White ash

I regret something; something I didn’t do. I didn’t do it for the right reasons. This is why I have this urge to do something for the wrong reasons. Just once. Would you rather regret having done something or not having done something? – Of course. Isn’t it obvious? Sometimes when I look at his pictures and see how happy he is I automatically touch my forehead and wish I could rewind. It doesn’t mean that I am not happy for him now. I am happy for him now. But he and I could have been happy, too, maybe… Well, for at least a year or so? Sure. Why not. My regrets are primarily based on things that I didn’t do. Chances were there. I wasn’t. I was here being faithful. But my throbbing red organ was there.

We are five women at work. It’s tough. I never usually go to Christmas parties, but since we are just five people, it would have been somewhat conspicuous if I hadn’t gone. Two of them are married, one’s engaged and the other’s taken. They had nothing to talk about except their “men”. No, I wasn’t jealous. I just didn’t want to be part of their lives; I didn’t want to know anything about them. Those are people living lives I don’t ever want to live. (Watching  Desperate Housewives is totally enough, thank you!)I just cannot talk to taken women…this is so bad. Why did they tell me about their sons? Then I find out I even went to school with one of their sons! It has nothing to do with their ages, because one of them is 19 (the youngest of all my work colleagues) and she was constantly telling everyone about her boyfriend and everyone was listening, even though she talks like a waterfall. Ok, maybe is has something to do with “age”, but primarily it is my inability to adapt. If I know I don’t fit in, then I don’t fit in – I won’t even try.

For God’s sake…when I say I’m pro-choice, then it has nothing to do with being strongly pro-abortion. Just because the people in the US have come up with this term doesn’t mean it has one closed-up meaning.

Do you know what pisses me off so much lately? – That I am so fucking slow. Me of all people. I am known to be the most hectic person: fast at making burgers, fast at the till, fast at unloading delivery and fast at getting everything done. And for some reason I don’t seem to be fast enough. I can’t be bothered anymore. What is life like in slow motion? I remember what it was like when I was eight. The dinner breaks at school used to last for hours, even though they were only twenty minutes after each second lesson. That was when I thought childhood would last forever. It would have been a good reason to kill myself back then. I guess I would have, if I hadn’t encountered the magic of writing stories; passing on my feelings to fiction characters and then making friends with them. If that sounds scary to you then you have no idea how difficult it is to make friends with yourself. You are your best friend and if you neglect yourself, then you are going to pay it back to yourself. And I am angry with myself, because I have no time for myself. The master of horror writing says that if you want to become a good writer you need to read and write for over four hours a day. What the fuck am I going to do…

The ashes of 2009 started to fall from the sky last week. First they melted and now they’re sticking on the ground. Walk on them and they will remain under your shoes. Bring the ashes home whereupon they will turn into dirty water. Wipe it off. Are you any happier now?

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