Do you still remember me?

Do you even remember me?

Will I show up among the million images you’ll see as your life flashes before your eyes?

Or will I be a blank page someone ripped off because it was bland, boring, not interesting enough? Not meaningful enough?

I find myself missing the kitchen floor, and that silly song that was the best thing I’d ever heard because you showed it to me. I don’t want to go back. I wouldn’t go back there. There’s no complex reasoning behind it. I’m not hurt – well, I am, but it’s not like that. There’s no feeling left. None. Zero. And that’s what I miss. A time when I felt so much, too much, and I just wanted to be a cynic, I just wanted to be dead inside. But that’s the problem: if you had ever been dead inside, you would never want it again. You’re talking out of your ass, as usual. Until you’re not. Until you understand, you’re there. It happened. And now you just want to go back and you have no idea how to.

I would give anything to go back to that. Not to that moment. Not to you. To who I was. To this naïve idiot who would laugh like a maniac on a kitchen floor, because she was in love. To this person who would believe, even if for a second, that everything would work out. Who would make sappy playlists on her ipod and sing along in the rain, and not give two fucks if she looked crazy, because she was. And she was glad she was.

To this dumbass who just wanted to be in love. And to whom the worst possible outcome would be dying without knowing what that felt like. She didn’t want money, she didn’t want fame. She would welcome them, but in her dying bed, they wouldn’t matter. Only love would matter. And now she’s all grown up, and all fucked up, and she’s come to realize that not everybody gets a happy ending. That’s just something people say. Some people really do die alone. Oh well. That’s not her – why the fuck am I calling me “her”?  - problem. It never was.

Her – my – problem is that I’m starting to understand that maybe, just maybe, I am meant to end up alone. Not just out of bad luck, not just due to my commitment phobia. When I am alone I’m adjusted, happy, relaxed. And when I get close to falling in love I turn into this train wreck nervous mess, I’m destructive, uncomfortable, weird. Being in love is not my natural state. I don’t know how to deal with it. And without fail, I always fail. Maybe my problem is that I find it too hard within myself, to admit, in this society, that maybe, just maybe, I’m happier being alone. Or maybe my problem is that, even though I know all this, I’m still not ready to die without knowing what it feels like to (really) be loved. So can somebody just love me already, so I can fuck it up and then be blissfully happy alone for the rest of my days? Thanks.

Saí de casa, e o cheiro a fritos do hall ficou-me no nariz durante uns bons 100 metros. Quem é que frita batatas hoje em dia? Nem quero saber, Lá ia eu, a andar ao ritmo das músicas absurdamente perfeitas do mp3. O A veio atrás de mim, não sejas fraca, e há uns bons anos eu teria respondido que ser fraca era não lutar, mas não agora. Ser fraca, ser fraco, isto não é uma questão de género. É humilhares-te, Seja o que for que isso significa para ti. E eu não preciso de uma restraining order para me dizer que me estou a humilhar. Basta um olhar trocista. E é demais.
Mas eu humilho-me tanto ou menos que a história o permita. Há uma rua, que cada vez que lá passo, sinto um arrepio na espinha. E depois, nunca tive de levar um sopapo na cara para ver a realidade. Tive de dar muitos. O meu orgulho vale quase tanto quanto a minha vida. Se esperas que me ponha de joelhos, e não para te satisfazer mas para te implorar, já esperaste demais. Se tiver 70 anos e disser às minhas netas para não serem tão orgulhosas, tu e a tua stepford wife vão estar a rir-se, Mas se gostasses de mim, não exigirias que me agachasse, nem que te chupasse o ego.