Opinions on conversational texting.

I do NOT do conversational texting. For fuck’s sake.
In the last month, I’ve had to tell so many people that. And by people, I mean men. Or boys, the jury’s still out on some of them as far as maturity goes.

So yeah, I’m a bit grumpy. But here’s the score, right:

  • I’ve worked a wide range of jobs, but the one I hated most involved a lot of SMS communication. A lot of back-and-forth frustration, and people forwarding my replies to others, resulting in more difficulty for me. Even when I put the word out that I prefer phone calls, nothing changed. People (again, more specifically, males) are very selective with what they want to see and deal with, and it caused me so much grief. Then again, I know I wasn’t very good at ignoring the negative and harmful stuff. I was in a spectacularly bad place mentally and that style of communication made things feel so much worse. I used it to attack and be attacked. It makes me nervous just remembering.

  • I’ve had a handful of rather toxic relationships, and it seemed that those particular exes had something in common – they each loved texting and did a lot of it. I understand that phone calls can be quite daunting for some, but these particular people thrived on it. Always, a new message. If ignored, forgotten or I was simply busy, another one to follow up.
    The shameful thing is that I mirrored those behaviours. I thought to myself, “If you’re gonna be on my ass 24/7, then I’ll be on yours too. This shit goes both ways.” Toxicity in full play. I sent tediously long texts explaining things not only so I could be clear with what I meant, but so I could hopefully be left alone for a bit after sending. Like, “Yeah, that’ll take you a while to digest… right? I just wanna fucking relax, I mean damn.” But no matter how specific I tried to be, I’d always be misunderstood. And in turn, I’d misunderstand things too. A tragic failure in communication, definitely.

As far as general harassment and abuse goes, both inside and outside of personal relationships and work-related or not, it was always texting used as the method. So much hateful bullshit in and out, in and out. Some people will text bomb you just to fuck with you and make you feel like your entire existence is only as small as a smartphone. It was hard to snap out of because it was something I was coerced into for so long, but now I realise that if someone repeatedly refuses to respect that I won’t text them all day or night about seemingly inconsequential and inane things, then they can do without talking to me. I just need to remind myself that not everyone’s going to feel the same way and that’s fine.

Those aforementioned people need to realise that my texting falls into two categories – either urgent/essential matters including things like work shifts and medical appointments and personal meetings, or meaningful exchanges with people who are very close to me.
Basically, if you can’t pay me, heal me or love me, don’t text me. If it’s something important enough to call me for, then by all means, call me. If you just wanna chat, that’s important enough; loneliness is a motherfucker. Anyway, I deserve proper communication with all its tones and nuances, and so do you. Ya dig?


He’ll never know.

I’ve been ‘ghosted’ after telling someone how sick I am of their bullshit in the nicest terms possible.

And I feel pretty good about that.

You know how exhausting it is to live a lie? A lie that didn’t originate with you, but rather built around you by someone else and their cute little ideas and dreams of how you should be.

I dare say, he fell in love with the idea of me instead of the real me.

And I’m not so sure it’s his fault, as I was never truly myself around him. I came close, but there was always something I was keeping from him. Always. Surely I can’t blame someone for not seeing something they were never shown. It’s not anyone’s duty to look for such things, anyway.

And I never told him that I’m sick of people who seem to think they know me better than I know myself. Acting like all they have to do is wait around while I get something out of my system or improve myself so they can swoop in from the sidelines and claim they were just waiting for the ‘right’ time to talk to me. DUDE. You don’t get to plant something and then fuck off for a bit, just to drop in when I’m ripened and in bloom. Go plough someone else’s furrow, you scamp! Not my fault the scarecrow’s not scary enough. Now, off with you. Shenanigans.

If anyone treats me like that, I will drag them through a gauntlet of reminders that I’m not the open book they thought I was. I will snap the tome shut on their greasy wee mits once they take the information inside for granted. Nobody gets to flick through me like that without a papercut or two. Nuh-fucking-uh. Go and make origami of someone else’s fripperies, bitch. Fold and mould to your scabrous heart’s content; I no longer care. You’re always the fucking same, dude. It’s ridiculous.

It’s not just that I faked orgasms to get you to roll off and zone out on how I made you feel; it’s that you tried to use it against me. Ever since you whispered, “You’re mine…” in my ear from behind, you lost your grasp on whatever you had of me. I decided to slip out of your distracted, tiny little hands. My participation became more calculated, as I took personal note that I needed to be on guard at all times.

He’ll never know that he never saw the true me. I always somehow knew I was a temporary presence in his life, so I saved my true essence from being plundered and depleted by him. Before the scarecrow, I used to sit by the crops with a pitchfork, waving around my tired sinewy arms. My arms are meatier now, and less accustomed to such charades. It was all so draining.

So, it is with relief that I erase all evidence of the last harvest. The best part is… he thinks he left me. Bitch, I was already gone.


A weak moment.

I’m not usually one to admit when this happens, but I’m feeling terribly lonely.

Yes, in a romantic sense of course, but also in general. I’m more aware than usual of how alone I am in this world, and I feel far more vulnerable to sadness because of this.

I crave human touch, but I don’t know how to feel when someone actually touches me. The last time someone hugged me, I froze and said, “Thank you, sorry.”

Sometimes, I feel like I’m a delicate child with a thigh-high plaster cast watching other children run around on the beach. They hold hands, play games and share things. I have all the shade and ice cream I could possibly want, but I don’t care anymore. I just want a friend to chase seagulls with.

In these moments, I rapidly alternate between incredible self-pity and beating myself up.

I miss loving somebody. I miss being loved. I feel incomplete, and I cry. I cry so hard. I cry for the times I was loved and didn’t realise until after. I cry for those who used to love me but are now too scared to. I cry for the warmth I didn’t miss until I got left out in the cold.

I miss one person in particular. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself because I scared them away. I hate that no matter how patient they were, I still killed what we had. And I hate that if they wanted me back, I’d drop everything and go to them. Fuck yes I would. Still, I know I wouldn’t care as much about them if they didn’t leave me, so I accept what has happened. This is what keeps me from calling them and telling them all of this.

I accept it. Really, I do. This person knows I miss them. Just not how much. I accept the pain, and I accept how much it hurts. There is nothing I can do to make it better, but there are a thousand things I can do to make it worse. I wish I could tell them, but I feel it is no longer my right to express this type of emotion to them. They’ve had enough.

And so I sit and cry and try to deal with this, alone. So alone. So all alone. Hello again, heartbreak.

Opinions on bathroom etiquette.

A couple of pet peeves have been popping up lately, in various places. This is annoying but it’s an indicator that I’m not dealing with any major life crises at the moment, otherwise I’d be too drained of life to be so petty. Anyway, on with the petty peevishness. Wa-heyyy.

Not flushing the toilet. There are a few acceptable reasons for not doing so; maybe you dropped something valuable in there by accident, or it was 3am and you didn’t want to wake someone else, or you live in a country with water restrictions. If it’s just pure laziness though, I heartily implore you to have a wee chat with yourself. About wees.

If you have bothered to close the lid without flushing, then you are truly special according to me. To put most toilet lids down, your hand will be a matter of centimetres from the flush-button or chain-pull at some stage. To have shut the lid without flushing is an affront to my sensibilities. It’s simply not something I understand. My hair is falling out as I type.

Not replacing an empty toilet paper roll. You three-ply solipsist, what are you up to? I’ll be fine with this if there was a fire and the smoke started seeping under the door while you were on the can. But in my mind, the stakes have to be pretty high before I forget to line another roll up for the next person. Like, maybe… a tradesperson’s knocking on the door within that lovely 10am – 4pm time window your landlord told you about and you risk having to wait another month for your fridge to be able to shut properly if you don’t get to the door right now. Then by all means, wipe and run. This is fine. Whether or not you shake their hand without washing yours is up to you, because time windows are tough, aren’t they?

But if you’re one of those super fun types who starts a new roll and shoves it on a shelf or atop the cistern or somewhere near the roll holder without replacing the empty roll, then you can go sit with the Shutters, Not Flushers gits and stew in your degeneracy. Try out excuses on each other and discuss whether or not it’s fine to dry your hands with someone else’s facecloth, you animals. I’m secretly jealous of your wild abandon, you know this, right? I only ridicule you because I love you.

The paradox: I can’t tell someone that UGHHH IT’S NOT THAT DIFFICULT!!! whilst going on about how difficult something is. If it’s not that hard for someone to replace a roll, then it’s not that hard for me either. This is what keeps me from ranting out loud and from writing immature little post-its and sticking them all over the cubicle.

Although I suppose a post-it would be marginally handy if you ran out of TP, hell, you can even stick them together in a chain or layer them up. Go on, recycle. Just make sure you flush, no matter what you wipe with, eh? I hear it’s not that difficult… 😉

Sometimes, I panic.

Sometimes, I pretend I need to go to the bathroom so I can be alone and breathe properly. Nobody likes to question anyone else’s need to go to the bathroom, and I rely heavily on this unspoken social guideline. I slam the door behind me and lock it as the waves of nausea break on the sands of ‘what if’ and I breathe like I’m trying to give birth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Sometimes I have to brace myself against the walls of a cubicle to keep from feeling like I have no skin. Sometimes, this takes some time and a polite voice breaks through and says something like, “Ma’am, are you OK? You’ve been in there a while.”

Sometimes, I try not to wince as I enter a room with loosely designated seating. Sometimes, it feels like every seat is the wrong one for me, and that anyone around me could be watching my moves –
Is she going for that one? Fucking poser; way too cool for everybody, huh? – Oh great, who’s this? Smells like cigarettes. I can hear her breathing. – Why is she here? Seriously, is she lost? Sometimes I have to keep myself from replying out loud. My palms are slick with the grossest type of dew imaginable and I shove them in my pockets like they’re stolen. Sometimes, my hands feel like they’re not mine and I feel such shame and guilt for being attached to them. “Only the guilty can shake like this,” I tell myself.

Sometimes, I drink alone, on very bad days. These are the days when everything feels like a slap, or interestingly enough, the near-slap a school bully would do to show off to their sneering friends how scared you were. You flinched! Have a cry, loser! Sometimes, I wish for a slap to the face and end up slapping myself. Something, anything to warrant feeling so hurt. It feels like reaching into a sink of dirty dishes and smashing them over my head, one by one.
The man in the elevator couldn’t stand you, can’t you tell? Smash. You’re going to become your mother one day. It’s so gradual, you had no idea it had begun already. Smash. You were too slow when you crossed the road and someone honked at you because you’re a fucking child. Smash. You’ve gained weight, you fucking fucker. Smash. You’re drinking alone and slapping yourself. What a mess you are. Have a cry, loser. Smash.

Sometimes, I freeze up. If I am in a room full of others, all I usually want is for someone else to be talking, and for everyone else to focus their attention on this person. Sometimes, this person speaks to me and I feel like even my blood is screaming at them to stop. Sometimes, I drop the ball and say something weird like, “Is bread usually this dense? This bread is very dense,” and sometimes I say nothing at all. Sometimes, I say something that makes sense and appears interesting, witty even, and I feel like an absolute fraud.

Sometimes, I pretend that my fingernails are just so interesting, and that they require my full attention, and that the frenzied importance of said fingernails should be obvious to anyone who sees me. I pretend that they must be thinking to themselves things like, “Shit, better let her tend to those instead of trying to initiate conversation; I know better than to get in the midst of something with such desperately high stakes. I hope her nails will be OK, I really do. God bless.” This pretending doesn’t last long, and I pick my nails and scratch at the skin beside them as I remind myself that nobody really cares. Sometimes someone will notice and decide to draw attention to what I’m doing. Sometimes I will joke with them about how the last person to talk to me this way ended up with their blood under my nails, and it’s been hard to shift. I’ve noticed that the best and worst types of people find this shit charming.

Sometimes, very rarely, I have very little respect for whoever is around me while I’m feeling monstrously awkward. I’m able to blame them for the heaviness of the air, and I can tell myself that every agitating stretch of silence only further asserts how this person or people are somehow at fault. Like, yes, this is weird, but this is your weirdness, fucko. I’m not a freak for not answering your question or replying to your remark or whatever; you are a freak for saying that shit. You need to learn. Have some silence. And some more. Eeeeeeeeeeat it. You like it? You better, because it’s all you’re getting. How dare you?! Sometimes, I later think of those odd moments of childish impunity and feel grateful that none of that nonsense happens too often.

Sometimes, I am in hell. Sometimes it’s other people, sometimes it’s me. It burns, and I panic.