. Eventually both of you had confessed your “feelings” for each other. You both caught the same bus home in the afternoons (except your mother was there to accompany you home, so you couldn’t really do much). It lasted a few months before he broke it off (you can’t remember the reason. Perhaps you were too incompetent for him). Just kidding, you remember. He didn’t want the relationship between you two to be broadcasted to the public at school. Nevertheless, you had a big mouth and you were too expressive of what was going on in your life. It was on and off for a while until it officially stopped in August, close to his birthday. You haven’t spoken to him since 2013.

Eleven years and seven months of age. A boy of Chinese heritage and few words but great knowledge of chess and technology (and in the grade above you) began to speak to you online. You never really spoke all that much in real life. You can’t really remember much of your online conversations, nor can you look them up because MSN doesn’t exist anymore. One or the other confessed, which in turn prompted the other to confess as well. You remember seeing him at school occasionally, and then rushing home afterwards just to jump online and talk to him. You wish you could remember what you both talked about. It must have been a lot about school though. It was ongoing until mid-2012. Strangely enough, while you were in a “relationship” with this one, you began to develop feelings for another.

Twelve years and shy of six months of age. You asked a boy of New Zealand-Malaysian heritage and status of class clown and most hated in school to dance because you knew none of the other boys in your class would ask you to dance. Strangely enough, he sort of readily agreed. You didn’t really think much of it back then. Rejection or exclusion wasn’t much of a choice back then. After three dances, you were in love. You can say that you were in love, because the feelings you had for him were like no other. He was on your mind constantly. You laughed at all of his jokes, no matter how poor in quality they were. He was the first person you looked for when you arrived at school. You watched him play numerous handball games. You watched him in class. You were so in love with him (even though you were also in love with your MSN chat buddy from the grade above. No, you were literally in a “relationship” with him and still you were in love with another. Screwed up.). You kept a diary during this time. You’d always be comparing these two. They were very similar in their interests, skills and passions. You were utterly confused. You remember seeing a quote of Johnny Depp’s, “If you fall in love with two people, choose the second, because if you were really in love with the first, you wouldn’t have fallen in love with the second.” It gave insight into your “problem”.  Nevertheless, you kept up your “relationship”, but also your crush on the boy in your class.

Twelve years and eight months of age. It was the last day of primary school. You’ll remember this day forever because it was December 16, 2011, and you were crying your eyes out in the last half hour of school. You were looking for him, your eyes wet with tears, your heart full of childish sorrow and longing. He found you instead, and you threw yourself into his arms. You found yourself desperately memorising the sound of his voice, the way his face looked, and you found yourself trying so hard to hold onto memories of being in class with him (you don’t remember his stupid jokes anymore). You kissed him on the cheek three times. He kissed you on the cheek once. His mother was there, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was being with him one last time because you knew there was a chance you’d never see him again even though both of you were going to respectable selective high schools which happened to be sibling schools. You wrote in your diary that you were his girlfriend from December 16, 2011 onwards, but as your current sixteen-years-and-seven-months-of-age self, you don’t remember this happening at all. You kissed the boy and still you were keeping up your “relationship” with the other. You may or may not have told him about your feelings for the boy in your class, but you don’t remember. He wasn’t angry. He was something else. He was fine with it. Perhaps, perhaps not. You will never know, and you’re okay with that.

(At some point between twelve years and fourteen years of age, he promised he’d ask you to be his girlfriend in year 10.

You’re still waiting. [I just thought it would be interesting to slot it in here.])

Thirteen years and one month of age exactly. It was Sunday May 27 2012, and you were on your way to English tutoring. You said something which made him mad. Was it on Facebook or MSN, you don’t remember. You began to have a heated argument with him. He didn’t want to talk to you anymore. He broke it off with you (quite violently, I’ll add, because the words he used were violent in meaning and I will never get over how angry he sounded over the Internet). You felt nothing on the bus ride. You were dead inside. You never cried over the fact that he had broken up with you. You felt regret because you knew he was a great guy. Afterwards, however, you felt renewed and free because it meant you had a chance with the boy who was in your class at primary school. You wished the boy a happy birthday because coincidentally, that day, it was his birthday.

It was a turbulent year. You were still desperately in love with him, yet he did not seem to return your feelings in the same way. You cried over him in your sleep late at night. You wrote short and sad stories on your phone, which are now lost forever since your phone broke and died. You were so in love with him, still. You waited at the train station for half an hour two or three times a week in the hopes you’d see him and be able to talk to him. Several times you got on the boys’ bus and just stood next to him, basking in his incredible shadow, exchanging less than intelligent words with him. You could feel the boys all around you give you curious or judgmental looks, but you were so in love with him that they did not bother you at all. After a while, you realised that he went on an alternate route to school just to avoid you. You stopped waiting at the train station for him, although at times when your bus passed the station, you would always be on the edge of your seat, your eyes searching the crowd for the boy with the pale skin and the prominent cheeks. Of course he was never there and a while after that, you stopped looking out the window for him.

Fourteen years of age. You found out he had a role in the joint school musical between your schools. For a time you must have been the happiest girl in the world because it meant you could talk to him in real life. You were so happy. You were still in love. You found out when and where the rehearsals were held, and so began the regular meetings with the boy you had been in love with since the end of primary school. You exchanged hearty conversation. To a certain degree, there had been some flirting. He was very tall now and his voice had deepened significantly. He had braces, just like you. Somehow these regular meetings made you fall harder for him. Once you were late home because you were so busy spending time with him and just talking to him. You made your mother worried about you, so much that she even dared to make a comment about your grades at school (your worst grades were in year 8, just letting you know). Once he rode the bus with you home, because rehearsals were cancelled and he didn’t hear about it. You asked him to get off at the interchange because you were afraid he wouldn’t be able to get home in time. Your stop was five or six stops after that. But he said one thing that will stick with you forever.

“No, I’ll go all the way.”

You’re inappropriate and sick. Well, you were, and you still are, but that’s what you were thinking when he said that. Of course, he didn’t mean it like that and you knew that, but still, you thought about the “other” meaning. He probably doesn’t remember it now, but you’ll always remember it.

You wrote a list of things you wanted to do for him. There are 47 things on the list, as far as your memory allows you to recall. You only remember what number 25 was. You wanted to give him your first kiss. You told him about this list. He’d always ask you about what number 25 entailed because you’d dropped hints that number 25 was “big” and “hard to do”. Eventually you showed him the list. He never asked you about number 25 ever again, although it did come up in small talk sometimes, but always as a way of flirting, you guess.

He had a rehearsal close to his birthday. You got up incredibly early that day and made him your favourite dish, pasta. You cooked a lot of it; you had enough to feed yourself, your two close friends and him. He still has that fork you let him borrow. It was the most pleasant of your high school days, you suppose. You were able to make him a fantastic birthday present. You were going to kiss him, too. You were going to give him your first kiss, but you saw your friends spying on you, and that changed your mind instantly. Although, before he did go, you managed to get in a hug, and that was fine by you.

You attended the musical on a Saturday night in June. You were feeling hot and bothered when he made eye contact with you several times during the performance. You nearly swooned when you heard him have his own solo part, even if it was just for a few seconds. The performance made you feel many things: anger, sadness, sorrow, yearning, melancholia, love and so much more. The musical was the one thing that made you fall even more in love with him. However, after the musical was over, there were no more rehearsals, and naturally he had no more reason to come to your school. And so, that signified the end of the regular meetings between you two, and ended anything that could’ve progressed into something else. Once again, you were depressed.

You wrote a novel about your fantasies, which involved both you and him. It was disgusting. You deleted it. You never finished the novel anyway.

Fifteen years of age. It was the best year of your life so far. You had few downs and many ups. You did not see much of him this year. In fact, you only saw him two or three times the whole year through arranged meetings. You were slowly falling out of love with him. You began to “wake up”. You had a mediocre crush on someone in your tutoring class, but it didn’t last. You’re best friends with the guy now – you can’t really see him as more than a best friend. Besides, he has eyes for another. You wouldn’t interfere. Anyway, yes, you didn’t see him as more than a friend at the time. Nothing really happened when you were fifteen. You were more focused on your studies then.

Fifteen years and ten months of age. He asked you to formal, and you honestly felt that you could rekindle things with him. You talked intermittently through Facebook.

Sixteen years and two months of age. A boy with long hair and glasses began to show up to some of your basketball trainings and would train by himself off-court. When your first coaches left you, he took up responsibilities as the new coach. You spoke to him online once from midnight to four o’clock in the morning. You obtained his number. You spoke to him quite regularly until you found out that he was also speaking to other girls in the team, namely her, the one you so despise. It made you feel uncomfortable and no longer special. It made you fall all the harder for him. It virtually shattered you when you realised he was unable to reciprocate your feelings. You never cried over him though. You were quite in love with him. You picked up the same interests he had and invested some time into making them your own interests. Eventually over time both you and he changed, from exchanging intellectual banter to rarely any words at all. Your notebook mentioned him many times, even though it did not mention his name. You were, for a brief period of time, considering giving up your first kiss to him. You did not, of course. As the months wore on, you fell out of love with him. You still have very minor feelings for him, but they are always instantly crushed and destroyed by other things on your mind. Both of you have not exchanged words for at least two weeks. Life changes, life goes on, and everything happens for a reason. You know that you were not meant to be together after all and it’s only just now that you’re starting to recognise and accept that.

Sixteen years and four months of age. You were a Trivia Crack addict. You played the game as often as you could, when you had data. Four months into being sixteen, the boy you had the longest “relationship” with popped up with a challenge. You forget whether you or he won. He eventually popped up on Facebook and began to talk to you again. He asked how you were, what you were going to study in year 11, and weirdly enough, he asked if you still liked him. You said you didn’t know because it had been a long time since you had seen him. He was stubborn; he did not accept that as an answer. Eventually you had to face the truth. You still did harbour some feelings towards him. He counts as your first real love and like they always say, you’ll always have feelings for your first love. You told him so, and he gave you a smiley face. You asked the same question as well, and he said relatively the same thing. You kept up conversation with him for a few months (until recently).

It wasn’t an arranged meeting. You saw him, and you were unable to approach him. You barely recognised him. Was he taller? You used to be taller than him. He gave you an empty look. It was not filled with love at all. Later, he told you that you had changed, and it wasn’t a good change. He said it was like you were expecting something from him every time you talked. He barely recognised you. You barely recognised him. Any hopes you had for rekindling the ashes of your past relationship were snuffed out like a flame. You saw him for the asshole he was, and you stopped talking to him. He asked you a question recently, but you answered curtly and left him alone again. You don’t want to interfere with his HSC, after all.

And now? Sixteen years and seven months of age. Devoid of emotion, empty inside, not remembering the rush of nerves and tingles whenever someone I was in love with was around. I don’t remember any of it at all. Sixteen years and seven months of age, I am convinced that I am incapable of love. Of course, I shouldn’t be letting a few bad relationships change my outlook on love, but honestly, that’s how teenage angst goes.

So I’m trying to remember what it was like to fall in love with someone and be in love with that same person, and I can only see tainted memories of my past selves’ naivety, innocence and happiness. Like in a lone movie theatre, I can see my memories playing out on the big screen. My past self looks so happy, so in love, feeling all those rushes of emotions that a person in love would feel. She looks happy when she’s around the boys she’s fallen in love with, but she looks so depressed and broken in her bed by herself. It’s as if I can no longer relate. I can only look in on a past world I used to be part of and can no longer be part of again due to my experiences.

It must have been a beautiful thing, to fall in love with the people that I’ve just talked about. Even so, I still believe that from the first encounter, I was always trying to replicate what my parents had when they were young.

Needless to say, I’ve utterly failed myself in doing so and I’ve built walls so high even I cannot climb over them. I see boys, I talk to boys, but I don’t fall in love anymore. The concept is so foreign to me that when I see couples holding hands, kissing or hugging, I don’t even know how to react. I just look away. I don’t understand it. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to understand.

Maybe it’s because I’m living in a world where as teenagers we have fun first before settling down and getting serious, but I’m skipping the fun part and going straight to being serious. That’s the only explanation I’ve come up with.

And even though I don’t think I can fall in love with anyone right now or for a while, my darkest fear is still falling in love with someone who doesn’t love me, and marrying someone for convenience rather than for love.

1.17 am

 

~ Serendipitous

Edit: 11.46 am

The song fits the mood.

36: Feelings (legitimate drabble I’m relatively proud of)

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36: Feelings (legitimate drabble I’m relatively proud of)

You’re standing crookedly, arms limp by your sides. Etched onto your face is a painful frown, accompanied with the wrinkling of your forehead. Rivulets of rainwater soak your hair and make jagged paths down your arms, but you don’t seem to notice this as your eyes are set on the scene unfolding before you. Embarrassment awash with anger colour your cheeks a soft berry red and you feel a wall of tears building up behind your eyelids, ready to burn hot and salty. Your fingernails are digging so deep into the palms of your hand, but you barely register the pain as you take a few steps back, exhale in an exasperated manner, and turn away. Your feet, seemingly made of marble, trudge along the painted lines of the court. Somewhere behind you, a boy shouts your name. You pull up your hood roughly, almost defensively. You complete making your childish path on the painted lines, and then you ascend the steps. The splashes resonate throughout your ears like a cold, unwanted reminder. You close your eyes and you hear the boy shouting again. Hot tears burn behind your eyelids, begging for release, and you grant them this as you break into a run, your feet no longer made of marble, but made of wings for flight.

Arms wrapped around yourself in an attempted warm embrace, you shiver. You’re sitting at a deserted bus stop, waiting for a bus that will never come. Loud music with meaningless lyrics blast through your ears; the only thing tying you to the music is the beat. One leg taps out the beat, and you unconsciously hum the tune of the song with minimal enthusiasm. Adrenalin rushes through every nerve in your body, mixed with the bundle of emotions and feelings you can only associate with abstract nouns like jealousy, sorrow and angst. All unjustifiable feelings, however, for you know that what you have seen should be open to interpretation…

You look up, and you really wish you didn’t look up. Why? Because they’re standing together at a bus shelter opposite yours, and they’re ever so close together. Her sweet and innocent disposition is the very bane of your existence. How could one person bring out so many of your own insecurities? In the pit of your stomach, acid simmers and explodes. Strange tingling sensations dance in your feet, strange tingles you can’t shake off because they’re numb with something that’s not the cold. You stand up so quickly you almost lose your balance, but no one notices. You withdraw deeper into the darkest corner of the bus shelter, willing yourself to be inconspicuous. You feel yourself internally cringing as you see her more than exaggerated public displays of affection towards him, and even though your glasses are speckled with drops of rainwater, you can see that he’s smiling. Heartstrings you never knew existed snap within you and renewed tears begin to trace their path down your face. You pull your hood down your face and you run off in a random direction.

Is it possible to have lost him before you even had a chance with him?

 

~ Serendipitous

35: Ethereal

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35: Ethereal

Dance performances, ethereal music, otherworldly choreography. Dance has always been a subject of fascination for me. The way people use their bodies to express emotion, language and soulfulness with music is strangely alluring and pleasing to watch.

I saw her in the practice performances today. The only person I could focus on was her, although I held no amicable feelings towards her. I was entranced by her skill, which I unwillingly admit is quite proficient, and I was captivated by the expression and emotion. In that one moment, she was everything I was not. She was beautiful, she was graceful and elegant, and she was skilled. She was the embodiment of so many qualities I could not hope to aspire to or achieve. In that one moment, I was insanely jealous, but also sorrowful. I had harboured so much hatred toward her that I could not see her other qualities without associating contaminants of my imagination with them. Although her performances have not really changed the way I continue to see her, I was …

I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I lost my train of thought thinking something else, sorry?

Somehow, the eerie, ethereal music struck something within me. Melancholia I barely understood and hadn’t experienced in a long time engulfed me. I wasn’t granted the desire to cry, but I felt deeply moved by my self-created negativity. Where had it all come from? Probably from seeing her dance so well, but there were other things involved, too. I’m not in love with him anymore, but I felt that …

Oh dear I’ve lost my train of thought again.

Generally ethereal music I associate with happiness and peace, but today, it was so negative, so eerie, so chilling…how could I hope to ever have a piece of my ethereal ever again without remembering this?

 

~ Serendipitous

34: Wild from start to finish, although there really isn’t a finish, yet…

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34: Wild from start to finish, although there really isn’t a finish, yet…

Dedicated to the same close friend; it’s mostly based on what happened on the last day of November, but it’s from my perspective.

Half past nine in the morning and we’re hard at work. While I slave away at maintaining this lovely blog, my friend looks for my best guy friend so that she can message him a heart emoji from me (for the effect that apparently comes up on iPhones?).

She ends up messaging the wrong person.

While I’m taking in the fact that the person she messaged is someone neither of us really know outside of the Internet and the fact that she has just committed quite a significant faux pas, she desperately tries to correct her error. The boy she messages dismisses the mistake. She visits his Facebook profile to gage his looks and the school he’s from.

I’m still slaving away on my blog (at the time I was working on adding things to “Saved Items”).

At some point in the hour she realises that it’s the same person who picked up her pencil case from the day before at tutoring (I know I did say pencil in the drabble, but then she informed me it was her pencil case and not her pencil, and I am not bothered to change it [although I’m bothered to add tags to all my posts, interestingly enough]). Seriously, is this a teen fiction novel I’m living in??

They begin to hold a hearty conversation, where she learns that it’s his school formal today (although he doesn’t have a date). I don’t really follow along, because I’m too busy thinking about other things.

It’s like this guy could be her new love interest. I know when she reads this, she will turn to me and give me her look or say something to me, but I honestly feel like they hit it right off. I know they’ve been in the same class for about a year, but they literally just start talking today.

He says he’s going to leave Facebook, and “if we want to keep talking, you can wait or give me my number.” From 0 to 100 real quick, it seems. She successfully avoids it with some witty message my memory fails to produce, but she does eventually give him her number. They then proceed to text each other all the while.

They’re probably still texting.

She is one lucky girl.

In all honesty though, I feel like it’s too good to be true. Something just doesn’t feel right.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve been cynical for so long that I don’t really believe it when something good happens to someone else.

 

~ Serendipitous

 

33: Nightclub (drabble)

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33: Nightclub (drabble)

Half past one in the morning on Monday and I can’t seem to fall asleep. My brain is so active and all I can think of are fantasies intertwined with memories along with the incessant urge to string words together to make sentences which make posts. My mouth is dry, and I stop every few words to micro-manage my TTV (Tiny Tower Vegas).

But right now, I’m also listening to Crooked again on a loop. Part of me recognises, on a conscious level, that I am either still reminiscing about what could have been at formal, or trying to forget painful memories. A third option occurs to me too. On a subconscious level, I guess I could say that I’m relatively interested in being at a nightclub, dancing to shoddy rave music, being embraced by dark lighting and ugly brightly coloured pink and green spots of disco light.

Drabble time, I guess.

I don’t exactly sound enthusiastic given my current state of mental and physical wellbeing at this time of night, but

Loud music reverberating all around you. The bass shakes the floor, which in turn shakes you. Crooked comes on, the beginning notes freezing you to the spot. You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. It would almost be sacrilegious to not dance to this perfect rave song. Never mind that the lyrics do not speak to you on a spiritual level, because you cannot even understand the lyrics. The beat shakes you, and you shake with the beat. A sense of familiarity draws you in further. You close your eyes, but it’s no different. Disco lights dance on the edges of your closed eyelids, an imprint of a memory you don’t seem to be getting rid of for a while. Your feet ache with the pain that accompanies high heels, but your spiritual and emotional connection to this song makes the pain insignificant and undemanding. What is more commanding, demanding, however, is the beat. And the tone. No one “raves” as you do, swaying your body to and fro, the sound of your heels clacking against the hardwood floor drowned in the loudness of your surroundings. Pure exhilaration oozes from every pore in your body, adrenalin pumping through every nerve, your voice lost in the communal shouts and screams which fail to sound harmonious with the song. You feel invisible eyes upon your awkward and ungraceful “raving”, but when you open your eyes, you see nothing but people all around you, connecting to the song on their own level. The beats undulate, the bodies sweat and twist, and the lights flash irregularly. It feels like a high school dance rather than the dance floor of a nightclub you’ve never been to, but one look at the people around you, the strange coloured drinks in their hands and the less-than-appropriate clothing some people are wearing let you know where you really are. As the song approaches its teary and sombre coda (you feel that change in the lyrics as the artist’s tone of voice begins to sound tinged with well-hidden melancholia and nostalgia), your body slows down. Your fist withdraws itself from the air. The connection with the song breaks as it ends abruptly and you find yourself staggering backwards as the pain seemingly returns. No one is there to support you (physically) and no one watches you as you fall to the floor, arms splayed out behind, the soles of your feet turned outward. A delicate smile finds its way onto your lips and you close your eyes again. What you have given to feel young and naïve again has been worth the ache, the embarrassment and the soulful connection to the perfect raving song.

 

~ Serendipitous

P.S. Très tired as I wrote this and wasn’t thinking properly. I read over it several times and it’s like I wrote a masterpiece. But it’s fast approaching two o’clock in the morning and I will let you know if this was trash when I’m actually fully awake. It feels like a masterpiece though.

Update P.P.S. I guess it’s okay. 🙂

32: The Quest for Self-Assertion and Revenge

32: The Quest for Self-Assertion and Revenge

Quarter to one in the morning and it had been a hectic Saturday. I was on my way upstairs to go to sleep when I nodded my head forward a little naturally and a small spider fell out of my hair, onto my phone, and then finally, onto the floor.

Whatever just happened were obviously most girls’ nightmares. However, I didn’t scream. Instead, I just said what the eff (but I don’t say eff). It takes me a few seconds to process before I eye the little spider with an intense ferocity. Then I take my flight up the stairs and collapse in my room on my bed, still trying to allow myself to process the seemingly near-death experience I had “narrowly escaped”. By some strange otherworldliness however, I went back downstairs, past the spider and retrieved the can of Mortein Naturgard. Luckily (for me, not so luckily for the spider), it was still in the same position where it had fallen from my head (it was behind some upright axles). I shook the can and held my finger against the trigger. For me, it was an incredibly suspenseful moment. The white chemicals sprayed out noisily but effectively. Evidently, the spider was perturbed and began to crawl away from the axles and out into the open. I was whisper-screaming, clutching my phone in my left hand and the green can of Naturgard in my right. On and on I continued to spray, whisper-screaming, my eyes trained on the little creepy crawly making its way to the other side of the corridor. A thin film of white began to coat the spider and the ground it was covering. Now that I reflect on it, a little less than half a can of Naturgard on a tiny spider the size of the pad of my thumb was probably a bit of overkill, but I have severe arachnophobia.

The spider began to crawl up the side of a thin beam and I continued to spray it. Halfway up the beam, it slowed its ascent. It was at this point that my finger left the trigger on the Naturgard and I inhaled a little air before I began a fit of violent coughing.

You’re supposed to be in a well-ventilated area to be able to spray something for so long. Unfortunately for me, all the Naturgard spray was contained in that corridor. I made my escape upstairs to breathe and cough out the rest of the “natural” chemicals. I guess it was another near death experience for me.

Once I had finished hacking up my lungs, I rushed back downstairs to check on the spider. It had fallen off the side of the beam and onto the floor, where it was lying unceremoniously on its back, its legs curled in its death position. One of its legs weakly scratched at the air. I blew out a breath of disgust. For good measure, I sprayed the body a few more times just to make sure (what the hell).

All the while I had been filming my bold moves on my camera and uploading them to my friends on Facebook Messenger. While I was messaging them an interesting thought occurred to me.

“This is an assertion that I don’t need no man to protect me. I’m a strong-willed, independent woman who don’t need no man to kill her creepy crawlies for her. A half-can of Naturgard is all I need and it will do the trick!”

Sixteen year old girls.

I mean, seriously. It had somehow gotten into my hair without my permission and my knowing until it had fallen out. There was no way I’d be able to sleep while knowing that it was still alive and in my house, crawling about. I had to get my revenge.

Sixteen year old girls like me, honestly.

 

~ Serendipitous