boozy-and-brazen - Tumblr blog

boozy-and-brazen · 1 year

Text

Upon further reflection, there is a description I have forgotten.

According to my cat, who has been there for more than I think anyone has, I am purrs.

I am purrs, and warmth with cuddles under a blanket, an uncomfortable sleeping position in a leather chair that is worth it for the mental and emotional comfort. I am a nighttime buddy that understands twitches may mean bad dreams and cries from another room mean a fear of the dark and abandonment. I am worth endless attention and attempts at distraction and comfort when I am sick or devastatingly sad. I am worth snuggles and playful bites and needing that hurts me more than anything but I’d rather have a million tiny scratches than deny my girl her comfort and peace before bed.

She is nervous as I am, lacks hobbies like I do, is said to be persistent by those who know her like I am, looks completely unique like me, has a sickness in her lungs that goes unexplained and untreated except by me, who experiences it too and understands that cold clean air fixes everything. Best of all, we both understand the importance, the beauty, the tranquility, of naps in the sun.

I think she is quite the judge of character. Like me, she seems to have times where she hates everyone she comes into contact with, including me. But it is clear who she loves. No matter what, she comes to me at night to sleep. No matter how many times my dad pretends to find her to be a nuisance, she always comes to him for food in the mornings, knowing he will always give her some. Even when my mom smothers her and she must fight tooth and nail to get away, she always comes trotting back to her for pets and treats. When she met my lover for the first time, it took her no time at all to melt into his arms, eat food out of his hand, and declare him her favorite. She also used to bite the friends that eventually hurt me. I think that one is just her being both psychic and moody.

She is like me. She is not a caricature. She usually doesn’t really know what she wants. It is not impossible that she shares the same thoughts as me. But I know she is kind, I have seen her care for me. I know she is beautiful, she has the cutest little nose and chin, the tiniest little teeth, the biggest round green eyes, and the most mesmerizing coat I’ve never seen before and have spent years copying into my mind. She is smart, not in a very practical way, but in a way that allows her to communicate with someone who can’t speak her language. She is funny and has endearing habits that even I can’t explain. She is different from every other cat and it entertains and elates me endlessly to simply watch her exist in my sphere. I love her down to the tiniest hair she has ever shed.

I hope when people are describing me, that they are doing it in the same way I do for her.

I do not know who I am

I don’t know if my scathing hatred of people I’ve known for years is a sickness in my mind

If it is a frustration over the lack of perfection that plagues the world

If it is my own true feelings that have been covered up by years of a false or maybe real kindness I portray to the world

I don’t know if it is something I should act on or if I should remain silent and tortured

If I should act, then which basis do I act on? Am I hateful towards some of the closest people I have?

Am I fundamentally judgmental and paranoid?

Is it something I have neglected to consider altogether?

Or is it my worst fear. A horrible, evil combination of everything put together.

I do not know what I look like.

I don’t think most people have that internal perception.

But what terrifies me is that it doesn’t seem like anyone else knows what I look like either. When friends try to create computer or artistic renderings of me, they always preface it with they just can’t get it right, there is something missing. And I agree.

My lover always calls me pretty. Beautiful even. And yet when prompted he can not say why or how.

Every celebrity or character comparison I’ve received has simply been a clear observation of my hair, which I already change with frequency because I am incapable of finding a “look” that feels like me.

The only description I can receive is smart and nice. Smart and nice. On occasion, from my parents and my best friend who I’ve never felt more disconnected from during our whole friendship than now, I will here that I am strong and persistent. Granted, many people believe that I contain unbelievable amounts of these characteristics.

But the truth is I do not feel that any of this is accurate.

In my mind I contain scathing criticisms, annoyance, distrust, and disgusting and degrading opinions of everyone I have ever met.

In no way do I feel nice.

What people see as intelligence is a result of huge amounts of a hyper critical mindset and what most people would kindly call a perfectionist view.

I work myself to the bone so that when the occasion arises I can be Einstein and Churchill and Jobs and Rockefeller and Morgan and Luther and the other Luther and every brilliant man there ever was except as a woman except I don’t even know if that is true either.

Even when I am sick at the doctors and struggling to breathe, the specialists in the room look at me and say that there is absolutely nothing that they can think of that will explain the medical anomaly plaguing my body before they tell me to relax and go home. I spend my time imagining hobbies that at the end of the day I know I can’t do because not a single part of my body or mind can accept the idea that I may fail.

I can’t paint because the product may be bad, I can’t crotchet because it may be a waste of money, I can’t do sports because the furthest I can ever get is mediocre at best, I can’t even read because any time I do I must read the page 5 times, and the next one 6 because I am groveling over how I struggle to do the thing people learn at 7.

My defining characteristics to the world are smart and nice, to one person pretty with no explanation, and unfortunately strong to those who had to witness me at my worst.

None of these have ever felt correct, and can easily be explain by some form of obligation or persistence. Even if they were true, I cannot say I would be happy knowing that is who I am. I both more and less than that.

Smart and nice, pretty to some, and painfully determined don’t make up a person.

Then again, I don’t know what does.

Every effort I make to become one feels like an exhausting act that I can’t bear to put on.

I wish everyday that I could be a background character in a tv show, or a npc in a video game.

Maybe if I’m lucky, one day I will wake up as a clear defined archetype with predictable goals and easily understandable motivations.

Maybe some main character (that is still there to represent any normal everyday person) will pass me by and witness my selected and perfected craft that will later come in handy for a quest of theirs. I would have a recognizable face and a style that people could categorize as emo or prep or goth or cottage core or artisty or alternative.

And better yet, my skills and personality and responses will fit perfectly with how I look.

I fear that the girls in middle school who said I was too depressing to be around were right. That is where I feel comfortable. Being sad, in pain, and alone are what feels natural to me. I may not be destined to be anything else. I suppose that is a type of side character. But those ones are often neglected or are killed off early. I don’t think I’m that, at least I don’t want to think that I am. Something in me tells me that that is not my role, but that something also refuses to say what my calling is.

Maybe I am just crazy. A bottle of crazy contained in a vacuum sealed, impossible to open jar that maybe will one day shatter and destroy everything in its path as it explodes into a million pieces.

One can only hope that this day comes soon and the pain and destruction is swift, so that in its wake this bundle of confusion leaves either beautiful crystals that reveal the most amazing work of art, or absolutely nothing at all.

1 note · View note