Convincing my google docs that I am smart and fuckable

"All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in the afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it." - Joan Didion, "Goodbye to all that"

This isn’t even an original line. I read it somewhere. Let me be specific. I read it on Pinterest this morning. Pinterest? Really? People read there?

Are you convinced now that I am a little fucked in the head alongside being very absolutely fuckable? A little is scoff-worthy and doesn’t give you any data to work with.

I try to write while the laundry needs folding. Incidentally—a word that was repeated exactly twice in this book I was reading in the morning, gifted by a friend—there is also a lot of food in the fridge that I need to do something about. Not throw it, of course. I am not normal enough to just toss it away. Everything in my life must follow the Buddhist path of pain to pleasure.

There is so much convincing to do in this world. So much of it that one needs to do to simply exist. I need to convince you that I am smart and funny and nice and thoughtful and observant and intelligent and of course, fuckable.

We convince people to like us and not abandon us. I do it by writing something when I can’t bear my own presence. It isn’t poetic. I suffer. And I isolate. (I am still very sexy while doing it all)

Convincing, incidentally, works both ways. We have been convinced by the world to sound a certain way and carry a green tote bag to be more-less-abandonable while we convince everyone around us of how normal we are and how functional we are.

When I break down, that’s specifically what my primary fear is—what if I lose my functionality? What if I can’t be of any use to the world? This is also largely capitalistic. My functionality in this world will fetch me money and I must perform for it. I must perform.

It’s funny, how all these years I thought life was against me and I blamed every disproportionate circumstance for not allowing me to form a coherent sentence that sells. I thought it was the lack of a house or the lack of a partner or the lack of money or the lack of motivation. My life in the past couple of years has simply been about the lack of the right conditions. “That’s why I can’t write.” I convinced myself.

So here, I said to myself, let me sort this out. Some money, a decent house in a green city, time, freedom, isolation. I ran for it all. I got some of it. All for now.

Plot twist: there’s still a god shaped hole in my heart. It’s still as empty as ever.

I wake up to the chirping of some birds I can’t name. I open the doors to a funky looking tree that is home to at least 9 species of flora I can't pronounce. I have a writing table, semi-dead house plants, a sofa with my mother’s Tibetan shawl and all this ridiculous freedom.

For years, years, this is all I wanted. A room of my own. A house with a wooden study table and my hard earned freedom. As I write this, not from my 3x5 wooden study table but rather from my bed that I haven’t left in 4 days, I feel nothing but shame. What a distasteful lie that was, K.

I sit infront of this sheet that doesn’t think “fuckable” is a word, wondering, is this what I wanted? Were all these years simply an attempt to run away from one reality to the other? Basically, a circle? How pathetic. I have watched multiple motivation videos in the past couple of days only to convince myself yet again of how none of this is my fault. And that is true. It isn’t. But what does that change? How does that help or explain anything?

See, this is a conversation I am having with myself so if you’ve stayed this far for this long, I don’t know how to help you. I can extend a hand shake and tell you this is not your fault either but you’ll have more questions and I have no answers. I went through 10 stages of grief while writing this and that’s all the information I have for you.

I wouldn’t try to convince you of anything today. You might carry some disdain and some bitterness and self loathing after reading but also carry this imaginary flower I extend in your direction. I can't pronounce its name. I don’t know what you’re going to do with it. I am equally confused. It wasn’t very expensive because it’s imaginary.

As for me, I have to sit with all this grief and shame and somehow convince myself to have a good day if not a great one while I write this very average piece about how tough my life has been.

Maybe I’m not very smart . Maybe I am a victim. Maybe this loneliness is a reward. And maybe, after all, google docs is right about “fuckable” not being a real word.

Love,

K