Slashed doggy for breakfast

Moral of the story: When scared, don’t try to be brave, just type.
Corollary: What comes out of you can surprise you. Shock many others.

For some, Damaged Goods was perhaps ugly. 'Oh she says she is confident, now she writes of suicide.' Some saw it as dark writing, with perhaps a question somewhere. And I spent a considerable time explaining to another friend – who I have not met – as to WHY I wrote that blog. And I wonder about anonymity and obscurity once again. Like it would be so nice, to be unnamed eve*. Like some have sweetly said they read this with morning tea/coffee. Not a pleasant picture that earlier post, for early mornings. Hmm. But then, have I ever been rosy?

Felt it, wrote it.

Hmm. You know what… Now I know what I would fill in the “most embarrassing moment” of your life column. And these were full weeks. I don’t even know if tears qualify here. Or a strange, abject sense of loss. And I don’t believe that just a second after saying I am embarrassed I have AGAIN confessed to the loss. (Do I have no shame, dear god?)

More than anything else I feel… Ridiculous! And YET, I HAVE to write about it: This is one situation where I would LOVE to pretend and not write… but that would be against everything that I am, or strive to be. But FUCK, this BLOG is burning me.

My mother and another astrologer (hmm, I should write a cohesive thing on ALL of them, for my reference!); have forever maintained that the (trying to be) honest is my greatest failing. Because it also makes me abjectly stupid. The astrologer says, “Tu yeh honesty chorh de. Jis din jhoot bolna seekh jayegi, kisi ki himmat nahi hogi rokne ki.” (You should stop this honesty. The day you learn to lie, no one will dare stop you)

Stop me from? Shrug. No idea. All these allusions to some sort of ‘greater purpose’ or some sort of talent that will make me The Star are PISSING me off. ARGH. Get off my case. Sometimes, obvious solutions and answers are the farthest from the answer.

The BIGGEST underlying thought: That somewhere the fact that I was once married comes up or matters. And I am honest or trying to be for as much because I don’t want to hide. Or be ashamed. Or have insecurities. And since I happen to be a somewhat not-moderate person, I prefer to throw it in my face constantly rather than deal with it in whatever way you guys/others do it.

Someone wrote, “and I am secretly hoping that THAT BLOG did NOT represent your mood…” Well, it did. Felt every bit of it as I typed. I did not dare move for fear of actually really wanting to smash stuff. Not the whole lot, just a bit of it. And that line about “expensive crockery”… was pure fiction. I don’t have any. (Broke a glass though, only one, little bitty pieces, but that was very consciously when berating self for being a prized arsehole)

Why was I feeling like that? Well, someone didn’t like the idea of me having a crush. (looks at toes, nails are painted black, feels really stupid and extremely confused)

And I am really scared… that it happened again. That ugly, hopeful, shitty-ass, grinny-fuckin-faced feeling. I cannot express exactly HOW stupid I am feeling… for Feeling. And confused as to why did it happen and how… Because I don’t want it to happen again. Because it… How could I?

PS: The basics of any relationship. I forgot. I hate confusion at 28. And why, pray WHY, do I feel bereft? (And someone tell me, how many more times to finally get whatever that divine message is? I'd go and finish with all the fuck-ups in one go...and we can get on to other stuff. Like that a 28, despite all the glorious words, I am really, NOWHERE. And no one is going to help with the way ahead. So far it has all been on impulse and gut reaction. But now perhaps something more is needed...what, what, what?! Frustrating.)

PS 2: And, am not suicidal, dude. Can get angry; not suicidal. When I write here, I usually have the thought and type...so many a times, it's pretty much being read AS its happening inside the head. So basically, between the thought and it being read, there was writing it, editing it and then posting links on various sites. Not the work of a suicidal person. Just a perfectionist. And yet the contradictions in me: If I were ever to think that way, it would be impulsive. And never, for a man. Ever.)