Death over cocktails

“Here’s your mojito,” the bartender says as he hands me my glass. He has one of those mustaches that curls up on the ends and is wearing a Hawaiian themed t-shirt.

I look around the bar and realize that all the staff are wearing Hawaiian themed t-shirts. I look around again and notice there is not a single piece of Hawaiian decoration on the walls, I turn my focus back to my Mojito.

My friend is sitting across from me. He’s from New Zealand and has one of those accents which clearly identify him as someone who’s from New Zealand. I met him over Facebook after I posted an adoption picture of me and my cat on some group. He replied to my post saying that I had a nice cat. I asked if he wanted it, he said no. We’ve been friends ever since.

“If you didn’t call me, I wouldn’t have left my house,” I say as I jab my straw between the crushed ice in my glass.

“Why not?” he asks, sipping his gin and tonic.

“I just don’t want to see anyone, I feel – not that I don’t care, but I feel numb.”

“Have you been thinking abo—”

“Are you asking me suicide prevention questions?”

“No,” he pauses, “if I was going to ask you safety questions since you know, I am a doctor, I would ask you, have you thought about hurting yourself?”

“Yes,” I genuinely answer as I take a sip of my mojito, “I think everyone’s thought about hurting themselves. You know when you’re driving and you just want to –” I gesture a tilting steering wheel, “you know, just see what would happen if you went straight into the pole.”

He nods, “why don’t you just hit the breaks really fast in a parking lot?”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s a good way to see how it feels.”

“Yeah, but you don’t really get to see how it feels to hit the pole.”

There’s a pause as he grabs his drink, “have you made any plans for this?”

“Of course not, I’m too selfish and too much of a pussy to do that.”

He nods with satisfaction and stirs his drink with the miniature wooden stir stick in his glass.

“But the past couple months, it’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

“What, dying in general? Or your death?”

“My death,” I take a sip, “not even the after-life part, I’m concerned about the exact moment I will die – the realization of my own death. That’s all I think about when I’m alone.”

“Are you sure this isn’t because your just grandpa died,” he asks.

“No, no, no, I don’t think so, I mean, this has been going on in my mind for a while now,” I pause for a moment. “Yesterday, I thought about it so much, I  had a moment of insanity at the take-out joint I went to.”

He finishes his drink and waves at the bartender for another round.

---

I’m at the take-out place that lets you pick out the food you want by weight, they have literally every possible meat dish available – I don’t eat meat. The place is as big as my bathroom and overheated from the oven that’s currently roasting a couple chickens. A few husky businessmen are eating at one of the tables in the corner, fully emerged in lunch time conversation. However, I’m focused at the lady working behind the counter. She has the oven open and is currently poking a roasting chicken. Her hair’s in a sloppy ponytail and she’s wearing a visor. I stare at her visor for a couple moments, thinking of how useless they are. They don’t actually protect you from the sun. You will get melanoma if you wear a visor. Anyways, as I’m staring at her visor, my eyes scan down to her face. Her face was one that you wouldn’t mind punching. Not because she’s wearing a visor, which I think is enough of a reason, but because she has that type of jaw that is overly relaxed, where her mouth is almost half-way opened, as if she’s saying “duh”.

“What do you want,” she asks unenthused.

“We’ll take four pieces of fried zucchini,” I say, pointing to the plate.

She takes a pair of tongs, and moves the regular sized zucchini slices out of the way, selecting four miniature-sized pieces, stuffing one-by-one into the plastic container. I look at her slightly perplexed, then I glance at my dad, giving him the “what is she doing” look. He’s too busy examining the potato salad to notice my cry for help. I continue watching her seal up the plastic container and set it on the counter.

This bitch did that on purpose, I think to myself with slight rage. And she’s probably hasn’r even thought about her death.  That fucking visor.

“Are you serious?” I ask her as I feel my face becoming warm.

She looks up at me emotionless, “what.”

“Who’s eating that,” I say pointing to the container, “do you see the size of those pieces you picked? Who’s eating that? Are you gonna them?” I pause and look up at the ceiling for a quick moment and place one hand over my mouth. “Do I look like a fucking midget to you?” I point to my dad, “do we look like small people, what the hell am I supposed to do with the shit end of a zucchini.”

My dad starts to order another dish, “ha, ohhhkay and we’ll take, the, uh,” he looks intensely through the glass, ” yeah, let’s do 200 grams of the potato salad.”

She moves her attention to my dad as she scoops out some potato salad.

“Did you want more?” she asks him.

“Yeah, one more scoop, please.”

“We don’t have anymore,” she says as her gaze hits my eyes. She turns around to weigh the container.

I turn to my dad hastily, “Did you just see what she did?” I whispered. “What th — you know what this is, she thinks she controls the fucking food supply. That’s what this is, a fucking power tactic – this bitch, I swear, Dad, fucking Darwin.”

My dad nods in agreement and politely pays for the food.

“Bye-bye now,” my dad says cheerfully as he walks out the store.

I grab the food from the counter and wave my middle finger in the air behind him.

---

 

“You actually did that?” Alex asks me as the waiter comes by with a tray of shots.

“Well, yeah, I was having a mental breakdown and also, you should have seen the size of those things. It was fucking ridiculous,” I reply as I grab a shot glass.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Well, I bought you something, but I’m not sure now —,” he pulls out a plastic bag and hestitantly puts it on the table.

“What is it?”

“A book about death.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know…you were..uh..it’s a comedy…”

I stare at him in silence.

He looks at me and takes a shot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revenge with puppy eyes

I’m staring at my dog eating a raw potato under the kitchen table. It’s the third potato she’s eaten this week.

She’s shredding the flesh with her tiny jigsaw teeth, splitting the skin open with each gnaw. I look away avoiding the pile of potato bites covering the floor.

A veterinarian moment: Because she is only 3 months old, she must have her third vaccine in order to go outside. Until then, she cannot come into contact with any other dog or fecal matter. Thus, she must be kept indoors until she receives her vaccination. She has one week left in the house.

The longer she stays locked up in the house, the more she spites us, and her revengeful side continues to grow. She’s chewed everything. My 10$ H&M pleather purse which I bought after realizing stuffing everything in my pockets makes me a target for pickpocketers. My underwear. The complimentary slippers I took from some hotel I once stayed at. My collection of toilet paper that I keep just in case I need to pee outside. My hands. Everything.

I saw glimpses of her revengeful side after I scolded her for trying to eat my bathing suit.

I held my finger up, wagged it and said, “No.” From that simple action, she decided to hate pee in front of me. She’s peed 8 times in the house today already. It’s noon.

As the dog is still focused on tearing apart the potato, my mother is on the phone with her mother.

“Did you want to talk to Natasha?” my mother says as she walks closer to me.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table in a pair of underwear and an oversized, hair dye-stained t-shirt. I lift my head up and wave my hands, miming typing fingers while anxiously mouthing, “I can’t now.”

“Okay,” she says into the phone while staring at me expressionlessly, “here she is.”

A phone is held in front of my face as I stare at my mother in silence.

I grab the phone and put it to my ear.

“Hi, Oma!” I say enthusiastically, getting up from the kitchen chair to aimlessly walk around the house. While on the phone, I find amusement trying to pick up a cord with my big toe.

We talk about the weather, funeral homes and what I’m having for dinner.

I say goodbye to my Oma and pass the phone back to my mother. I walk back into the kitchen and see my dog peeing on the floor. Ninth time.

I sigh and pick up a piece of paper towel and homemade vinegar disinfectant. I’m unsure if the homemade disinfectant works but at the same time, I’m praying to gets worms for weight loss purposes. I squat down to lay a paper towel on the puddle of pee, my hands are covered with the scratches and bite marks that my dog has branded me with. As a turn my head to look up, I see my laptop charger, completely chewed, with tiny wires untangled, poking out of the industrial rubber coating. My eyes become watery as my face starts to heat up. I take a deep breath and continue cleaning the pee. With each spray of vinegar, I breathe deep and slow. I stand up and turn around to see my dog shitting on the floor. Second time.

“Whhhhy,” I whisper furiously to myself as my eyes fill up. I grab a poop bag, some paper towel, and the vinegar disinfectant. I get on my knees and place my cleaning products beside me. Hovering over the steaming pile of dog shit, I snap.

“AHHHHHHHHH,” I scream to the pile of shit.

It lays there in silence.

My scream turns into a sob and I continue to cry over the pile of shit. With tears streaming down my face, I slam my fist a couple times into the floor, watching my tears dilute the fecal matter.

I clean up the residue, throw it out and go to lay on the couch. My dog blissfully comes running towards me, climbing her way up on the couch, pushing and prying herself up until she’s sitting beside me, delightfully chewing my left hand.

I turn on the tv with my other hand and flip through the channels, staring at the screen with a puffy, red face. The Kardashians are on. Scott bought a Bentley without Kourtney’s permission. Kim and Khole think Scott is out of control with his lying. Kris is eating a salad. A commercial comes on. I hear my dad yelling in the other room. I get up from the couch and see my dad with his shirt held in one hand and a fly swatter in the other.

“Why are you shirtless?” I ask, standing at the kitchen door.

“I need to kill the mosquitos,” he says.

I go back to the couch and stick my hand in my dog’s mouth.

 

 

 

The only car that stopped

“Natasha, there’s a car coming!”

“Put your thumb out” I yell, as I run up the hill while pulling my pants up.

Natalia, my Spaniard friend, is facing away from the road, casually applying on deodorant.

“Natalia- put your fucking thumb out!” I yell, gasping for air as I make it up to the top of the hill. My pants are almost at my waist as I lunge myself to the side of the road and stick my thumb out. The car stops. The window rolls down.

“Where are you guys heading?” the woman in the passenger seat asks.

“Dorio?” It’s on the way to Lecco” I say panting as I bend down to see the driver. He has aviator sunglasses on and a tight navy blue t-shirt.

They look at each other, mumble a couple incoherent words.

“Okay, we’ll take you”

“Oh great, thanks”. I turn to Natalia, “Natalia, come on, get in the car”

“But I didn’t get to go pee”

My sympathy has dwindled and I stare at her as I feel the uncaptured pee drizzling down my leg.

“Just get in the car.”

Natalia and I are sit in the backseat of their Jeep. The woman in the passenger seat has luscious brown hair that flows like a stream down her back. She was holding her phone in one hand and with her other hand, her fingers are gently draped over the hand of the driver. Every few moments, she would take her index fingers and sensually caress the top of his hand.

“So, what are you guys doing in the middle of nowhere?” The man asks as he looks at us in the rearview mirror.

“We need to get to Dorio, that’s where we’re staying”

“So, then how did you end up all the way at the top of the lake?”

“Honestly, I have no idea how we ended up here. I just know it took us three trains, one boat and it’s been a 12 hours trip to get here”.

It’s true, five minutes before getting into their jeep, a boat had dropped us off on a large rock, in the middle of nowhere. Our boat ride was four hours long, which made me see how great boats are until you realize you’re on a fucking boat. The captain had said it was the closest point to Dorio that they could take us to. As I turned around and walked away from the boat, I realized they dropped us off in the middle of the woods, where 2 kilometers of winding road separated us and our hotel. See, these are the problems you get when you buy a groupon.

“And what are you guys doing at Lake Como? Do you live here?” I ask the couple.

“No, we’re actually from Israel. We’re on our honeymoon,” the woman says ecstatically while turning her to her husband, smiling.

“Oh shit! Congratulations,” I say enthusiastically.

“Oh, thank you”

“We didn’t even get you a gift,” I say in a humbling tone while staring outside the window.

The woman turns her head around and looks at me, smiling.

She takes out her guns and shoots us in the face.

I’m joking. Then they drop us off at our hotel, only it’s the wrong one so we have to walk another kilometer to reach it.

 

Death to prunes and didgeridoos

 

I have an issue living with people I was not birthed from, share the same genetic DNA with or wish I was genetically linked with. Until recently, meaning two months ago, I lived at home with my parents, my brother and my cat I have an allergic reaction to, Squid. It was great. From the waist down, I had the skin texture of a mutated kiwi. I didn’t shave my legs for months at a time and no one complained if they found hair in their food. I think my father preferred the fact that I cockblocked myself naturally and my mother appreciated the additional support of reliving her Woodstock days. It was delightful.

Now, the most crucial part of this was the fact I was allowed to be a free spirit, prance around my apartment with my mammoth like body fully exposed, receiving the appropriate ventilation to cool myself under my fur.

I was supported to fully let myself go.

But now, things are different. I live with two, sometimes three guys – the third one lives here occasionally when he’s done going through his phases of being in an existential crisis. My other two rooms include an Italian economist and a Belarussian sculptor.

The Belarussian sculptor spent one the New Year’s Eve of 2000 in deep meditation, where after he painted a self-portrait of himself, nude, in the traditional meditative pose. He does not have Facebook, but rather focuses his attention on playing his guitar and didgeridoo. Every morning, I walk into the kitchen where I see him sitting at the wooden table, drinking tea out of a bowl, scribbling down notes in a list formation. However, I have yet to see him cross anything out.

My Italian economist roommate started playing the guitar seven months ago and practices every day. Last week he bought a new electric guitar. Which he practices. Everyday. Cream-filled croissants make him feel good and a picture of Elvis hangs beside his bed. His dream is to work with wolves.

Since my roommate, the Belarussian, is health conscious, I decided to join him on a life of purity and tranquility. So, I bought prunes. I’m not really sure why I thought of prunes, maybe because old people eat them and I was constipated at that moment of this decision.

I should note that from here on, it’s basically a health and safety message regarding the dangerousness of prunes.

So, there I was, with a package of prunes. Unaware, I started eating them. One. Two. Three. Four. I was just mowing through this bag of prunes like they were chocolate covered almonds. These little guys were delicious, no wonder old people are all up on them.

Within minutes, my stomach started aching, gurgling noises I’ve never heard before were being produced from within.

The prunes. It was the prunes.

At this point, it was one of those moments where you’re pretty sure of what’s going to happen, like those moments when you’re dancing with a guy and he’s staring at you but you’re looking away because you know he’s going to try to kiss you the minute you make eye contact. It was that, but with the knowledge that you may shit your pants in a house of potentially new friends.

“Do you need the bathroom?” My roommate asks me while holding his towel.

I was silent, trying to evaluate the situation of my bowels. I gave myself a twenty-five-minute window of safety, he’ll be out of that bathroom in less than fifteen.

“No, I don’t need it. Enjoy your shower.” I replied.

I returned my attention back to the computer, casually googling, “how many prunes is too many?” The results were catastrophic. I overdosed on prunes.

New search, “What happens when you eat too many prunes”

Tragedy. Pure tragedy.

I closed my laptop and stared at the wall. The only thing I could do was wait.

My roommate came out of the bathroom, looking refreshed and hygienic.

He was slowly walking around the kitchen, you could tell he was finding something to do because he would just pick up a fork and put it down. Then, he would move the olive oil bottle from one side of the table to the other.

While watching him fumble around aimlessly, the grumbling in my stomach stopped. It was time.

I casually walk-ran to the bathroom. I tried to gently close the door behind me to go unnoticed but my right arm was in a panic, so I slammed it shut instead.

Now, usually, if I was at home, I wouldn’t care. Actually, I would have probably alerted my family members of the danger of prunes and loudly announced my entrance upon entering the bathroom. Instead, I was overly aware of the soundproofing issues of the new bathroom I had just locked myself into. This was an additional pressure that I couldn’t handle at the moment.

But then I heard the sound of the didgeridoo.

Usually, I would classify the didgeridoo as one of the most useless instruments created by man. I’m not sure who the fuck decided that a hollow stick would make for a pleasurable sound. Also, I’m skeptical of the people who aren’t Aboriginal, who decided to play the didgeridoo. Why.

The low bellowing sound filled the apartment. How long does one play the didgeridoo for? While my stomach turns, I look up to the sky. Is there enough time? Do guardian angels exist? (I would prefer if they didn’t, simply because I don’t need someone looking over me at this time with a bird’s eye view). After all this hate against this stick-like instrument, had the didgeridoo saved my reputation as a mysterious female? Where are the matches?

What your roommate tells you while you’re cooking pasta

I picked an apartment that was close to my school, which I thought was logical. So, I’m currently living in an Italian ghetto. Aside from staying in my apartment after the sun goes down, it’s going great.

Anyways, a month ago I was living in another apartment, the same ghetto, but a different street. My roommate was a 19-year-old Italian boy from Venice. He was studying psychology but he had such innocent and a child-like face that I thought he would suit teaching or becoming a professional mama’s boy. I think it was the Harry Potter glasses and soft cheeks that worked against him. He called himself, Federico.

So, I was in the kitchen cooking pasta. I decided to invest a couple meals cooking and eating pasta. This decision came after I chose to make him a house warming meal, where he, upon viewing the pasta, laughed at my face and said,” I have never tried this American pasta before.”

No, asshole, it’s not American pasta. It’s just fucking pasta.

Apparently, the pasta was not al dente.

So, we ate, and I started doing the dishes. He was leaning against the fridge, as he helpfully watched me wash the dishes as he peeled an orange. He was almost done peeling the skin off the orange when he then said hesitantly, “I need to tell you something.”

Naturally, my immediate thought was that he hosted orgies. That, or that I was too messy. However, the orgy idea was more probable.

I continued washing the dishes calmly and said, ” Oh, okay. What is it?”

“The police might come to the door, if they do, you have to tell them I’m not here.”

Exciting.

“Okay, got it. You’re not here.” I paused. “Why?”

“I’m…” he paused dramatically. I continue to anxiously wash the dishes. “An Anarchist.”

“That’s it?” I laugh in relief. “Okay, great.”

And that was the end of that. He then told me he’s leaving the next day to some Anarchist meeting in Venice and will come back in three days.

He came back two weeks later.

Ideally, I should have been concerned about the fact that he was missing for two weeks, but I liked living alone and figured he was probably arrested for creating public unrest after protesting against the closing of olive oil plantations or a factory that made those circular Italian crackers that taste like licorice.

I noticed his return after I had come home from school one day. He sat on the velvet red couch, wrapped in his duvet cover, sniffing and sipping on tea.

“You’re back” I forcefully said with a smile. “And sick. Where were you?”

“I was in Venice, squatting.”

Now, I have a couple friends who squatted in an abandoned cinema in the city center of Belgrade, they actually managed to get it re-opened. So, this sparked my attention.

“Where were you squatting?”

“In a car dealership.”

“Oh, a car dealership?” I wasn’t sure where this was going. “Was it in the center of Venice?”

“No, it was in the suburbs.”

“Wait, you squatted in a car dealership in the suburbs of Venice?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s a good way to network”.

It’s a good way to network.

I stopped making him pasta after that.

Tis is the time to be thankful… I guess

What could bring more joy to this Thanksgiving weekend, aside from the slaughtering of Aboriginal peoples from their native land, then going dancing.

It was like every other recently established Saturday night. Me and my friend, Tijana, get dressed up, powder on the make-up and hit up a string of our favorite clubs, dancing from start to finish. We decided to check out one of our favorites, Tranzit bar. It’s particularly our favorite clubs simply because the music is good and the men are even better looking – we’re simple. I know. Also, we both the know bodyguards at Tranzit, as one of them asked for Tijana’s number and failed to ever call her. Out of us jokingly shaming him the next time we saw him, we now slide pass the line and are given the nod of approval every time our gleaming faces show up at the front door.                                                                                                                                                                 We did our time at Tanzit and then moved to the club next door, Ben Akiba, a comedy club/nightclub/lounge. I went to their comedy show once and did not laugh. It was there where I broke out in an aggressive sweat as I was poppin’ and lockin’ it at my most deepest efforts. I picked the most inappropriate area to start my dance career – the upstairs lounge of the club. Not only was my body sweat too extreme but we soon realized that the fellow club goers were not vibing with our enjoyable energy. Thus, we changed clubs.

It was there, that I entered into the overly crowded and stuffy – Ludost Mladost, which is translated into craziness and youth. Two large rooms – one is Ludost (craziness) and the other Mladost (youth) – I still don’t know which one is which. The crowd is a little to old for me, which I would find attractive if I had developed daddy issues.

Me and Tijana were squeezing our way through the crowd to reach a space where we could dance. We ended up finding a spot next to an extremely short Kevin Bacon looking man in a suit performing the robot. We joined him in his dance routine and formed a friendship based off of our mutual interest in dancing the robot. As I was fully engulfed in my robotic dance, Tijana gets elbowed in the head causing a stream of mascara streaming down her face. As the tears poured, we dodged our way through the impossibly crowded room to get our jackets — it was then when a man stopped me in my tracks.

“I’ve been trying to catch you and talk to you”

“Aha, well hi, I’m just leaving with my frie–“

“Do you play any sports?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I thought so. You have very wide shoulders.”

“I am aware of them”

“I would love to take you for a coffee. I have many things I would like to ask you”

silence.

There was not too much I could work off of after that – and I am a woman of many words. I was unsure if his statement about my shoulders excited him or if he was simply stating an obvious fact. Are women with wide shoulders more valuable due to their wood chopping and carcass carrying skills? Do we do a better job at protecting our men by performing shoulder checks against luring women? Or do our wide shoulder allow us to snap crab legs at incredible speeds?

take note, save yourself

It’s been a little over two weeks since I wrote and sent him that letter.

Here is an overview of my activities that I’ve been actively doing the past two weeks:

1. Cried.

2. Developed a sinus infection.

3. Obsessively filled my days with things to occupy myself, this includes grocery shopping 4 times a day.

4. When there was an open time slot, I would sit and repeat every conversation, every facial  expression, every touch in my mind.

5. I then discovered that this empty time can be used to scrub every surface in my house.

6. At night, I watched an unnecessary large amount of dramas and romantic comedies by myself – Pride and Prejudice, and almost all Drew Barrymore films.

6. I proceeded to  repeat 1 – 5 all over again.

(note: I have eased off the obsessive grocery shopping since I heard his 70’s porno ringtone in the store and started to gag on the spot.)

I have never experienced these emotions before and I have to say, I have no idea how to handle them.

For example, I was recently at a bar with a couple of friends. The topic came up after they asked how I am. At that very moment, I was anxiously ripping apart a napkin that was being used as my coaster. I say that I’m doing better, with each rip becoming more intense and emotional. Momir, takes his hand and places it on mine. It’s silent. He keeps his hand on mine and looks at me with a soft smile. In my other hand, I’m holding the napkin and rubbing it aggressively. Oh, and then a tear appears. While surrounded by the clinking and “cheers-ing” of beer glasses, the tears gently drop one after another.

When do you become okay?

S.O.S.

40 days of [oh god, don’t do it] dating

Premise: Two lifelong friends decide to try dating for 40 days.

I get it. You’re good friends, both single, both enjoy each others company, so why not take the next step. There is obviously attraction and compatibility between both of you. Perhaps it will work out for you, perhaps not. And the way I see it, it will answer the good ol’ “what if” question that would probably sit, hovering above your head while you’re sitting at Divorce Court, staring across your soon-to-be-ex who you can’t stand anymore, thinking “what would have happened if I just went for it and asked out Todd“.

Though, say it doesn’t work out. Can you ever go back to your previous relationship once sex is added into the mix? Will it ever be the same? Or will your friendship slowly drift apart, ruining a perfectly good friendship.

So, I ask you. Would you do this?

Take a read at the article, and check out their blog. Links are added below.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/02/02/40-days-of-dating_n_6598764.html

http://vimeo.com/40daysofdating

From friendzone to no-zone. A non- romantic comedy letter.

Bubice,

I know how I feel, you know how I feel, and anyone who sees us can us figure it out- I love you. What am I supposed to do? You’re my best friend. I share my laughs, my worries, my thoughts with you, as what any best friends would do. And what am I supposed to do about this? I love my best friend, who doesn’t want me. This is the classic female-male friendship story, which for the first time I’m now living in.

I spend time with you because I like you. I like being around you. I like the way you make me feel. I know at least those feeling are mutual, or else you wouldn’t invest your time with me.
But to this day, I still cannot understand this. You introduce me to your family, we see each other every day and spend the drunk nights with you trying to make-out with me. But, I’m not good enough for you.

It’s like I’m in the quasi-relationship with you, where we act like we’re together, but we’re not. This isn’t fair to me. I cannot be the girl you hang with while you wait for something better to come along. I have never been that girl and never tended to be that.

Listen, I chew on chicken bones, my socks frequently smell, and I accidentally killed my guinea pig. I am flawed. But, I am beautiful. I am funny. I am kind. I am smart. I don’t have to tell you this, you know that already.

You talk about the “click”, okay, fine. But there comes a point, where you have to start asking yourself, if there apparently isn’t anything between us, then what are you doing. There is something within you that you’re ignoring and suppressing, you are blocked and you’re not being true to yourself.
I’m writing this without any expectations, of anything. I don’t expect you to understand, but as my best friend, I needed to get this off my chest.

Kiflice.

They say rejection comes in 3’s.

I’m sitting on a deserted island, pen shaking in hand, aggressively drawing 3d squares in my sketch book as I lay on a beach towel listening to the sweet words, “I don’t think we should progress” stream out of my friends mouth.

What was supposed to be a lazy sunbathing day at the beach, turned into some sort of episode of Sex in the City, one where Miranda gets rejected by stuck up lawyer who has a phobia of using chopsticks in public, thus resulting in her spending the rest of the episode sitting on her couch eating a tub of ice cream, awaiting for Carrie to bless her with supportive friend statements, such as “you’re too good for him” and the classic, “he’s an asshole”. (yes, that was all one sentence).

The issue with the above situation is, this is not some guy I met at a bar last week and decided to test the waters with. This is one of my good friends. Is it possible for two friends of the opposite gender to hang out almost everyday in a perfect platonic atmosphere? Absolutely not. Why? Self-interest. There is absolutely no way I would invest my time in an individual whom I was not attracted to on some level, whether that be emotionally, physically, mentally.  In addition, there is always that thought in my head- if he hangs out with me daily, he must like me. See, see what I mean. Do you see that people? Do you see that? Hope. That small fraction of hope festered into my head leaving me tied to him until god knows when.

Let’s skip back to the scene on the beach. As I have learned from romantic comedies, these “let’s just be friends” conversations are very uncomfortable and can result in a person having sudden bursts of anger or suffering from those anxious crying fits. During the conversation, I was laying on my stomach, hiding my face with my mop of curly hair which worked in my favor, as my tears camouflaged itself into beads of sweat dripping down my chest. I spent a majority of energy invested in swallowing my breaths and squeezing my eyes to stop the tears, but I did manage to catch a few sentences here and there.

“I see you as my soulmate, I mean, we hang out everyday. But I don’t think we should progress this relationship into anything more, it would ruin our friendship.”

Naturally I am usually quiet in these types of situations and calculate carefully if I should say anything or not. I usually choose not to, which is a big problem. Subconsciously, I have this “oh, don’t make the man angry” mentality, allowing myself to be passive and lethargic with expressing my feelings and opinions.  In return, this lack-of action simply allows the guy to manipulate and control the situation for his benefit.

Let’s be honest. My friend, while we have not had sex, have “hooked up” and he spends day after day at my house, sleeping over, watching movies, etc. Our friendship was not built on pure platonic relations, initially starting with us at a house party, making out. What did he expect me to feel? What did I expect myself to feel? I slid myself into this situation.

I’m confused, I’m flustered, I’m bubbling with emotions which I am unable to define.  I love someone who doesn’t love me, yet invests his time spending time with me daily. Mind fuck? Mind fucked.