Your application for candidature: Rejected, Again

‘Beyond salvage’ is perhaps the phrase for it. And very sincerely, even I am perhaps beginning to get scared of who I am and how I am. The reasons perhaps that make me so unloveable. There is no beating around the bush. For that is what I am – momentary entertainment, bit of exasperation and damnably, rejected. Ha, ha.

What sucks big time is that I sincerely don’t understand why. What’s wrong with me.. can you please tell me? Someone?

So I used to be fat. Now? Some find me skinny, others announce I have the best body. Oh, the compliments fly in thick and fast. But those are just hollow words…momentary pacification. Or humiliation. Who knows? I don’t for sure. Maybe people laugh behind their backs when they say nice things to me … and if (rarely) they do find me believing those remotely nice things about me. So, I am supposed to have a sense of humour and make people laugh. But maybe they laugh AT me and not with me.

I am also supposed to be someone who parties like a rockstar. Ha, ha. Really. Let’s count the number of people who genuinely want to BE with me or even spend some hours of their evening with me. One: He definitely wants to get into my pants. Two: She, being a basically nice person invited me to her birthday party because I happened to be around when she was deciding the details of her party. And that’s about it.

Right now, I am having a splitting headache. The more I think, the more the head hurts. It feels as if it would explode any moment, splattering gyri-fulci on the wall behind me. I cannot decide if the headache is better or worse than the strange, constant, dull ache in my heart. Or that region. I cant seem to make people be ‘sure’ of me. And I don’t know what to do now. Or how to try. Or what to say.


Earlier it was all about so-he-wants-to-screw-me. Now, they don’t even want to screw me. Ha, ha. Some are scared of me and others ‘respect’ me and still others don’t find me screwable. Funny, it should have made me feel nice or something. I just feel… rejected. Like, damn, I am not even worthy of a random fuck now? Maybe I should just go out one night and DO a lot of men. But then there are two things that stop me from doing that. One: Most men would be drunk on such an expedition and THEN I would never be sure if it was the alcohol or if it was me. Two: What if no one wants to do me? what then?

And I really don’t care how many Anonymous people bitch me out AFTER announcing my name on this blog. I did not delete that comment. How much more can I be rejected and how much worse can it get?

I am extremely tired. And beaten. You win. And you, and you, and you and you.

You can be unsure of me… even I am not sure of me anymore. But the problem, you see, is that I don’t know any other way to be. So, I guess, I am sorry, AGAIN…that, unwittingly, like the prized arsehole that I am, I tried again. Here, I pull out my imperfect, extremely flawed self…

Wishing everyone love, luck, friends, happiness and PEACE… even my ‘share’ of those things, if at all there is a ‘my share’. May no one ever suffer their own self. Nothing hurts more than NOT knowing what’s wrong with you. On that note, here is a joke:

She met him out of the blue. It happened unplanned, undecided, unscripted. Destiny decided it for her. He sparkled and she was hooked. Try as she might, she could not put up any façade before him, could not be her public persona. She was starkly honest about who she was and how she was. First, he laughed at her… that she liked him. She enjoyed his laughter. It made his eyes twinkle. Then he disbelieved her, that she could like him…because perhaps she was too flighty. Then he kept asking her why she was with him… doubting her. She could not explain enough that he kept her grounded… Made her feel special. He was not even a bastard. He had never hurt her. But she hurt. She wanted him to love her. He would not. Then he said he was not sure. She was heartbroken, finally. She was embarrassed at who she was. Or who she could not be. She went away.

Then, there was a knock on her door. It was Him. She opened the door and he enveloped her in his arms. Holding her and molding her to his body in the same way he had instinctively done it the first time. He was the only one to have got it right… the way she always wanted to be held. She felt safe. And loved. And wanted. Then he looked at her and said, “But I do love you.” She asked, “Even though I am hyper, fly off the handle, am full of myself, cannot be controlled, look bad on camera and will never get a book published or have people interview me?” He laughed at her like he always did, his eyes twinkling and he kissed her. His chaste, soul-uplifting kiss. She was happy.

Then she fell off the bed and woke up and realized he was never there. He was gone. She closed her eyes tightly and wished the dream would come back. He would. But it was gone. She started crying.