I cried twice this trip.
At the beautiful age of 25.
One of them, I sat on a more-form-than -function bench in a Chinese megamall and tearfully told my brother how his apparent anger was not his and was learned from dad. And the other, was when after a brief altercation, he told me that the other relatives on the trip thought I was lazy. I’d declare, dramatically, “I hate family”, before walking off to stifle my tears.
There’s a saying that when a child cries, it’s because this child is in one of the worst situations that they had ever experienced.
Somehow, I have a really concerning issue with being disliked on overseas trips. After Europe, Taiwan, Ipoh and Dali, I’ve managed to triangulate all the issues into that one.
It’s really not about being alone that bothers me. Orlando was fantastic. I was thrown into fuck up after fuck up during that trip to catch The Black Keys, and I came out of it not even shaken, but exhilarated at my ability to handle a cluster fuck thrown my way.
A silver lining about this is that now I know that I am capable of handling situations calmly and independently. The bad side is that I have to work on my courage to be disliked.
Despite all this, I always find something to miss about these trips. It’s always a small detail. The absinthe from Taiwan. Balcony cigs at Ipoh. Wearing a scarf in Dali. That kind of thing.
One thing that surprised me about China is-
Well, you know how Americans always whinge about how China is everywhere in America?
America is everywhere in China as well. Signs, Jeep, brands, English signs.
Everyone is trying to be everyone else.
How the fuck do I get over you? This is all going to be sappy. This is my blog. Judge me not, I am very self aware.
In this length of 11 days, not seeing or interacting with you has reduced you to an amorphous blob of values, of which I can’t even pinpoint. I can’t even visualise what I am yearning for.
In this daydream, you are shapeless. You are just a title. You are Her. And Her is in a medium, that medium is you.
God damn, I fucking want you. I fucking want you to fucking want me.
Every time you say you’re gonna do something, with your beautiful enthusiasm for life, I want to sign up for it too. Just to spend time with you. That’s stupid gross. I don’t usually want to… do things at all.
I sometimes daydream of you. Holding my hand and us walking through flower fields together. I shit you not, that’s my idea of a relationship. It’s overromaticised, which means it’s unrealistic, which means I really don’t want to be thinking about this, because that’s unrealistic.
I’m a kinda tall person. When you stand close and peer upwards at me like a kitten saying “what should we do next”, I just wanna end my life there and then.
When you hang out with other guys, I get jealous. I hate it. Both you hanging out with other guys and me getting jealous for you hanging out with other guys. The latter reminds me that I’d be a lousy boyfriend. A jealous boyfriend. And you will leave me. Which is a lame and weird heartbreak, because it’s like breaking up with a goddess, a mother, a sex doll.
I think the next word of the month is going to be Jealousy. Or Ownership.
Anyway, my therapist has been on medical leave for the later half of October and the whole of November. I’m gonna get so much bang for my fuckin’ buck if she’s not comatose by now.
I hear it’s rainy back in Singapore. Hopefully that will ease everything.
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