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And would you believe it, I’d be the first to get an interFUCKINGvention, on the pretense of dinner. I wondered why they had call for a dinner when they haven’t shown any interest in it when I called for one. HA. Quell suprise.
These people are worried with what I’m doing with my life. Drugs? No. Fucking random men every single night? No. Arms dealing? No. Whoring myself out for money? No. Letting Satan sow his demon seed in me and spawn the Antichrist? No. So what the fuck is it then? Turns out, in their eyes, I’ve been partying/drinking too much, in financial dire, leading a directionless career, and being a neglectful parent. Well, that’s just what I drew from their uneasy stares, shifty eyes, and vague arguments. Seeing as they made an effort to all be there and to give me a beat down, I asked for specifics. What does “partying/drinking too much” mean and when have you ever seen me in this state, save for that first and only block A1 Christmas party? And being a “neglectful parent”? What proof have you? Has my child been calling social services behind my back? They say that there’s no ONE specific thing, but I just think that’s all a bunch of bullshit. I would really hate for someone to come up to me and tell to my face that how I’m conducting MY life is not in accordance with their own opinion on how a proper, single mother’s life should be led and you ask them which particular part of your life they’re not exactly comfortable or that they have a problem with and they just say that it’s a general thing. FUCK GENERALIZATIONS. I think we know each other enough to comfortably gang up on a single friend so you might as well have clear, concise facts before you start mouthing off on whether you think I’m living MY goddamned life in a wrong goddamned way, seemingly destined for doom and destruction.
For the sake of 3 readers out there (and my infuriated psyche), though I HAVE NO OBLIGATION TO EXPLAIN MYSELF TO ANY FUCKING ONE OF YOU, I will dissect every fucking part of my life just for our morbid enjoyment. Because, hey, this is what you wanted, right? For me to explain myself because I’m no longer the Uneditedmara that you knew from way back when? And so we began the open forum without even considering the “Live and let live” mantra.
Have I become the scenster? The party girl? The one who drinks body shots and can barely get home because she’s so wasted? Mardi Gras-like celebrations where I flash my tits just to get a bunch of beads? Wow. Where are we? In an episode of Gossip Girl? Just because I blog about going to events that highlight (free) liquor, it does not mean that I am an alcoholic. Just because I don’t choose to sit around the house and waiting if any of you are free to come hang with me BECAUSE I HAVE NO ONE ELSE TO TALK TO and therefore go out and maybe have a life of my own, doesn’t mean that I’m a party animal. Just because there is a succession of posts that involve drinking (Ateneo wins game 1, Ateneo wins Championship, Dutdutan08, Ateneo bonfire (all perfectly VALID fucking reasons, by the way)), doesn’t mean I’ve lost function and have suddenly become retarded. I have partied with the best of you. We partied and stayed out until the sun came up. And now you fault me for knocking back a cold one or two after work and getting home at a respectable hour (ie. midnight)? How would you know how I act while I’m out? You people are almost never fucking there. Not that I blame you or anything. You all have your lives to lead. Good on you. But just because you don’t have any fucking time to be with a friend, doesn’t mean you should subject her to the convent. (And yes, I am well FUCKING aware that I used the word convent but not really meaning an actual convent but that merely it conveys well how one would live if forced to wait on other people’s schedules before she actually LIVES.) So I go out to meet people. People who are not like you and me. People who are different. Is that so wrong? I don’t think I’ve put myself in a situation that I couldn’t handle. Every single fucking one of those fucking events were better because I met new people. God forbid my circle of friends expand. And so what if I go to a fucking tattoo convention? It doesn’t mean that I now hang out with men with long scraggly beards and choppers and have tattoos on every inch of my body and have chosen the open road as my new home. When you say you want to go and dance at Cafe Havana, do I call you a hooker? A prostitute? I may call you a whore or a slut, but I only mean that in the most endearing sort of way. So, FUCK OFF. And as for the liquor intake, I can proudly say that you can all go fuck yourselves because you OBVIOUSLY were not there when Teh Douchebag broke up with me. There was no single fucking day that I didn’t drown myself in beer or some other liquid concoction. You were busy, I know, I know. I’ve heard that a million times over and I’ve gotten used to it. But even then, I didn’t give up on asking you fucking people out to hang. But there’s ALWAYS something and far from me to blame any of you for having a life of your own.
As being in a financial slump, everyone has it. Well except those rich motherfuckingsilverspoonfedsonsofbitches.
As for my career (or lack thereof) as much as I’d want to be a kickass creative director of some huge advertising agency, it’s not that easy for me. And fuck you and your talk of “You can do it”, “You have potential in you”, or “If you love it, do it”. Have you never heard of prioritization? Just because I want something, doesn’t mean I can have it. Well, not now at least. So what if I’m stuck in a company that pays me virtually nothing for the brilliant (yes, a bit exaggerated) work that I do? I’ll tell you why I do it - they give me free range of my time (that I spend with Izzy every moment I can, so you actually call this GOOD PARENTING, sacrificing career for a higher, better cause) and have agreed to back me up on my visa application (to get the fuck out of this country and go for that future that you’ve always cheered me on). It is not as easy as wanting to work elsewhere because sometimes you don’t have a fucking choice. Good on you people that you can just quit your jobs and pursue whatever things please you. You don’t have to fucking worry about where your next paycheck is going to come from. You have a fucking family that you can lean on. Not to belittle mine, but I don’t think the level of relationship that I have with my mother/father equals that of your parents that you STILL LIVE WITH. I make do with what I have. I play the cards that I am dealt with. Sure, things could be better - much, much better - but I don’t have the luxury to dream. Who the fuck gives a shit about dreams when you’re worrying if the fucking milk that you just bought 4 HUGE cans of is making your fucking child’s baby teeth rot faster?
And apparently, I’ve become A NEGLECTFUL PARENT!!! First of all, whoever has a child, raise your hand. No? NO? NO ONE? That’s right. You better shut the fuck up before you start telling me how to raise my fucking child. Sure, you never said those exact words to my face but you might as well have. I mean, we’re all friends and just being honest here, right? I don’t need you to tell me how to raise my child because you don’t know what it’s even like to have a child in the first fucking place. And just for the record, NO, I HAVE NOT NEGLECTED HER A SINGLE SECOND OF MY LIFE. And I forgot - I’M A SINGLE FUCKING PARENT. I have given Izzy nothing but the best that I can. Oh, I’m sorry, are my efforts not good enough for you? Then tough shit. And you might say, “Oh, I didn’t know that…”. You know why you don’t know that? Because I don’t tell you. You know why I don’t tell you? The minute I start talking about my kid, your eyes glaze over like I’m talking about some algebraic expression that is just waaay to hard to comprehend for an AB-Comm student even with the help of a scientific calculator, abacus, and all your toes and fingers. And if you’re that worried about the poor child and how I’m mistreating her, why have you never visited? Why have you never offered to babysit? I’m not asking you to, but the gesture would have been nice. But you didn’t think of that, did you? Because you’re just looking at the big picture and don’t have the crap ass job of actually having to do it EVERY GODDAMNED DAY. And if this whole intervention bullshit REALLY is for Izzy, then let’s keep to important topics such as money and time. Other than that, FUCK OFF.
Oh, and by the way, you were never really there through the rough times. NO, YOU WEREN’T. Because getting over someone takes effort every single fucking day. I’m sure you didn’t realize that I wanted to kill myself everytime I looked at the mirror and wondering what the fuck I just did with my life for SIX GODDAMNED YEARS. Or that coming home to an empty house is just as quick to send you into the pits of depression as the next sad country/acoustic/emo song. Or the compulsion to ask random people (eg. cab drivers, ambulent vendors, MMDA traffic enforcers, SM cashiers, etc.) if they’ve ever been in love, used, and thrown away like a wet rag. YOU DON’T. So before you come at me with your pitchforks and concerned expressions, go fall madly in love, work on it for six years, give everything you have (including your money), get pregnant, get engaged, and then have him break up with you and replace you with someone FAR inferior in every which way possible. And then, after you’re self-worth has well and good plummeted off the face of the earth, add a couple more months of Ungrateful Git drama and all this bullshit after thinking that this could be something and have it just yanked away from you JUST BECAUSE IT’S LIKE THAT and now that you’re all alone AGAIN you have to deal with the whole fucking kitten caboodle and not to mention that your friends don’t seem to ever have time for you, and then come to me. Talk to me when you’ve been through all that shit. Because a few blog posts and a couple of beers is not the story of my life.
Read the whole fucking blog and take a class or two on sarcasm and creative writing while you’re at it before you pass judgment on me. Because you’re right, it’s not just going to be a narrative. FUCK THAT SHIT. I am a writer. I should hope that I don’t chronicle every worthless day in this world and pick out the ones that are interesting to write about. I don’t write about how freakishly my hair sheds and the need to devise a plan to clean hairs off of the floor in the most efficient way possible or how painting the nails on your right hand is a bitch if you’re right handed or how to get your white Havaianas pristine again. These things are just not interesting enough for me. If they are to you, then go fuck off and write your own fucking blog. And I can just as easily judge you for what you have or have not or are too scared of doing. But I don’t because I know that you know your worst insecurities and that you don’t need a friend flinging it back in your face. That lovejudgmentconcern sandwich is not appealing to me. And as much as I appreciate a too-little-too-late effort to “straighten me out” or whatever it is that you were expecting to happen from this whole intervention debacle, you’ve gone about it all wrong. Do I hear you saying that I’m unfair in judging you by your well-meant intentions? Well, that just that goddamn sucks, doesn’t it? Oh, and I don’t see you going up to Teh Douchebag and making an intervention for him. Maybe you should start going up to people who are clearly going to hell headfirst before coming up to someone who’s trying to make it all fucking work, huh?
Tags: vent
