Love and Other Flukes.

Love and Other Flukes.

I finish smiling at the phone and hang up. My cheeks hurt from having to fake it. I’ve been faking it since forever now. I turn off the phone and put it away.

I hate being weak. I hate it that every time this routine phone call happens, I feel dumb and I feel like a compromise. Why would he pick me anyway? He’s perfect. I’m far from it. And we’re also in this long-distance thing where we talk everyday on appointment-basis. Which means, he calls and talks to me for twenty minutes on the daily. And that I’m supposed to be thankful for it. And he says I’m supposed to be happy he doesn’t cheat on me, even though all the women at work throw themselves at him.

My hands itch to find a fresh new razor.

I kind of started cutting myself when I was with another man, before him. Stopped when I met this guy, but he turned out to be the exact same piece of trash in a different meat-suit, and the whole process started again. I don’t cut myself in obvious places. Only my thighs. We’ve never had sex with the lights on, and he’s never paid attention to my scars. And when we meet, once in a while, they’re almost healed anyway. Sometimes I feel like I’m an abomination that can’t be loved. That everything about me is wrong and dirty and unworthy of someone’s time. That men only ever want to be with me because I’m something that must be pitied upon. Hot tears blind my eyes and revulsion rises inside of me like bilious vomit for even daring to think of myself with so much self-pity – and at the same time, I ask myself why am I even here. If I had a gun, I would have blown my own brains out years ago. Nobody would have known. Not till the apartment started to reek and someone ended up calling the authorities to investigate.

I fantasize about death, a lot. An unhealthy awful lot.

I find a shiny new blade and start tracing the word LOSER on to my right thigh. I’m calm when I have open wounds. I’ve always been this calm when placing calculated obvious incisions at the morgue too. Cutting myself is a whole different rush. And it heals me and it calms me down. I look at the clock. Two hours have passed and I’ve been exactly a year older for two whole hours and I never noticed.

I pat LOSER dry but she continues to bleed.

The “Omnivore” Debate

The “Omnivore” Debate

Humans were primarily vegetarian, did you know that? This whole omnivore thing came into being because that’s what we concluded, as per our convenience.

A few pointers that actually stress on the point that Homo sapiens sapiens were actually meant to be vegetarian:

• Lack of pointy AF canines. We only have tiny little baby canines.

• The presence of the vermiform appendix which now exists for the sole purpose of causing you pain, but actually played a key role in ancient history when man most certainly ate the bark of trees and different forms of cellulose.

• The fact that you don’t see a dead chicken carcass and automatically go OMG I want to eat it.

I think the meat thing happened by accident. Man discovered fire, and some animal fell into it and it must have smelled good or whatever and steak was discovered. I’m kidding.

Before this thing gives me angina, I’m going to retire for the night. This was also probably the most half-a**ed post I’ve done in a long time. Between headaches and work and having to deal with grown up children that don’t belong to my body, I’ve really had a rough day. Anyway. Is it just me, or are chicken wings hella tempting and maybe I should go back to eating them?

Also, what do you think of the whole man was designed to be someone that ate a plant-based diet debate?

PMS.

PMS.

I’m supposed to be correcting my students’ papers. I can’t focus. There’s a horrible dull ache right under my tits and it’s driving me nuts. Why’s cyclical mastalgia a real thing? Why do I have to deal with it every month?

Premenstrual syndrome is a nightmare. I know Aunt Flow has almost reached V-town – I’m bloated, craving chocolate at three in the morning and my husband is still out. On a Friday night. That lousy, cheating scum.

I know he’s cheating on me.

I can’t even correct these papers anymore. I want to rip out my hair, all my hair, from the roots. I want to scream bloody banshee screams, and I want to throw boiling hot water over whoever cow he’s shagging at three am on a weekend night. I’m gonna cry.

I definitely know he’s cheating on me.

So he has a piercing in one ear, right? And I got him this little stud to wear and he’s switched it up. I remember him replacing it with one of those guy hoops that f*ckboys wear. Oh, he’s cheating on me. I’m sure some girl gave him this hoop thing. I hate it. I hate the little stones on it. I want to beat her into a unrecognizable pulpy mess. The nerve.

I hate this. I hate being home alone and working. I’m craving chocolate mousse.

I’m just gonna walk to the fridge before my ovaries and my brains split. And awesome, there’s only health crap in there. Who wants a freaking salad at this time of night? UGHHHHHHH.

Oh look, he’s FaceTiming.

Okay, so he’s at work and he’s going to be home in fifteen. Definitely not cheating. Just working. I looked carefully. He’s in office and there’s nobody around. I made him show me around. Poor thing. Must be so hard on him, you know? All of this. This marriage. To this crazy witch.