I remember, a good couple of months back, when school was about to start for the first semester of the accdemic year. An old friend who had been out on LOA like I was was suupposed to come back to school with me. We sort of planned about it. Not really conceretly, mind you. But we were psyching each other up for what we were going to do once we got to school—the freshmen (and upperyears, maybe?) we’d make fun of because we were dorky stupid like that; the house we were going to get though we’d probably not be roomies seeing as he is a guy (biolgically speaking, though emotionally speaking he probably has a bigger vagina than I do. LMAO) and I am a rock plant girl; the arguments we’d probably have over food, maybe “cute” professors/students, random passers-by in session, etc.

A month before everything he told me he couldn’t go.

Why?

Forgot, really, the reason. But he said something about some tattoos he wanted to get as well as a couple of surgeries (though maybe he just wanted one surgery and I suggested he get a brain surgery too, while he’s at it) mostly for aesthetic purposes and then not having enough money for school after because this obviously had to be done first. Something like that.

I was furious. The wrath of a thousand burning suns kind of furious. Okay, no, not really. But I was deeply upset. Irritated. Pissed as fuck. He had hyped me up for nothing. It was like watching the first Percy Jackson movie trailer and then watching the movie for real, all over again. Like being promised the best orgasm of my life and then seconds before the climax he pulls out. HAH. That latter description is probably the best way to put it. MY FRIEND PROMISED ME THE BEST ORGASM OF MY LIFE THEN SECONDS BEFORE HE PULLED OUT. Haha, the accuracy is astounding.

Look at the shy wittle virgin talking about seks! lmao.

Fuck where was I. Jesus Christ, goldfish.

Oh look. An entire line where Jesus Christ and Fuck are in the same sentence.

Look another one! DAMN IT.

Anyway. Not the point.

“How could he do this to me?” was my first reaction. It would’ve been anyone’s I guess. I got hyped up for nothing. I expected him to keep the sort-of promise. He did, after all, promise. Sort of.

I remember hating(ish) him for a good… day or two. Lmao then we got back to talking about Ragnarok and I would jab him occasionally about his supposed abandonment. I’d go “UGH WHO WILL I TALK TO NOW YOU’RE NOT THERE HUUUU YOU’RE LEAVING ME.” and we’d laugh about it. Jokes are half meant. I really did feel like he was leaving me alone. FRIEND BETRAYER! I TRUSTED YOUUUU. Lmao, no. I just felt really bad he wouldn’t be there. I would’ve wanted him to be there with me.

Yiheeeee.

Fastforward to now. Well, not now-now, maybe a month ago or so. Let’s just say I didn’t do very well in school. Not even ‘very’ well, I didn’t do well, period. It’s just. Oh, fine here goes.

I felt left out. I guess that has to happen, having been gone from school for an entire year, on the year where everyone on my batch—at least everyone that mattered-mattered—would graduate. All my batchmates had left, when I arrived, including those in the org I belonged to. If they hadn’t graduated they were just simply gone. There was nobody familiar. Even professors I was expecting to see weren’t there anymore. I t was like three-fourths of the school kind of decided to hide. “She’s coming back let’s freak her out, lol” it said. The remaining few who I knew, I didn’t know very well. There was a comfortable connection, but it wasn’t enough. Everyone I knew, the people that mattered, the people that made school bearable: GONE.

I didn’t want to go to school anymore. No inspiration, whatsoever. Nothing for my thesis. Everyone in my class was several years younger than I was, and although there were—what—two, three, who made class fun and worthwhile (including the professor, of course), it still wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like my batch mates and I were complete literary geniuses, throwing one literary theory after another, quoting lines from various pieces of literature and/or authors, brainstorming about language acquisition over cups of coffee. It wasn’t that that I missed. It was just… different I guess. 

Then, instead of stiffening my upper lip, braving the waters and trying to fit in, I pulled away. Arrogance? Maybe. But more along the lines of weakness. I was too weak to cling to my goal of finishing school. I was so close. I was too weak to hold on. If I had done my shit right I would be graduating this coming October.

Wasted those four months. Not completely, of course, but academically speaking. I wasted four months. Didn’t I want to graduate? Didn’t I want to finish? What the hell happened? What was I thinking? How could I let it happen?

Honestly speaking I seriously, seriously don’t know.

So close. I cried the day that my folks and I finalized I wouldn’t go back to school anymore. Usually I could hold in these things, especially in public. Usually. Cried like a lost baby even in the taxi; fuck you taxi driver I don’t care anymore. At least I was quiet, though. I can be pretty quiet if I want to.

The folks were tired. No, tired is an understatement. They were fucking exhausted. They worked night shifts so my younger brother and I could go to school. The latter is going to college soon, too. Next year, in fact. He’s doing well in school. I wasn’t. I haven’t been, for a pretty long time now, but this has been the worst. I used to like being in school. I have memories of going to school, and being excited about being there and being just eager to pick things up. I don’t know what happened.

It’s not just that. I’m unmotivated, in general. Every fucking day the Lord made it feels like a chore, or some bad TV series I have to sit through, with no other channels to flip to. I always wake up, wanting nothing more than to just go back to sleep again. i’d dread the next morning. I’d dread the next hour, second. I’d thought of just… you know, ending it all, once. Twice. Lots of times. I’ve lost count. It’s like an afterthought everyday. I wasn’t doing anything productive anyway. Hell, I wasn’t doing anything, period. I was worthless. I’ve thought of it. Everytime I came across a knife—when washing, the rare times that I was actually cooking—I’d look at it, and wonder. All I’d need was a swift nick in the wrist, right? Or the neck. Or a swift stab in the heart. Why didn’t I do it? Still the same reason why I’m in the rut in the first place. To weak to do it. Too afraid of death to go through with it. Not dying; just death. That point when I cease to exist in the same dimension as everyone else.

Come to think of it, it’s funny. I’m not doing anything worthwhile anyway. Isn’t that, in a sense, a kind of death? I’m already dead. The dead afraid of death, hah.

So. there. I fucked shit up academically. My parents were exhausted, and so was I. At a loss with what to dow ith me, they decided on the best that they could think of. Tie me down to them, watch over. They don’t mean to treat me like a kid, to doubt me or my actions. But so far I’ve done nothing but give them reasons to do so. I should be taking care of them, more or less, not the other way around. They love me, and they care for me, in the best way they know how. It hurts as fuck, granted, being doubted by your own parents, but I understand.

I didn’t want to leave. If I was just by myself I’d probably be more resigned with the situation. But there are people—friends—that I stay with, live with. People close to my heart. Some, annoyingly endearing, others stubbornly kind of there. LMAO but people I care for nonetheless. Important people. That was the hardest thing for me—telling them I had to go, and that I’d be leaving them. “pulling out” so to speak. Heh.

It’s always hard, leaving people behind, saying goodbye. That’s why people either prolong the goodbyes or do it as quickly as possible. Me? It depends. Usually I say it to their faces, just so it’s personal, because I tend to put it so lightly and offhandedly. Too much, maybe, that when I do it over the phone or online, it sounds almost careless. I have that superpower, making something sound so… nothing. Must be my worthlessness working, who knows.

That doesn’t mean it was easy for me to do it, though.

Feeling that now, I reasses the reaction I had, months ago, with the friend who left me. You know who you are, you gay little cunt. LMAO. I’m sorry. Even IF your reason back then was just your stupid tattoos. Lmao no, seriously. I’m sorry. You may have had a different reason, maybe not. Point is I still should’ve understood you, or at least tried harder to to. You could’ve exhausted all you could into going back, but maybe it just wasn’t enough. Who am I to judge if the things you wanted—the tattoos, surgeries you needed before going back to school—weren’t important enough? They were important to you, you needed them, and that was what mattered the most. Sure, it may have only made sense to you, but in the end, who else are you going to go back to school for other than yourself, right? Certainly not me. (*teardrop of keyr*) lmao.

So sorry. Little cunt. Haha I love you. YIHEEE OTP. LMAO.

It only hits me now, how painful it can be, to be accused of leaving others behind when you want so badly to stay. Like it was just something you pulled out of your ass and decided to throw in their faces. “Hmm I’m bored—oh I know, I’ll leave all my friends behind, that should be fun!” 

People always have reasons for leaving or staying. Though others may not always deem them as ‘proper’ reasons or understand why they are reasons at all, we must still be respectful of their decision. They may not always know or say the reason why, either. Let them be. They leave because they need to (lmao King Theoden hai there), and nobody regrets their leaving greater than they themselves. More often than not.

Never judge them for not trying hard enough to stay, or telling you in a better way. Nothing is more painful, and more unfair of an assessment. There are certain things, circumstances, that a person may give up easier than others; and other things that are harder to do so. Nonetheless they are all difficult to do. The fact that it even crossed their mind to give up something in exchange for staying, isn’t that trying hard enough, in a sense? You will never know how it was like for that person. Not even when they’re telling it to you, explaining every detail. If they told you they were leaving, by themselves, and not through someone else, then you fucking matter. Never forget that.

Most importantly, never lose faith in the fact that they will come back. Most of the time—more often than not, they have plans to. Keep the faith—because really, there is no stronger tether than that.

And now, a picture of two kissing bunnies to relieve the tension.

You're welcome.