Imagine my surprise as I was getting ready to sit down and rattle off another weekly blogpost and realized that this post will be #300. How the fuck did that happen? I mean I really don’t keep track of this shit.
But WordPress keeps track for me and I usually ignore it because I’m not all that interested in those kinds of factoids. But here we are.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to prattle on about for this post but considering it’s #300, I think I have something that should be fitting for a small milestone.
On Saturday, I came across a poem by Indian-born Canadian poet Rupi Kaur. It’s called Selfish. And holy shit, it fucking blew my mind. I had heard her name before. It was mentioned in the same breath as British poet Nikita Gill. 93 Percent Stardust is my favourite poem from Gill. Hands down, she is my favourite poet.
I never purposefully sought out Kaur’s words upon hearing her name. But she was someone whose work I would eventually read whenever the moment struck me. And indeed, it struck. I came across Selfish by accident. Selfish encapsulates perfectly the myriad of reasons I remain single, why everyone around me has fallen in love at least once while I haven’t had that experience and why I believe I’ll remain single for the rest of my life.
I know what love is. I see it. I feel it radiating off those who truly are in love. But to share it with someone in all its glorious intensity is something I haven’t experienced yet. Nor do I think I ever will. Yes, it sounds depressingly pessimistic of me to think that way. I prefer to think I’m being realistic given my track record in the romantic relationships department and given who I fundamentally am as a person. Got some significant strikes against me.
I only say I have strikes against me because I intuitively know what I want and it goes against what some folks think I am because I’m a person of colour and the stereotypes that come with being a POC. In the past, I’ve always written off the fact that I’m a POC as one of the reasons that all the dumbfucks I was involved with, ever initiated anything with me. I think back and I have to wonder if I was wrong in writing off the assumption. Can’t fix what happened in the past. But I sure as hell will do my damnedest to prevent it from happening again. Because if it happens again, there will be bloodshed.
Yeah, I’ve become a hard ass about relationships. If the intangible isn’t there, I refuse to humour anyone and waste my time on someone who doesn’t have most of their shit together. I can’t possibly explain what it is that I’m looking for in a partner. What I want, and importantly, what I need, go beyond words. So, I’m not going to bother explaining myself.
After failing miserably in all of my romantic relationships — none of which were ever healthy from the get-go anyway and I’ll take my share of the blame for the bad choices — I will not work to make that first good impression. Sometimes a good first impression can be false advertising. Think about it. Take me as I am or walk away.
If you’re not honest with yourself about who you are and what you want, then don’t even fucking bother with me. Words don’t impress me when I can tell you’re lying. Saying anything and everything to get into my good graces doesn’t work. I heard the horse shit before and some of it is pathetic.
Kaur’s Selfish hit a very ugly and sore spot with me. She put into words everything I felt when a relationship went sideways. I’m not asking any of the exes to apologize. They’re too unenlightened and too chickenshit to own up to their transgressions. I wouldn’t believe them anyway.
In fact, I’m sure a couple of them want me to apologize. For what? Believing you had your shit together, asshole? Go fuck yourself.
I’m past wanting or needing apologies. Actually, I never wanted an apology from the beginning because forgiveness is such a foreign concept to me. And considering how things ended with each of the fuckers, the likelihood of any kind of apology rested at zero percent. I know how to pick ’em, don’t I?
Regardless, what’s done is done. Contrition doesn’t work on me. Like I said… I’m a hard ass about shit like this. Learned the hard way.
Reading Selfish cut me open again. But I don’t mind bleeding. I’m used to it. Kaur’s words told me that someone does understand the pain and disillusionment that comes with trusting someone who was ultimately untrustworthy. Everything laid bare, wanting to die and berating yourself for allowing yourself to be fooled because you wanted to know what it would be like to be loved, desired, cherished and to be treated as an equal.
What a fucking idiot I was.
A friend told me that there is someone for everyone. I do want to believe that. Honestly, I do. But I know men who are absolute assholes and women who are unbearable cunts, who have managed to find themselves a partner/spouse and I’m left wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. I thought like that for a long time. It was time wasted. And now, I can’t be bothered to really think about it. We all have our roads to travel.
If there is someone for everyone, then it seems the older I get, the smaller that window becomes. That’s my perception of it.
Let’s be honest, we are taught to believe that love, desire and the pleasures of the flesh are for people in their twenties and thirties. They get to enjoy and revel in it. It’s kind of shallow when you think about it because looks eventually go away and you’re left with the essence of who you are. Your personhood.
For some folks, looks made up for the lack of essence. I can’t even make myself feel sorry for these people. No empathy here. I’ll save it for someone who deserves it.
I’m battling stereotypes, conventional ideas of beauty and the ever-changing concept of commitment and what it means to truly love someone. It’s tiring.
My energy is best saved for my ficitonal characters and their stories. They are deserving of that and deserving of my attention.
Fuck everyone else.