I have just been reading a crappy book. It’s by Sophie Kinsella, who I don’t personally consider crappy at all, except that the genre is crappy. It’s crappy but it’s good. For a chick lit. It’s her latest book, Remember Me. I hate it. I hate that it’s making me so want things that I really want. And for making these things so far away from where I am standing in right at this moment.
Where am I standing in this moment?
Actually, I’m sitting. Typing on my laptop. Inside a seedy room in a provincial inn somewhere off the coast of Bataan. I just finished reading a book where the protagonist lost her memory, woke up rich, fabulous and married to a gorgeous fascist, but found out she wants to be her old self again. And in the end, she finds herself with her old friends and with her one true love.
And it brought me to remember my daddy. Not that I consider my Dad as my one true love, that’s sick. I love him with all of my soul, but I think I remembered him because the guy being described in the book felt like my Dad. I think I have an idea how my Mummy felt meeting him. Call it some psychological complex, but there can’t be anything wrong wanting to meet a man who would someday be as wonderful as the man who raised you. THAT can’t be at all bad. I miss them so damn much. I haven’t stopped hurting, and I want it to stop, but not want it to fade. I am driving myself completely nucking futs.
And I want my Jon (which is the name of the guy in the book, not an actual person I know). Except that I don’t want to marry some businessman wanker who invoices me for stuff I broke inside our marital house first before meeting my Jon. (Don’t ask me to explain, just read the book)
Lately, situations have been driving the point why nobody seems to want me. Incident after incident, the message coming across is, lose weight, claim your beauty and win the world. Except that, I don’t want to believe that being slim is the only thing amiss with me. I’m too smart to believe growing thinner will be the solution to my problem. I refuse to accept the world can be so shallow (or that I am). But a part of me suspects that I refuse to accept this because then I would have to do something about it. Do something that will make me absolutely feel crappy about how I look, regardless of how I have tried so verrrry hard to be a shining example of humanity in other aspects. It’s not enough. I am incomplete. Flawed. Unwanted.
And insane to be introspecting after reading a crappy genre book. I want to laugh. But if I do, I might end up crying. So I’ll just roll into this tight fetal ball, in my rented bed, and pretend the world is spinning very, very fast around me. Freud could go kiss my a**.