Will you marry me?

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve been proposed to. I am a jaded sophisticated 20 something millenial.

No, not really. People just throw out wedding proposals like it’s an instant level up card in a video game.

Yesterday, I was in traffic when a VW Jetta pulled up next to me. It was an annoying man-child from a few years back. All I remember was finding him insufferable at the time. Unfortunately, I find a lot of guys insufferable because there are a lot of guys like this.

His line of attack:
I still really like you. I wanted to marry you”

We hadn’t even gone out. I couldn’t remember anything about what made this guy memorable or what I did to get rid of him. Thankfully, he obliged:

“At the time you didn’t have time for me. You said I didn’t know you and I couldn’t have feelings for you because of that.”
“So, what’s changed between then and now?”
“I still have feelings for you. I still want to marry you. Nothing’s changed, it’s just a feeling I have. I can’t explain it”
“Ok. So nothing has changed, you still don’t know me and my position has not changed. So…?”
“I believe in fate. I never thought I’d see you again. And I think we’ve grown and matured to give each other time now.”
“Dude, traffic is moving. I’ll see you around.”

There is a special kind of stupid in this world, and it tends to breeds.


For some reason, casual acquaintances think I’m carefree. Associates think I over think. People closer to me… well, I don’t know what they think of me. It seems the closer people get to me, the less they label me. At least to my face.

As the person who has lived with me the longest, I am aware that underneath the detached surface is a tempestuous sea of emotion. I feel with melodramatic intensity. I’m not quite topping my cappuccino of misery with the black cream of commercialism, but I feel in waves that crash down on me leaving me hollowed. Invariably, they aren’t pleasant emotions; grief, anger, rage, frustration, sorrow and misery feature regularly on my playlist.

Until January 2016. Granted, this festive season was the worst I’ve had in some years, the stress from late last year didn’t have enough time to clearout of my system over a two week break. I hit a new low in December as well.

But, I haven’t felt anything deeply this January. I’m aware of passing sensations of frustration and road rage, but they’re gone before I can name them. I don’t laugh. I don’t cry. Like many people, I have a stockpile of material I can call on when I need a cathartic cry. Not working.

Of course this means I experience my day to day world from an arms length distance from myself. I am incapable of now caring about things and people around me. It is a strange kind of indifference.

The indifference also means that I don’t find the world as quirky and I’m not as moved. Consequently, I have less to write about. My world seems like a 5 year old’s book; see Spot. See Spot run. Spot is happy. Spot is sad.

I am numb.

Too much, too little.

I could write you a love song.

But, too much has been given over to love.

Too many words,
Whispered, cried and screamed,
Too many ways to say, “I love you,”

Too many syllables,
Tapping over emotions,
Poorly scripted and drafted.

Too many sighs, overflowing with unspoken promises,
Too many bitter tears shed over wine and coffee cups.

I could write you a love song.

But too little is given to the numbed silences.

Too few note that the heart beats and doesn’t feel.
No bleeding, wailing pain.
Just… A thud. A thud. A thud.

Too little is spoken of the grey moments of nothingness,
Wholly encompassing, entirely, totally and completely there.
Where memory is a mediocre drama, with muted melancholy moments.

I could write you a love song.

But too much has been said about love.
Too little said about being.


I am ugly,
A putrid mass of decay,
With wave upon wave of rage crashing against my mental shores.

I am ugly,
A seething mass, with envy-as puss leaking from open wounds,
Caused by battles too soon fought.

I am ugly,
As anger and hurt twist in an erotic dance,
Clawing at my back,
Pulling out my hair,
Beating on my flesh.

I am ugly,
Underneath this shell.