Disclaimer: Why am I writing this? I guess the whole point of me blogging again was to put to words the shit that are stirring inside my head. And since no one supposedly reads this I shouldn't hold back, yeah? But yeah, I'm making much ado about nothing. Welcome to the self-centered world of K.
Obviously, I have a problem - one so vain and narcissistic that I need to write about it. I don't remember the exact moment when I first started giving a fuck, but I guess I was just tired of feeling ugly. When you're ugly in high school, people are mean. You have no worth. Nothing else matters, really, it didn't matter if you were smart, or if you were really nice. You mean nothing to these people. You are nothing.. unless you were rich.
But wealth was one thing I was taught from young to not flaunt. Everyone makes mistakes, but I think I've done no major wrongs in regards to that. I tried to be nice. Everyone just wants to be liked (or not be despised at the very least) right?
When I was younger, I received many praises for my looks. Maybe I grew out of it? I don't know. Puberty was cruel to me - I was no longer the cute little boy scholar. People called me ugly, but I learned pretty quickly to get over that. I do, however, remember the first time someone implied I was ugly. Even at eleven I was never oblivious.. but that didn't bother me for more than a minute (although the fact that I still am writing about it must mean something).
I remember the first time my mother unnecessarily told me (nice and whimsically) that I was not exactly pleasing to the eye. Especially not next to my sister (paraphrased). I was thirteen. And til today, it remains one of the many things that I cannot unhear.
And that is the thing about me.. I am overly sensitive. I remember scenarios from when I was eight.. and I still play it through my mind on how I could have better handled that situation. I remember all the beautiful things people have said about me, as well as the bad ones. And when I remember, I cannot let things go. I can only pretend. I pretend to be okay about everything, but inside I'm slowing withdrawing all my investments in our relationship. When I get angry with you, I am angry with everything you've done since the very beginning.
I am very lost. What have I been saying?
I want to be good-looking so I can be deserving of all the hotness that comes my way. I guess the combination of all my environmental factors has molded me into thinking that beauty is necessary. Maybe I've watched too much drama. The hot guy ALWAYS ends up with the hot girl in the end. But I also believe there's a deeper factor involved. And there's only one woman in the world with that power over me..... And I guess, of all my flaws, this was the most straightforward to fix.
At the core of it all, I guess I just want to be happy. I became a chaser. I've been chasing happiness ever since 'the incident', and I guess I lost track of my goals along the way. I started chasing thrills instead. Chasing highs. At little concern for personal safety. I didn't want to die.. but I guess I didn't mind it. You don't need education in hell. That's why I didn't study. That's the answer I couldn't give you when you came for me, pa.
It's a weird thing to have to learn from mistakes.
First there's the denial. I held my ground even when the earth was crumbling, but the day came when my convictions overwhelmed logic to such a degree that I knew I was lying to myself. It's no fun bruising your own ego, but it could be worse. All egos need bruising, and better myself than someone else yeah? Slowly but surely, I felt more and more mortified for all the related things I did incorrectly. Sometimes it's too much so I go back to denial and tell the relevant feelings that I'm rain checking this shit.
I guess it was more than wanting to look good, more than wanting nice things, more than wanting to be fawned over. I wanted to deserve nice things. I wanted to be deserve of attention. Funny how I wrote that all in past tense. Joy.
And now I tell myself that.. who the fuck cares? Beauty is not skin-deep. And if you think otherwise, it is your problem. Not mine.
It is their problem. Not mine.
It is her problem. Not mine.