Hoy comenzaremos por repasar la situación, pues una abrumadora falta de narratividad, nacida a base del miedo permanente de aburrir a quien me lea, me hace pensar que le falta “punch” a mis texto. Además de eso, el post del día anterior de mi colega parece haber movido algunos corazones. Veamos si yo puedo destruir algunos también.
So, I like her. I like her a lot. Let’s call her Darla. But she’s taken.
I met her at, supposedly, around the same time she was starting to meet someone else. So they got to her first. At least that’s what they told me.
I’ve known her for two months, give or take. We didn’t see each other that much at work, so whenever I had the chance to work around or with her, I felt blessed. Back then I didn’t know, but she was taken.
For the first couple of weeks my feelings were pure and beautifully naïve. It wasn’t love at first sight. It took me about a week to notice her, and after I did, the deal was sealed. I specifically remember talking to myself about it.
– “So, are we into this chick or what?”
– Well, she’s not ‘that’ cute. She’s got a nice body though.
– “She’s fucking hot. Her face is so damned gorgeous you can’t help but think about how your kids would come out looking.”
– You fucking creep.
– “Remember that time you fantasized about bukkaking her, and how afterwards you felt so bad you thought about kissing her like that, to “share the denigration”?”
– Ok, I’m in. I like her. I want to like her. Yes, she’s by far the most beautiful there is.
– “So it is.”
At the time, I got this idea to make these little origami paper boxes. I had about 62 dollars to last me for a month, so the idea was to fill them with candy and sell them to my colleagues. The process took about three hours for a 100% return in investment. I didn’t, however, have the space to work in, so the whole ordeal was made even more difficult than it needed to be. Not to mention the lack, and even the theft, of adequate materials.
I started by gifting her some of those. I gave her about 3 of them, all from different batches. Each time I’d do it it would almost seem like I was handing her some forbidden thing. A quick hand-off and barely a look. This one time, we only glanced vaguely in each other’s general direction. Turns out, it was because she was taken.
This didn’t matter, however, and neither did my inability to feed myself properly. She gave me the strength to work overtime. Without her image constantly pulling me forwards, calling me to her sweet embrace, I would have never had the initiative, much less the actual drive, to pull any of this off. She was already making me better. I loved every second of it.
Then the unthinkable happened. She told me her term was coming up. Darla would be leaving soon. I panicked. I invited her to lunch. She said no. I didn’t ask why. I fell into despair. Like a beta I spilled my guts ambiguously about how I felt towards her, as I sheltered myself from the imminent destruction my ego was gonna suffer. Like contracting your abdomen to protect it from an imminent punch. I’ve lost count on how may times I’ve written about this horrific event. I beta’d out of it like a scumbag. To be perfectly honest, up to the moment of writing this, I had completely forgotten about the rejection. I guess this is a good thing.
Handling rejection was easier than I expected. I enjoyed a sudden burst of energy, even stronger than the first one. I felt like my system was overcompensating to keep me functioning properly, and it worked. I was happy. The oscillations dip, however, and dip they did. On Darla’s last day, one of her friend-colleagues asked whether I could walk her to a certain diligence she had to attend to. We ended up in a bar. She came on to me. I had the opportunity to have sex with an older woman, but I rejected her. We were both drunk, and I fondled her breasts and masturbated her clit over her jeans on the street. But I didn’t kiss her, and I didn’t accept her invitation to her house. She cried, insulted me, compared me to a pedophilic priest, and later revealed that this was the first time she had been rejected. “Welcome to the world of men,” I replied. I obviously was still in love, and couldn’t bring myself to “cheat” on Darla. I cried too, but only after we parted ways.
And so, Darla was no more. I lived with her memory from then on. Every day. I used to wonder how much time it would take to forget her, but little did I know, she was there to stay. I looked for her features on the street, and found that her phenotype was not as unusual as I first had thought. I imagined what would happen if I met her on the street, or worse, if I saw her with him. I wanted to forget her, badly. I wanted to replace her, to find someone else quickly enough to get that awful, good smelling sticky livid substance stuck under my brain out of there once and for all.
I tracked the progress of her disappearance. At the summit, I had forgotten what her voice sounded like. But not a single day could I afford without her cropping up. I was hurting without Darka, but, week by week, you receded more and more. The door was open, and the light slowly sucked the remains of her out of my psyche. Layer by layer.
I had convinced myself I didn’t need her, or rather, that I wouldn’t be able to have her, and as such I rested at ease, more or less. Not having hope meant that all that was left was to give in. Give in… to complete oblivion.
Then she showed up at work. They way this particular company works is they bring in replacements when they need them, and they usually stay for 2 months. She had been working for a month before I came in, so I had a month left without her.
I heard her laughter. It just happened to be that there was a new room to process clothing (retail) before bringing it into the store itself, and it just so happened that her colleagues were there that day. So, she was hidden. I only saw her for a second. Blood started to rush to my head. My breathing got faster, my hands started to shake. There was no doubt anymore.
I was in love.
I obviously did not pop in to say hi. She came as she went.
On the last two days of my term, they called her back. On the first day, I cried over my incompetence and cowardice. Crying some more, I sat at a local bar and wrote the shittiest thing ever. This one I would definitely deliver. And so I did. That was the last gift I gave her: a shitty drunken letter. There’s a thousand more that will never see the light of day.
A month and a half later, we were both called in again. Now she’s officially taken, and so, I’ve taken to mistreating her. Something about “compensating for the lack of closeness with immediate provocations.” The worst part is, it has sort of worked. She eventually learned to mistreat me too, and I’ve learned quite a bit from it. She used him to provoke me. It worked. After teasing her about her height and weight, she mentioned the gynecologist confirming her stats. After my subsequent non-questioning, she offered, on her own, that she was not pregnant. I joked a bit about the virgin Mary. I think I denied her the pleasure a bit, but still, you placed the image of your fucking him in my mind. I was mostly invigorated.
I bought that stupid plushie she liked. The picture of her holding it whilst smiling is forever burned into my soul. Fuck me. I still have it as of writing.
And so, we arrive into “now.”
Today the day started normally enough. Until she started talking on the phone with… him, I guess. I fucked off as soon as it began, but the microseconds I caught her laughing were enough to fuel the void and turn it into a vortex of pain. Megadeth reference. The rest of this day was the most miserable I’ve been in quite a while. In the following paragraphs, I will loosely transcribe the notes I took during the day.
Okay. Let’s pretend I’m a good person, a decent man. Let’s imagine I won’t butt into this anymore, and I’ll fuck off to Neverland. I’ll just treat you the same as anyone else. How do I even start? Should I ignore you? Should I just stick the pain into my asshole? Yes, I like to pretend I’m tough and can handle rejection. I never expected the pain to actually become physical, however, and now I’m genuinely sickened. In addition to the crying, I had to use the toilet to retch as well. I hate it, and I hate you, I hate that you speak to him, I hate to see you, I hate that stupid gift. Here’s something from some other notes I have: “If you hate someone, you’re the one with the problem.”
Looks like I’m sensitive today. Must be those oscillations. I sit down and write, I want to cry, I want to drink. My heart is broken. It’s not anybody’s fault. If I give you that plushie I’ll never get out of this. If I burn it I’ll turn into a psychopathic asshole that likes to waste money. This is the face of mental breakdowns.
Polaco masturbates in the bathroom. Polaco cries in the bathroom. Maybe I should take those pills.
I played with fire and burned myself. It hurts like a bitch. Why does love have to hurt so badly? Why do I have to feel this strongly for someone, at all? What the fuck is going on? Why did thinking about you wrapping your legs around someone else’s waist as you moaned for more, shimmering and sweating didn’t affect me, but you speaking on the phone did? Since when did your laughter started to make my blood boil?
You will pay for making me suffer this much, world. You will regret the day you gave me the capacity to think, feel and act. You’ll wish you never messed with me. I’ll make you wanna stick your volcanoes upside down inside your mariana trench and blow lava into your own rectum as you give me a handjob with the hands of a thousand korean whores. Hide your kids and your wallets.
I see now what the challenge really is. I’ll forget her. I’ll get over her, with her still at my side. She’ll turn into a nobody, and I’ll turn into a goddamned human with the capacity to overturn his own desires and feelings. I’ll shut myself down.
Oh no. I recognize this feeling. I recognize this passion. I recognize these tears. It’s the same as the first time.
I love her.
May god help me.