shit show, n.
My sleep schedule.
shit show, n.
My sleep schedule.
I’ve been listening to this song on repeat for the past couple of days and I wanted to write about how we used to make love to The Weeknd.
But I couldn’t and I can’t because I’d be deceiving myself if I associated anything we had with that word—‘love.’ I offered you all of the ingredients I had stowed away in my body, but I suppose that wasn’t enough. For else, I’m not even sure you had all of the implements. But love is one of those chef-d’œuvres that you don’t need a recipe for. So let’s be real. You didn’t want to make love with me.
Perhaps it’s my fault for serving myself on a silver platter to someone who didn’t have the omnivorous appetite. You’re such a carnivore. The way you dug your fingers in and sank your teeth into my skin. I used my mouth to caress your soul with words and to heal your wounds with kisses. You used your mouth to devour me whole. You dissected me, consumed me, and then spat my remains back out on the bed. Couldn’t you have at least buried my beating heart beneath the ruins?
Making love, is it?
I woke up this
morning afternoon and thought it was a good idea to drink Rosé as a first meal. I ended up passing out at 3:30 PM and woke up again at 6:00 PM because a friend called.
And I wonder why my sleep schedule is so messed up.
Sometimes, on nights like these, I catch myself falling into you again. I always thought I was so untouchable, so indestructible, like the Titanic on the eve of her maiden voyage. But now I’ve become unanchored and I find myself perpetually trembling across dark oceans searching for another glimpse of you. You are the ghost ship I will never touch again.
Eyes closed, I feel myself sinking into the abyss. And there, in the black of the deepest void, I see you. The ‘I miss you’ never escapes my mouth for I realize I cannot breathe. My fingertips beg your mouth to lend me air. But I didn’t know that you had armed your kisses with silent daggers. And what I thought were your hands cradling my pallid face were actually the claws of a carnivore. In the haze, the gleam of your eyes almost seem to apologize.
As I let go, I watched your silhouette dissolve into the sea.
For, my dear, you were suffocating me.
I’m essentially on the same boat. My grades, generally speaking, are mediocre. I was in a shock for a while near the beginning of college because I didn’t know how to deal with not being in the top percentile of the student body anymore. GPA-wise, I did spectacular in high school. Unfortunately, being at NYU made me realize that I was dabbling in a pond when there was actually a vast ocean of intelligent fish swimming around. But you know what I realized after three years of being in college and being suffocated by Asian standards? My grades aren’t a measure of my success. I got a ‘C+’ in my Financial Crises course last semester. I was devastated for a bit but I got over it because I realized I had actually learned a lot in that class. In fact, I still consider it one of the courses I learned the most in. (In my defense, my final was basically 100% of my grade. The grading system was debatable, but whatever.) Furthermore, with the internships that I’ve gotten, no one has really asked me for my GPA. And if they did, they didn’t seem to place much importance on it. I know a lot of people who end up with great jobs after college even with subpar grades. My advice is that if you’re worried about your GPA, try to compensate for what you see as a ‘loss’ by making up for it with a ‘gain’ in extra-curricular/work experience. Don’t get too down about it. You are by no means a failure for not having Asian-approved grades.
I keep hoping that maybe you’ll come back this time like every other time before.
How stupid of me, I know.
I saw shipwrecks from the beginning.
I wanted us to work out. (Understatement.)
I needed us to work out. (Overstatement.)
In retrospect, the tidbits that we did happen to share with each other never quite fell in apple-pie order. Everything about ‘us’ was either vague, disarrayed, or simply nonexistent.
Nothing was ever cookie-cutter precise with you. I’d often be waiting at Point A wondering where the Hell you were. And on occasion, it would be the other way around. We were like children playing Hide-and-Seek for the first time, running off before the adults even explained the rules. We were so reckless that we became hinged on such cruel games. It reached the point that I couldn’t tell if I was doing it all for you or for the thrill.
Anyhow, I just wanted to say that we sucked at Hide-and-Seek. Much too frequently, we wouldn’t have a sprinkle of an idea who was perpetuating what role and we’d ultimately both end up hiding. But the difference was that I actually wanted you to find me. I think you typically hid with the hopes of going unfound. If I did find you, I’d turn my head the other way long enough for you to fly off again because I was positive that was what you wanted. I’d continue playing and you’d spew out bullshit along the lines of, “I called time-out.” Red flags were thrown, but they would get lost somewhere in the transition from arguing to kissing.
We argued like we knew each other.
We kissed like we knew each other.
But when the kinetic energy of our mouths hit zero and we rested in silence, the only thing still running were the thoughts in my mind. I don’t really think I knew you at all.
Based on the way you
misunderstood me, I assume you’re God-awful at charades as well.
“If you’re sick, I could make you some soup.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Good, because my soups are mediocre. My desserts are better.”
“Was that a sexual innuendo from our dear little Kathy?”