So I’ve been in Ipoh the past few, with 8 other friends. Stage friends. People whom I love, situationally, every Tuesday night, in the three most stress-free hours of my university life, four years in a row.
There’s also the whole thing about going on trips with friends, and the whole thing about being weird in these trips. This time, I cracked the whole weird situation thing. Bear with me. I mean, I don’t have to tell you that. You’re not a hostage. You’re not stuck in here with me, I’m stuck in here with myself, and you’re the cop behind the one way mirror.
I was the problem all along, duh. The audience throws their hands in unison.
My theory, which really only applies to me, is the incredible, incredible fear of being left behind/disliked/isolated.
I start off in awe of my new surroundings, excited, lively, cock a doodle doo. Then comes the part when the tide recedes, when the first hint of dissatisfaction from someone else leaks through. I found myself shutting up after a taxi ride, learning that if I said nothing, then voilà, nobody would ask about it and you’d be perfect. Of course everyone asked.
This continues in a weird cycle where the last vow of silence expands to take up a larger slice of this fucked-up pie.
Besides, what have I gotten from Ipoh? I’ve bought three bags of biscuits that I’ll never eat, two leather bracelets that renew my belief that I’m committing to “being myself”, whatever that means and twenty (originally thirty) packs of gum.
Okay, I’m bummed out about other things so I’ll end this long overdue post here.
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