flashback: france.

July 1, 2008

i was digging through my papers tonight, and came across this bit of a story.

it tells me that i can be too hard on myself, although it can’t persuade me that such is true in times like these.

i don’t know when i wrote this, but it was probably in early september, right after dave dumped me on vacation.

ever since i was a kid, i’ve noticed how social relations work in function of friendships, relationships, partnerships, etcetera. heavy power sometimes, especially since this ability was not gifted to me alongside that of emulation. i’ve therefore oft felt myself on teh outside of most social situations, as a guest, welcome (surely), but a guest still. i don’t know why i’ve not been able to overcome this struggle of mine. maybe it has to do with fear. fear and lack of want.

i may come across as modest and self-deprecating at times. ironic, since i’m actually hugely narcissistic and conceited. i prefer to be with myself, deep in my thoughts. ’cause my thoughts never betray me, much as one parent’s love proved to do. i will never be a parent – i could never bring myself to risk raising a child in the manner in which i was raised. or razed. my spirit never broke, no. it was just given a shell.

i remember very clearly my mother’s discipline. she would lecture me for hours on hours over nothing. [one time, i remember awaking to a four-hour castroesque lecture, as if i had transgressed her law in my sleep.] she would project her skewed vision of the world on me. i hated her doing this. she thought she had an evil son, dark as tar.

my brother, who is certainly a sweet person, was also very simple-minded growing up. he did not question authority. not at all. like the worst of the kapo, he collaborated with the enemy in exchange for pittances. life was like democracy under apartheid.

i hate that cunt of a woman with all my soul. i hate her beyond anything comprehensible. i’d like to see her tied up to a chair one day so that i could give her a nice solid slap across the cheek and spit blood in her face. what a wretch of a woman. i don’t even feel pity for her, only hatred. virgin rage. i hate her for stealing my childhood from me. i hate her for turning me into the victim that i am. i hate her for showing me precisely how life shouldn’t be.

this is why i’m so messy around dave. although i like him immensely, i am nothing next to him. absolutely zero. i have nothing to offer him. thanks to maman. i have no skills. i have no courage. i have grown up completely dependent on family money. and dave, this is why i admire him: he grew up with very little in terms of money, but he is so far ahead of in the game compared to me that i can’t help but be depressed when i think of him. dad’s money is poisoning me, his love is poisoning me. poor little rich kid? perhaps. but you’re not in my shoes.

i can’t even write properly. i’ve even had that stolen.

i ought to fall off the pont neuf today although it would make people awfully distraught, my problems would largely be over.


i did not fall off the pont neuf today. i strangely feel better. a miracle what a pint of beer and a cigarette can do.


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