Writing 101: Cracked Vessel

I apologise for the blank document, I published my article only to see it had come up completely blank; FUCK knows why. Really unimpressed, to say the least. This is not the first time this has happened, but I’ll just have to deal with it. This is my second attempt to capture my aforementioned sentiment.
[edit: what an angry little disclaimer. I’m not sure why but I’ve been laughing at it for the last ten minutes. I wrote ‘fuck’ in caps and in bold. Ooh. How precious! – 3/11/14]

doesn't give a fuck, apparently

I’m not sure if it counts as an emotion, but I find my reactions hard to contain when my confusion is met with apathy. It used to weigh quite heavily on me as a child, but these days I see it as a transmutation of many feelings; ‘betrayal’ rears its ugly head, blends into ‘indignation’, stopping off for far too long at ‘anger’ before turning into an outburst of some kind. Sometimes it works like that, sometimes it doesn’t. It could just be ‘rage’. Or I could be allergic to hypocrisy.

It’s tricky. Very tricky.

Three examples, dug up from the sands of time and memory:

Me: “Do you really love me?”
Other: – silence –
Me: “Your actions are coming up short, so I want to give your words a final chance.”
Other: “Dunno, I guess… Just forget about it, OK?”
Me: “It’s settled. Well, ‘I fucking love you and I love fucking you, ha ha ha’ doesn’t count. You get the amp, I get the books. Fuck the rest. Bye. YOU PSYCHOTICALLY RETICENT MOTHERFUCKER.”

Teach: “I’m sick of you correcting me in front of the class. I may have been wrong, but I still demand your respect as an elder.”
Me: “Respect goes both ways. You actually told us that, not too long ago. Were you wrong about that too?”
Teach: “Get out. I don’t care where you go, you little shit. Just get out of my sight.”
Me: “Don’t roll your eyes. Or I’ll make sure the rest of your head follows too. YOU, SIR, ARE BURSTING FULL OF RANCID SHIT.”

Me: “Do the women of your family get any eye contact when they’re talking to the others? I feel dirty now.”
Blank: “Boys will be boys, Ilene. It’s up to you to… I dunno… dress better and not be so… attention-seeking.”
Me: “And I thought I was uncomfortable before. Dude, stop digging… please… I’m not coming back to this house.”
Blank: “I thought we had enough in common for you to understand what I’m trying to say here. It’s for your own good.”

Call it histrionics, call it justifiable, call it ‘morally aware’, call it stubborn. Call it what you want, so long as you feel you’ve got the right number. But I’ll own it. There’s no point for me to go back on the few things that make sense in my nonsense world.



  1. Pingback: Unexpected Burdens | Mayur Wadhwani's Blog

  2. Pingback: Poem / Poetry – “Bare Your Heart” | toofulltowrite (I've started so I'll finish)

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