This is about my bosom…

Namely, some things I’d like to get off of it.

And not, say, my actual chest or the auto driver who nearly caused an accident near Andheri station the other day when he decided to abruptly U-Turn amongst a stream of traffic so to follow me as I walked the other direction — all while yodeling about my wowow wee titty city.

For the record, I was wearing a formal suit. And was not, say, topless. Which might warrant such yodels.

Faggotcrap like him – who at some point in their miserable existence have concluded that a hanging sack of testicles validate careless objectification of women – give me some idea of why Lorena did what she had to do.

And there. I’ve already started.

Getting things off my chest that is.

My chest has been feeling mighty heavy lately. And it ain’t just due to the 36-D sweater under garments I wear.

So why not just shut up and put up?

I’m my own little way, I am a perfectionist, at least to myself. The girl who is incredibly messy, but divinely clean, who makes sure that she always smells good. Cleans her own and other apartments and starts by alphabetizing books by author and organizing magazines by chronology. The one who then makes sure all her hanging clothes face the same direction in the closet, preferably grouped by color. And scrubs every inch of the bathroom floor and tub and shower before moving on to the kitchen sink and the dishes and the oven.

On second thought, perhaps this has less to do with perfectionism and more to do with some kind of errant O.C.D. combined with my tendency to veer towards extremes.

I think the same applies to any other instant. Like my thoughts for that matter! There is always this physiological need to deconstruct the foundation and do it all the way up. To give a home to my oh! so! confused! Thoughts that are clogging up my fucked up cerebrum other than my fucked up cerebrum.

So one deep breath. And begin. About friends who cause enormous amounts of headaches, heartaches and outrages.

Of all the vices I have, one of my very worst maybe that im not able to judge people. Its fucking ridiculous for me to look you in the eye and take your opinion of some one I don’t know. But this is off course what has landed me in trouble! I like to believe I know how much it hurts to feel like you can never be imperfect because the only love you know is based on conditions. My childhood drills made me run the other direction. To become far too non-judgmental. Yes, far too much. To give second, third, fourth, nth chances. To forgive and to forget. To not hold grudges. I may be all kinds of fucked up, but I have an idea of what it means to be a good person and a good friend. It doesn’t mean that I always am. But when I’m not, I own up.

These friends has been less than that. Forgotten what it means to be honest and trustworthy. Or loyal. Forgotten how to place priorities. Or to take a much needed check of their actions. Not even destructive in some inspired train wreck sort of way where the focus is on oneself rather than hurting others. Were that the case, I’d have no right to preach. I’m not so hypocritical that I’d call out one of my own.

And my head is a mess – has been a mess – trying to figure out what to do about these friendships.

These friends have got away with a lot of the shit that they pull. We all let these friends get away with a lot of the shit that they pull – either victim to a genius who’s learned how to fool everyone into thinking they’re a saint when they’re actually a very corrupt, hateful and hurtful group. Or victim to a friend who is just that fucking delusional.

Once I trust you, I really trust you. Me and moderation aren’t words synonymous. And me and caution? Are for hell of fucking sure not either. If I love you, I love you fiercely. If I’m excited, I jump up, down, and sideways. And if I think you’re my friend, I give you no walls.

Because to me, the notion of soul mates is an idea best intended for friendships.

I protect myself when it comes to relationships with men. I like to play strong. It takes me long to let barriers break and come forward. Guys get to know me – really know me – only after they’ve passed some subconscious test of are you worth this and can you hold my interest for more than tonight, this week, this month? My shtick is that I’ll love you – just please don’t expect me to settle.

But in friendships I play that role of ‘girl trapped in abusive relationship’ all too well. I create excuses for poor behavior. I open the door over and over again at the first apology or sign that things might be all right. I don’t listen to the advice everyone else sheds. Questions of How can you still friends with that person? They’re caustic! are met with my quick rushes to their defenses. I put up with a lot of shit I’d never take from any guy.

Because I’ve always liked people who have a taste for debauchery. Those that are of complex personalities but more or less good hearts. People, I suppose, that I consider similar to me.

And with debauchery can come chaos.

I guess in some ways it can be easy for me to come to the conclusion that it’s time to end a friendship once I reason that if I’m fed up – in light of all the fucking chances I give, all the shit I let slide – then this must be a pretty fucking bad situation. But breakups – particularly friendship breakups – can’t be that clean. Can’t be that mature. Can’t be a common agreement to move on and leave the other party at peace. People are hard to escape. Facebook, Gchat, gossip among mutual friends all make it impossible to cut people off entirely. You can go about blocking and you can ask those mutual friends to not mention the people in question to you any longer but all that tedious work just seems that. Tedious. And petty. Even dramatic.

It’s unneeded. Life throws you enough fucked up histrionics without having to get them from your friendships.

And now these friends. Who are neither debaucherous or delightful or complex but pathetic. Weak sauce. I could go into details. A macabre list of all the wrongs. And it would turn into a very, very long list. There’s a part of me that wants to do it. To be hateful. To vent. To bitch. To point fingers. To scream and yell and have the whole world see the laundry list of shit I’ve dealt with for them and because of them.

But I know there’s no real good that can come from that. Not right now. When the hurt is still a little visible. Maybe someday else. When I’ve gained enough distance so that there can at least be some kind of message with the tale – at least some humor or insight – rather than raw rage.

For now, just writing this much has helped my chest feel like it can return to just carrying its physical weight around.

Wowow wee that titty city!!!



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