Sunday, January 14, 2018


You know how they say the more you do something, the easier it becomes. Perhaps there is a little truth in that. In one of the NPR-TED episodes I listened to, a man spoke about how he was so deathly afraid of rejection that he never took the steps to fulfill a childhood dream he’d had. So he went on a journey of rejection, he went 100 days making requests of strangers, things he somewhat knew he would be rejected for, like an unreasonable loan amount, and so on. Day after day, he got a little bit used to it and he also got used to the fact that despite the rejection, he was still living and breathing and he was at the base of it all, actually okay. In fact, not all of his requests were rejected, apparently a few people said yes against his expectations. I did not want to write this, because I have done this so many times before, perhaps too many times before, and it has never amounted to much. But then I think to myself, if I have done it for so many men who only wanted my body without even knowing my full name, why should I not do it for you? Sometimes I want to tell you about Mochi, because you’ve seen her several times and I know you must have some form of attachment to her, if not to me. The other day we mentioned the age discrepancy between my mum and stepdad (she is 7 years older and is effectively a cougar) and my younger half-sisters, said “like you and Adam” and I looked at them, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, asking how they knew. Them: “we saw him on your Instagram, you said he was 26 and that’s younger than you” so I learn that my little tiny sisters, who were babies when I was 13, perhaps know more about me than I give them credit for. Sometimes I want to read your writing, and then I tell myself not to, and then I wonder why. I like your writing, your dark, very black humour, things that make me wonder how dark your thoughts must be, which then makes me wonder why you wouldn’t watch something like Black Mirror. I think about the night I get drunk in front of my colleagues, and tell you I like you so much I cannot quite place any other way to express besides that I love you, and you say it back, with no qualms. I rue the days we cried for and about each other, geez, that was rough. It makes me smile now, somehow, thinking, wow somebody felt as much as I did, how is that even possible. I open my iMovie to edit a video then realise the one you had sent me when you were opening my box is still there, and it makes me feel a lot of things I cannot separate from each other. When the opening riffs or drum notes of any song in the playlist you’d made for me plays on my Spotify, I either skip the song or listen to it endlessly on repeat, wondering whether even the artist has ever felt the way I feel for you. I miss you and your jokes that range from A+++++++++++ to complete-rubbish-Adam-why-do-you-even-try. I miss us and the incessant “the old Taylor/Adam/Sarah can’t come to the phone right now. Why? Oh, ‘cos she’s dead!” Every time my colleagues play Carly Rae Jepsen or Ariana Grande, I wonder what you feel about the particular song. I don’t know why I’m writing this, I truly never do, but if it doesn’t kill me, why the fuck not, right? I hope you’re okay. That’s all.

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