New Year's Resolution

Dear Me,

We've made it through another year... and yet again, we find ourselves wiping the worst of the past year -which is most of it- off our feet on the metaphorical doormat of the new year. There were many times this year when we honestly didn't think we'd make it through in one piece- or at all- but we've scraped through with a Pyrrhic victory that leaves us exhausted and barely functional.

As you know, we don't believe in New Years resolutions; as our lives should be non-stop quests for self-improvement and growth, and choosing just one arbitrary day every year to evaluate the past year and decide where to go next puts us on a slippery slope down to complacency and decadence. It is our duty to be our own harshest critics... because if we don't genuinely want to develop and be better people, then what's the point of life at all?

It is no secret that I am not the biggest fan of you. We've been forced to put up with each other, which we've been doing reluctantly for the better part of three decades; and although at times we've found means to stay out of each others' ways and co-exist peacefully, that was never the norm. When you were the only person I was regularly in touch with for the better part of two years living alone abroad, we both had to adapt and tone down the mutually destructive behavior... but now that that's over, we fell back into the same ancient pattern we thought we'd moved past.

There can be no progress as long as there are two equal forces acting in opposite directions... and if we don't make a conscious decision to change this dynamic, then New Year's eve of 2034 (if we somehow manage to stay alive that long) will still see us embroiled in a vicious civil war where there are no winners. We owe it to ourselves to rise above this bitter rivalry and start on the path to inner peace.

This is not going to be easy- very few people are actually at peace with who they are. Being loved by someone is an amazing feeling, but it pales to insignificance next to accepting and loving yourself- inner demons and flaws and all. That is not to say that we should accept the bad and not try to change it; but rather that we should strive to accept that we are, after all, only human... and that no matter what we do, we are fundamentally flawed and in need of constant improvement.

That said, I believe we can make an exception just this once and decide on a New Year's resolution; because this one is necessary and significantly overdue. We've pretty much tried every other way already... so starting January 2018, I will actually attempt to hate you less and perhaps even grow to accept you. I've toyed with this idea previously but nothing ever came of it... and it's about time I gave it a real shot.  Although I think you are not currently worthy of love or praise, I will do my absolute best to improve you where I can and accept you where I can't... and in return, I expect that you will stop making it so easy for me to hate you; by being open to change.

Like it or not, we're stuck together for the long haul... so until that damn clock stops ticking, I vow to take the advice of someone who once meant the world to both of us and just learn to love you, you ugly son of a bitch.

Help me do it... make me proud for once.

Love (eventually, I hope),
Mahmoud Bondok

Dafuq Did You Just Read?

Mr. Pookie bear looked sad.

"Why are you sad, Mr. Pookie bear?" Asked Mr. Tibbers the bunny in a childish, high pitched voice.

Mr. Pookie bear pouted and turned the other way.

Mr. Tibbers turned around to face Mr. Pookie bear again, a look of concern on his furry, little face.

"Are you sad because Mr. Sun is leaving? Silly Mr. Pookie bear, Mr. Sun will be back again tomorrow!"

"But I don't like Mr. Moon!" Replied Mr. Pookie bear, stomping his feet unhappily.

Mr. Tibbers considered it for a few seconds, then a great idea popped up in his head.

"I know what would cheer you up, Mr. Pookie bear! Would you like a huggie wuggie?" Asked Mr. Tibbers, spreading his fluffy little arms wide as if to embrace Mr. Pookie bear.

"I would love a hug, Mr. Tibbers! You are a great friend!" Said Mr. Pookie bear, his dislike for Mr. Moon completely forgotten. He hugged Mr. Tibbers under a beautiful rainbow as all the other little animals of Marshmallow land awwwwwww'ed.

"Would you like a hug too, Mr. Angry Man?" Asked Mr. Tibbers as he broke away from his hug with Mr. Pookie bear.

"No I don't want a hug, you little shit" Replied Mr. Angry Man angrily as he paced around looking for the exit, like he did every day.

"Don't you love us, Mr. Angry Man?" Asked Mr. Tibbers, his eyes shining with tears. "We love you, but you're always trying to leave us!"

Mr. Angry Man didn't respond, preferring to pay attention to the task at hand.

"You are too angry, Mr. Angry Man. You should be happy, like us!" Piped up Mr. Pookie bear.

"Yeah? Am I the one who was throwing a fucking tantrum 5 seconds ago because the sun is setting? Fuck off, you hypocrite" mumbled Mr. Angry Man, more to himself than to Mr. Pookie bear... but Mr. Pookie bear overheard him and fell back into a sullen silence as he remembered that Mr. Moon was coming.

"We tell you every day, Mr. Angry Man... there is no door to leave Marshmallow land! But why do you want to leave? You can have all the fun in the world here, with us!" Mr. Tibbers was crying, and Mr Pookie bear was pouting, and Mr. Angry Man felt very close to committing adorable mass murder.

That was when Mr. Yummywuzzles hopped his way into the conversation. He was a shapeless blue blob who liked to pretend he was a cloud and spoke almost exclusively in cloud-related puns.

"I can feel my friends getting upset! Why are you raining on their parade, Mr. Angry Man?"

Mr. Angry Man was on his knees, too busy looking under bushes and smiling flowers for a trapdoor; an exit sign; a welcome mat... any possible hints for how he could get out of Marshmallow land. He ignored Mr. Yummywuzzles's question.

Mr. Yummywuzzles floated over to Mr. Tibbers and Mr. Pookie bear, hugging each of them in turn as everyone in Marshmallow land except Mr. Angry Man awwwwww'ed again. Then he turned on Mr. Angry Man and said: "Mr. Angry Man, just because a cloud is covering Mr. Sun doesn't mean it will be dark forever! I should know, I'm a cloud!"

Mr. Angry Man stood up, wandered over to the gummy bear waterfall and looked down. It was a very high drop, and he wasn't sure whether the laws of physics in Marshmallow land were realistic or not... the last thing he wanted was to impale himself on a chocolate tree.

Mr. Yummywuzzles gave an aimless hop and said: "Just like clouds can change their shape, you can change and be happy too!"

Mr. Angry Man was getting really angry.

"Mr. Angry Man should know that it's rude to ignore someone... clouds have feelings too!" Said Mr. Yummywuzzles.

"YOU AREN'T A CLOUD, YOU STUPID LITTLE BLOB! YOU'RE BLUE! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A BLUE CLOUD? CLOUDS ABSOLUTELY DON'T HAVE FEELINGS BECAUSE THEY'RE INANIMATE OBJECTS... NOW LEAVE ME ALONE BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE STARTS HAVING TO CALL ME "MR. CHAINSAW MURDERER MAN!"

Mr. Fizzlebum must have heard the commotion, because he suddenly appeared behind Mr. Yummywuzzles.

"Why are you so angry, Mr. Angry Man!" Asked Mr. Fizzlebum, who was a sentient banana. No one knew who had created and named the various creatures of Marshmallow land, but evidently they didn't give a single fuck.

Mr. Angry Man rounded on him, all sense of composure lost.

"BECAUSE YOU CREEPY LITTLE ASSHOLES ARE FREAKING ME OUT! I'VE BEEN HERE FOREVER AND NO ONE HAS EVEN TRIED TO HELP ME GET OUT OF HERE! YOU CALL ME MR. ANGRY MAN SO YOU CLEARLY KNOW THAT I THINK THIS STOPPED BEING FUNNY MONTHS AGO, BUT NO ONE WILL LIFT A HAND OR A PAW OR WHATEVER FUCKING BLOBS HAVE FOR HANDS TO HELP ME!

AND ANOTHER THING, WHY ARE YOU ALL DUDES? I DON'T GIVE A SHIT IF YOU'RE ALL GAY AND HAVE DAILY DEPRAVED BDSM ORGIES AS MR. MOON WATCHES ON AND MASTURBATES, BUT WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ALL THE FEMALES? DO YOU HAVE THEM CHAINED UP SOMEWHERE? DO YOU EAT THEM? ARE YOU ALL SEXLESS LITTLE STUFFED ANIMALS WHO JUST HAPPEN TO CALL EACH OTHER "MR"? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS PLACE AND WHAT ARE YOU! IS THIS AN ACT OR ARE YOU ALL GENUINE SATURDAY MORNING CHARACTERS FROM A BAD CHILDREN'S SHOW?"

Mr. Fizzlebum turned black as old bananas are wont to do, and he burst into tears... but Mr. Angry Man wasn't done.

"I HAVEN'T EATEN ANYTHING SINCE I GOT HERE BECAUSE EVERYTHING HERE HAS A SMILEY FACE, A HIGH-PITCHED SPEAKING VOICE AND A STUPID NICKNAME! DO YOU EVEN HAVE THE CONCEPT OF FOOD HERE, OR DO YOU SUSTAIN YOURSELVES THROUGH HUGS AND SUNSHINE? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HUNGRY I AM? I COULD EAT A HORSE RIGHT NOW!"

As if on cue, Mr. Angry Man heard the flap of wings... and out of nowhere, a bright white unicorn with rainbow-colored wings landed at his side as the animals of Marshmallow land chanted "Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, Mr. Booboo's here!"

Mr. Angry Man had to wonder if maybe he should have wished for a teleportation device instead.

Mr. Booboo trotted over to the crying animals of Marshmallow land and neighed. They all gathered round and stared at him intently. He snorted and whinnied and kicked his rear legs, and all the animals started nodding as they gradually smiled happily again. Before long, they were actively jumping in their places; too excited to stand still.

Mr. Angry Man waited impatiently, silently fuming as he wondered what that was about.

Mr. Tibbers then frolicked his way -yes, he frolicked- to Mr. Angry Man, and said: "The animals of Marshmallow land have decided to help you, Mr. Angry Man! We will help you find the only way out of Marshmallow land so you can be happy again!"

That was a new and entirely welcome development. They'd insisted for months that there was no way out of Marshmallow land... but apparently he just needed to make a big enough scene to force them into helping him.

He straightened up and puffed out his chest, satisfied that things were going his way.

Mr. Tibbers was staring at him expectantly... then he asked him the most unnecessary question in the history of the universe:

"Are you sure you want to leave Marshmallow land? You can never come back! We would be ever so sad to see you go!" Mr. Tibbers looked downcast as he said that. Mr. Angry Man wondered why these creatures loved him so much when he was just an angry man constantly yelling at them. He took a deep breath, then replied:

"Yes, I'm sure. Get me out of here"

Mr. Tibbers called out to the other animals: "You heard him, friends! Let's go to the Bubbetty Wubbetty Tree!"

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!" Replied all the creatures of Marshmallow land.

Mr. Angry Man was confused.

"Why are we going to a tree?" He asked Mr. Tibbers as all the animals started lining up in single file behind him because of course they were going to dance their way to the Bubbetty Wubbetty Tree. Mr. Tibbers stood at his back, while Mr. Booboo cantered his way to the front of the procession, presenting him with an unwanted prime view of his massive, muscular horsey buttocks.

"Because the only way out of Marshmallow land is to climb the Bubbetty Wubbetty Tree, silly!" Replied Mr. Tibbers happily. "Follow Mr. Booboo, he'll take us all there!"

And so, the most saccharine conga line of all time made its way across Marshmallow land to the Bubbetty Wubbetty Tree. They walked for hours; passing open fields with grazing pink cows; lush green hills dotted with sheep; rivers of molten chocolate and a marshmallow bouncy castle. They marched to the beat of the Bubbetty Wubbetty song, which Mr. Pookie bear was singing somewhere to the back:

One, two, three... one, two, three
I Wuv you, Bubbetty Wubbetty Tree
You are the prettiest Tree in the world to me
There's no other sight I'd rather see...
Than the beautiful Bubbetty Wubbetty tree!

That was it. That was the whole song. He had to listen to that on repeat the entire time; sung by a choir of shrill, squeaky, out-of-tune voices accompanied by a cacophony of cheers from the various Marshmallow land creatures they were passing by. Words could not describe how paint-drinkingly mad the song was driving him, but it was a small price to pay for freedom...

He just had to make it to the tree, and then all would be good with the world again.

"Patient presenting with a suspected cocaine-induced coma, prep the ER!"

Huh? Mr. Angry Man looked around him, but no one seemed to have heard that... then out of nowhere, he felt a stab of sharp pain in his head, more intense than anything he'd ever felt in his life. He could feel his heart racing, and it damn sure wasn't because of the Bubbetty Wubbetty song. What was happening?

Mr. Booboo finally stopped next to a massive tree and reared. They were there.

Mr. Yummywuzzles glided over to him and smiled. Then he yelled: "He's tachycardic, get me 6 mg of adenosine, STAT!"

OK, what the hell was going on?

He didn't have time to ponder, because that was when a vicious kick from Mr. Booboo threw him flat on his back as he desperately tried to catch his breath.

"He's going into respiratory failure, I'm going to need to intubate him"

All the animals of Marshmallow land were surrounding him now, still gleefully singing the Bubbetty Wubbetty song... Mr. Fizzlebum was tying his hands together, while Mr. Yummywuzzles and Mr. Pookie bear restrained him as Mr. Tibbers tied his legs together. He kicked and he struggled, but it was no use; they were much stronger than they'd appeared... and when he tried to scream for help, Mr. Fizzlebum stuffed a florescent green rag so deep in his mouth that he almost choked on it.

"We're losing him, I need a crash cart in here!"

They dragged him over to a particularly sturdy-looking branch of the Bubbetty Wubbetty Tree... and he understood what was happening.

There was no way to leave Marshmallow land... alive.

"He's flat-lining, starting CPR! Hand me the defibrillator... One, two, three... CLEAR!"

A jolt of jarring pain coursed through his body, and he lay there spasming uncontrollably... he was effectively paralyzed.

Mr. Fizzlebum propped him up on his knees as Mr. Yummywuzzles fit the noose around his head and threw the other side of the rope over the branch. Mr. Angry Man kneeled meekly beneath the tree, having completely lost his ability and will to fight; if he had to die, he'd at least die with dignity... or as much dignity as you could have while being hanged from the Bubbetty Wubbetty tree in Marshmallow land by a unicorn named "Mr. Booboo".

Mr. Booboo, who it was now clear was their leader, took the rope in his mouth and started to back away, slowly and painfully hoisting Mr. Angry Man into the air by the neck.

"ONE, TWO, THREE... CLEAR!"

He flailed weakly in the air as his neck was subjected to intense, unbelievable strain. It seemed to hold for a few seconds... then it snapped under the weight of his body.

"ONE, TWO, THREE... CLEAR!"

His body hung there limply as the animals of Marshmallow land sang themselves into a frenzy... panicking, oxygen-deprived and quickly losing consciousness, his last memory was the sight of Mr. Fizzlebum making eye-contact with him and touching himself.

"He's gone... I'm calling it. Time of death: 9:53 PM"

Mr. Angry Man had finally left Marshmallow land.

The Sandman's Closure

He woke up in a silent, colorless world of bright white.

Rubbing his eyes and shielding them from the glare, he looked around and found... absolutely nothing. It took him a few seconds to realize -with a twinge of panic- that he was literally the only thing in that world; right, left, up and down were all the same hazy, featureless fog, and he could see no solid objects whatsoever. He couldn't help smiling at the irony that a claustrophobe such as himself would also somehow feel agoraphobic.

"Am I dead?" He asked himself... but it didn't seem to make sense; it was entirely too peaceful a setting for what he imagined his afterlife would be like.

After considering it for a few seconds, he noticed the fog again... and something clicked in his head; he was dreaming. It was probably just a new way for his subconscious to amuse itself by toying with him overnight. Looking down, he found that -in a bizarre plot twist that went against the timeless laws of dreamland- he was actually dressed... quite sharply; in a tailored designer suit, no less. That did not make sense either; his subconscious specialized in traumatizing dreams... why was it suddenly so eerily toothless and not as intent on embarrassing him? He could only assume that the fun part of the dream had yet to begin.

He tried moving his body, and it seemed to move normally... so he had no handicaps or deformities that he could immediately notice. He tried speaking, and his voice was his own... albeit musical and serene with an angelic, other-worldly echo. Stranger and stranger- he usually sounded like a drowning cat in his dreams. The final confirmation that he was dreaming came when he tried jumping; the jump itself was not note-worthy... but the lack of gravity certainly was. He hovered in mid-air for a few seconds, processing this new development... then, as any self-respecting 7 year-old-at-heart would do, tried to will himself to fly... and he did! It was of course much less impressive when there were no land markers he could use to judge his height and speed; but screw that! The moment he'd been waiting for since he was 4 had come at last; he was finally soaring upwards in his dream, and damn it if he wasn't going to enjoy every minute of it.

Higher and higher and higher he flew, but the sky was literally the limit; no matter how much higher he climbed, the nothingness stretched on and on with no end in sight... so he decided to switch tactics, and swerved sideways... if there was nothing to be seen upwards, he would fly to the east indefinitely, and he was bound to find something eventually.

Soon enough he realized that he wasn't even flying; there were no winds bashing his face and making his eyes water... and his flight was not physically taxing; he was not stretching his arms like Superman or holding on to a hammer a la Thor or flapping his wings like a bird- his was a more elegant flight; more mental than physical... he was levitating as Magneto would.

Three comic book references in the same thought? Yep, his subconscious was back to embarrassing him again.

"Let it do it its worst in my dream where no one can see it", he reasoned.

After he flew for what felt like hours, he suddenly began to see something outlined on the horizon... and it took him a few more minutes of flying to figure out what it was. It was so bizarre that he dropped out of the sky for a few seconds before he regained control and brought himself to a halt... then he flew towards it with all the more vigor. A few minutes later found him at the eye-level of a colossal statue of himself which must have been at least a hundred feet tall; raised on a solid gold platform twenty feet high. His every facial feature was sculpted to perfection with a loving, almost supernatural attention to detail; he saw every beauty mark; acne scar and wrinkle exactly where he'd expect to see them in a mirror. His hair was waves of molten gold; glowing with a bright sheen, and his eyes were bottomless pools of peaceful, sparkling blue, in vast contrast to the wild but fierce black beard that covered the skin above his full lips as well as his chin and sharp jaw. Gliding downwards, he could see that his body was given just as much attention as his face had been; his shoulders, arms, back, neck and chest muscles were all exactly how he'd remembered them; except even more pronounced and impressive.

I will spare you the details from the waist down... but it was more of the same, really.

Mouth agape, he floated to the base of the platform and stood there wondering what could be happening... then he looked up again, which was a grave mistake because the statue was only wearing a scaled bronze skirt and nothing underneath.

Shaking the image from his head, he turned around... then gave a musical and serene girly shriek of surprise with his angelic, other-worldly voice.

His ex-girlfriend was sitting in a throne at the base of the gold platform... and the throne could only be described as a ten-foot, solid-gold replica of his lap.

She was sitting in a ten-foot golden throne made of his lap.

Her ten-foot throne was his golden lap; and that same ten foot golden lap throne was right next to a hundred foot statue of himself on a twenty foot-high solid-gold platform.

What was WRONG with him?

Was his ego really so massive?

Yes... yes it was. His ego was huge, but his subconscious was a gigantic douchebag even bigger than the statue for bringing his ex-girlfriend into this. She was dressed in an elegant, flowing black dress with a golden crown studded with diamonds, sapphires, rubies and amethysts nestled amongst her curls. She was also holding an actual, honest-to-God golden scepter.

"What's with all the gold?" He mused.

She looked down on him with a glare full of pride and chilling coldness... but there was also a silent appeal in her eyes, mixed with another emotion he could only guess at.

"What's with all the gold?" He asked.

"Tell me why you're here" She demanded, completely ignoring his question. Her voice was the same as he'd remembered it, but she also had the same musical and serene, angelic, other-worldly echo. He didn't like that... that was his thing.

"Why I'm here? You're the one who showed up uninvited... This is my hundred and twenty foot monument to my greatness, thank you very much. Get your own." That sounded too childish in his musical and serene, angelic, other-worldly voice, and he internally resolved to speak more like an adult.

"I have no time or patience for this. You will answer my question." She met his eyes and replied fiercely, in a British accent for some reason.

The answer he'd intended to give her was "Why are you speaking like Queen Cersei?", but what came out was "Because I owe you the truth".

Wait, what? "How did she do that?" He wondered, again outraged at his sadistic subconscious.

"I see." She said in response... then she hesitated for a second before saying:

"Well, let me start. I have some unresolved feelings for you. I don't know what to do about them, so I wanted to talk to you so I can finally move on." He knew then what that other emotion he'd seen in her eyes was.

He held his silence, waiting for her get to the point.

"Do you have something to tell me?" She asked impatiently.

"Not really. Did you know we could totally fly here?" He asked innocently.

"Fine, have it your way." She replied, then she looked him in the eyes again and forcefully continued:

"I would like to know why things did not work out between us. Talk." She demanded again with unflinching eye-contact.

Weirder and weirder... he was beginning to notice a pattern. It seemed that whenever she asked something of him, he was compelled to answer her truthfully. He noticed this in the split second window before he spilled his guts:

"In two words? Clinical depression. People think that if someone's laughing and seems to be having a good time, then they're feeling fine and nothing's wrong with them. You fell for that trap; I've always hinted at my depression but we never really talked about it much, so you didn't give it much thought... and it's easy to miss it, because depression doesn't always show. It isn't all about sleeping all day or being in pain or getting suicidal thoughts... it is sometimes, on really bad days, but you know what it's like for most days? Nothing. Like this place; which is probably why it's all my subconscious could dream up. Complete, mind-numbing nothingness.

You can spend weeks feeling no joy from anything you do. All food tastes like canned beans on toast; every shiny new thing you buy; every friendship; every success in life; they all feel like minor, temporary blips of happiness on an eternal flat-line of "meh". You never feel motivated to see anyone or to do anything or have the energy for it, anyways... and all you can do to distract yourself from the nothingness is to obsess about your job and your hobbies which you grow to enjoy less and less as you start to ponder the meaning of life and whether or not it's even worth it.

And these are the good days... I'll let you figure out how bad the bad days can get. They're unpredictable, savage, impossible to foresee and can be triggered by the tiniest of stimuli.

How do you think I could have still been a perfect boyfriend when I'm always drained by this constant war which has been raging inside my head ever since I hit puberty?

And then there's my self-hatred and tendency to relentlessly sabotage every healthy friendship or relationship in my life because I literally don't know how to be happy... yeah that's a particularly fun little fact I should probably mention, too... but we actually talked about this one, so it should come as no surprise.

Then we get to my anxiety and my inability to let things go. Whenever something's bothering me, I have to talk about it and I have to talk about it NOW. I'm normally a very diplomatic person, but it's difficult to keep it up when you have anxiety; the unresolved feelings of uncertainty are death to me... I always have to know where things stand, so when we had our fights and disagreements, it was difficult for me to let things slide or wait for a more appropriate time to bring them up again; I'd always say what I felt immediately when I felt it because I literally can't not do it, and that's how things kept getting worse... and I fully take the blame for this part.

My point is that it was easy for you to love me when I was being a knight in shining armor... but when you put me on a pedestal, it was impossible for me to live up to your expectations; and when I started being human, I fell from grace. I was no longer the perfect demigod who could do no wrong, and you couldn't handle that."

She was silent for a few minutes as she considered his words, then she replied accusingly:

"You know what? You're full of shit. You put yourself on that pedestal, not me. You stormed into my life and swept me off my feet literally out of nowhere, and always pretended to be a stupid white knight even when you weren't. How could I have known the real you when you were hiding him the entire time? You say that it's impossible to notice depression... so how was I supposed to know? How was I ever supposed to guess all of these issues if you never talked to me about them? You always pretended to be unshakable or unbreakable or whatever it is you used to call yourself, and you always changed the subject whenever we got close to talking about any of this. I understand now that you weren't withdrawing because you were trying to hurt me or because you didn't love me anymore; but you have to understand that it really seemed that way at the time. You should have talked to me... I would have understood." her voice was reproachful, and her eyes were shining.

"I know... I don't know how to show vulnerability and that's what killed us, wasn't it?" He wondered aloud.

"Yes... but it wasn't just you... it takes two to tango. I should have been more persistent... if I'd pushed you to talk to me, who knows? I think we were both just too proud to try." She concluded sadly.

They stood there -well, he stood there while she sat there in the ten foot golden lap throne- for a few minutes; then she asked the question he'd known was coming:

"Do you still have feelings for me?"

Eye-contact. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SERIOUSLY FUCK MY SUBCONSCIOUS FOR MAKING ME ANSWER THIS ONE.

Unless... because that was his subconscious, then maybe he could wriggle out of it. He gave it a go.

"I will only answer if you answer the same question". He replied, folding his arms.

It worked! It seemed like his subconscious couldn't answer on her behalf because it didn't know her answer; and since she couldn't answer either then he didn't have to. "I'M A GENIUS!" He thought.

He only got to bask in the glow for about three seconds before she destroyed his theory by saying:

"I think if any two people were ever truly in love, they never really move on. They do, but not all of them does... do you know what I mean? I think if we're born with let's say 10 love units, past loves permanently occupy some of those so there's less and less of us there for every new relationship until we finally wear down and become cynical when they run out. This doesn't mean I'm in love with you, but that a part of me will probably always love you and there's not much I can do about it."

Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT... now he had to answer the same question.

"I... think yours is a question with... many possible answers..." He struggled to fight the urge; tried to think about anything else... but it was too strong; he would either break or choke, soon enough.

"OK, enough of this. I can read your thoughts and I know how you feel. I've heard what I needed to hear, and I finally have closure. You can go." She finished dismissively.

What? You can read my thoughts? How can you read my thoughts? Is my subconscious actively trying to destroy me?

"Who says it's your subconscious? This is not your dream." She replied mystically.

"I think it's time I took you off that pedestal now"

An irresistible force was pulling him away. As he was yanked out of the dream, he saw her descend the crumbling ten foot golden lap throne as it collapsed, while visible cracks spread across his statue's torso with a thunderous clap as it fell apart all over the golden pedestal.

He woke up with inexplicable feelings of loss, but couldn't for the life of him remember the reason... then he shrugged and went back to sleep.

She woke up with a hopeful smile... she was free at last.

*************************

Now read it again knowing that it's her subconscious and things will make more sense.

A Writer's Bane

He stared at the blank page on his laptop's screen, as he had hundreds of times before.

He stared into the sterile, florescent light for what seemed like hours.

He stared until he started to feel the beginnings of a bad headache.

He stared until he could stare no more...

But nothing happened.

In truth, he wasn't quite sure what he was waiting for... creativity can never be forced, and he was never one of those 9 to 5 writers who are able to force themselves to churn out page after page of often uninspired mediocrity just to pay the bills. He'd always felt that creation was not a conscious decision; it was more of a calling... an uncontrollable urge to express your innermost thoughts and feelings in any way possible.

To him, thoughts that he was not comfortable saying out-loud or communicating to anyone were always somehow much easier to express on paper. He could struggle for years to express a simple thought to a trusted loved one; yet he had no trouble spilling his innermost doubts and fears -the darkest of which he was still in denial about- on a public medium that complete strangers had access to. The absurdity of the contradiction made him smile.

What was it about a blank page that soothed his soul?

Perhaps it was a good way to compartmentalize; his brain was a constant whirlwind of conflicting emotions and half-formed thoughts, and it was often difficult for him to cope with this cacophony or derive any clarity from it. Being able to express some of it was like locking up his old childhood toys in a wooden chest in the attic; they were still there, but in an archive out of sight where they could not demand his immediate attention or cloud his better judgement... and he could have more room for the undeveloped thoughts still in their infancy.

He also enjoyed knowing that he could travel back in time whenever he wished. He always remembered the precise circumstances under which he wrote anything, and how he was feeling at the time... and whenever he felt nostalgic, it was as simple as reading through his old work and instantly gaining perspective with the benefit of hindsight. It made him spot patterns in his behavior, and helped him chart how his personality changed over the years; but more importantly, no emotion was out of reach. At a blink, he could feel happy; he could feel hopeful; he could even fall in love all over again... and lest he grew complacent, he could also feel nostalgic; lonely; melancholy or depressed... this drove home the point that life was made of highs and lows; that it was meant to sometimes be sad; and that that contrast was what made happiness all the more beautiful. It also humbled him to look at the grand scheme of things and how things ended up transpiring, regardless of how he'd felt at the time... because it's sometimes relaxing to realize how little control you actually have over your life; and how little the small grievances we tend to have matter on the long run.

Or was it his sense of relief? Writing gave him the same relief one would get after a confession at a Catholic church; that feeling of being scrubbed clean of sin and darkness. The burden of having to constantly relive the same dark, nonconstructive thoughts over and over could take its toll on any person... and he was not the type to complain to someone and add to their troubles or express any vulnerability. Feeling like he could share these thoughts with someone without having to face their judgement made him feel more relaxed and at ease.

Yes, he was definitely onto something; it was all about judgement. A blank page would never judge him. A blank page would never abandon him when he wasn't feeling well. A blank page would always be there for him as long as he had his wits and subject matter to write about -and God knew he had no shortage of that. A blank page allowed him to distance himself sufficiently to look at things from an outsider's perspective, but the simple fact that he was bonding with a reader -transcending time and distance- still made it feel intimate and fulfilling. A blank page knew how to listen, and give him space to allow him to be himself. A blank page made no demands; had no expectations; and held no prejudice.

In short, a blank page was as loyal a lifetime companion as he could hope for... and that was why he was presently staring at a blank page and feeling in complete turmoil for having a writer's block; he didn't write to gain admiration, it was never about the attention...

He wrote to honor a faithful friend who was always there for him, and whom he felt he was currently letting down.

He wrote to release pressure and tension.

He wrote to be heard and understood.

He wrote to survive.

My Best Friend

I have a friend who's always there,
Who never wavers in his loyalty...
I've known him for almost twelve years,
And he's never once left my side.

We met when I was young and pure,
With childish dreams of love and fame...
He helped me see how foolish I was
And shaped my character over the years.

Whenever I'd lapse to my previous state
Of childish wonder, even for a minute
He'd always be there to ground me
And remind me how dark life can be.

Sometimes he'd be mellow and timid,
Other times he'd be angry and fierce...
His moods affected me in so many ways,
And I never quite understood why.

Whenever we'd part, even for an hour
He'd wink at me as he walked away
A friendly wink you'd give to a friend
Whom you would never think to abandon.

And sure enough; he never did...
He'd always be back before I knew it.
And every time, I'd quickly realize;
My best friend had never truly left.

In rare happy times, I don't see him much,
But in rough times, he's always there...
Be it death; loss; failure or broken heart,
He'd be there with me through it all.

He was there when I was alone,
He was there when I was in love,
He was there when my heart was broken,
And he was there when I went numb.

I've asked myself a million times,
Why does he feel he owes me so much?
I like to think that I'm a good person,
But what have I done to deserve this frienship?

If I had one wish, I know it would be this:
For me to have more friends like him;
Unshakable friends who never leave,
In spite of the pain and hate in me.

Friends who see past the charming smile,
And know how ugly I am inside...
Friends who aren't afraid of darkness
Friends who accept me for who I am.

I have a friend who's always there,
Who never wavers in his loyalty...
Oh how I wish I had more friends,
Like you, Depression; my best friend.

The Worst Thing That Could Ever Happen To Anyone Ever

Don't blame me; blame writer's block. This ugly condition must be stopped. Organize fund raisers; talk about it on TV; run in marathons to raise awareness; shout it from the mountain tops; do whatever you have to do... let's end this thing once and for all.

*******************

Think of the worst thing that could ever happen to anyone ever.

I'm not joking... I mean it; seriously, honestly, actually take a minute and think of the worst situation it is humanly possible to find yourself in. I'm not just saying this; I really do want you to actively put some effort into this exercise. Trust me; the pay-off is great... Just bear with me.

Done? Good. Now what I want you to do is to double that. Can you do that for me? Take another minute, I'll wait. Again, don't ruin this for yourself by simply reading the next paragraph... please take a minute and think about it before you proceed.

Good job. It must be working, because I can already smell the rank, cloying stench of your dark imagination. That's a good sign.

Now this next step is tricky, so please pay attention; I want you to take your metaphorical depraved, psycho brain-child and bathe it in blood, garbage juice, human excrement, horse semen and the contents of that one jar that's been at the back of your fridge for months and you're too scared to go near it so you just poke it with a broom handle every week or so to make sure it hasn't developed intelligent life yet...

Perfect.

By now, your metaphorical mental cauldron should be producing sulfur fumes and boiling of its own accord without being subjected to any heat whatsoever. Don't pop the viscous bubbles that are forming on the surface; they're flammable and highly toxic. Just add anything disgusting you can think of that I might have missed and slowly stir it for 10 minutes with that broom handle. Again, be careful not to pop the bubbles.

If your broom handle hasn't dissolved in the grey slag, then your mixture isn't strong enough. You'd have to add however much sweat you can squeeze out of an obese middle aged man's gym armpit towel, and however much children's tears to turn the mixture into a sickly shade of greenish yellow. If you can't procure one of those items, I'm afraid you'll have to dispose of your concoction somehow; perhaps in some kind of abandoned underground nuclear bunker or an active volcano or that area of your brain you've reserved for bad break-ups you never want to think about again.

Now the last step is to let it stew for 24 days and 24 nights... But don't think your work is over; this next part is arguably the most important. What you need to do for the next 24 nights is to focus all your negative energy on your cauldron. All your doubts, fears, worries, dark thoughts, negativity, pessimism, choice swear words and dead baby jokes. Anything terrible you can do or think of. Don't be afraid to improvise! Old gym socks? Toenails? Menstrual blood? Throw it all in there... The more personalized and unique it is, the better pay-off for you.

By the end of the 24th night, for those of you who were able to follow my simple instructions, congratulations! You will have successfully recreated one tenth of what he was feeling as he stood there in what was literally the worst situation it is humanly possible to find yourself in.

Can you imagine what a dark, messy situation that must be? I'm dead-serious, imagine it. This is the last time I'll ask you to do that, I promise; take a minute and really think about it. Think of the magnitude of what I must be getting at... and be sure to factor in how dark I naturally am. Think what must be so dark that even I would have to build it up so much to mentally prepare you.

It took you 24 nights to create the terrible concoction above, and you would need to cook up 9 other batches to match this particular situation. That's 216 days of constant brewing, assuming you don't mess up any of the batches. Can you imagine the level of commitment needed here? Do you have what it takes?

I think it's fair to say that things were definitely not looking peachy for him.

Now, I can hear you thinking "Oh my God, get to the point!", but did you really think it through? Are you sure you're ready? Do you really think you've climbed up to the top-most rung of the longest ladder you own; stood on your tiptoes and reached up as high as you can to touch the absolute height of your mental depravity?

You have? Awesome. 

Nothing I can write will ever beat your own imagination.

You have just created your own worst thing that could ever happen to anyone ever.

Enjoy.

Dark Chocolate For The Soul

Here's the deal; I've had a few dark short stories floating around in my brain for a while now, and since they're very depressing as you'll shortly see for yourself, I've decided to dump them all in one blog post because writing a separate blog post for each individual short story might actually make some people suicidal.

That said, if you believe yourself to be in a bad place, please don't read on.

Seriously.

***************************

It's difficult to pinpoint where it all went wrong.

Was it the moment he decided he'd actually get out of bed and try to be a productive member of society?

Was it the moment he tried to take a shower but slipped and almost broke his leg in the bathtub?

Was it the moment he got a nasty shock from his ancient microwave, which finally decided to blow a fuse and send his small, messy apartment back to the stone age as he stood there with his mouth half-full of cold, left-over pizza?

Or was it the moment he decided to ignore all these signs and get dressed for work anyway?

As he lay there; dazed, upside down and losing consciousness while his totaled car's cabin flooded with carbon monoxide, he had to wonder if it was all worth it.

His last memory was of her face; smiling and serene and angelic in the early morning sunlight.

***************************

How long had they been there? They had no idea.

They just sat there, staring longingly into each others' eyes for what seemed like hours; mesmerized, love-drunk and more than a little frisky, yes... but also sad.

Sad because of how the word "love" paled to insignificance next to what they were both experiencing.

Sad because there were only so many ways to show someone you loved them; and they'd already exhausted them all.

Sad because they knew it would all end, much sooner than they both wanted.

Sad because they'd never get to grow old together and hold their own grandchildren.

When the moment came, he pulled her close and kissed her long and hard, subtly turning her around to face away from the window...

but not before she caught a glimpse of the dazzling flash and the distant, rising mushroom cloud.

She closed her eyes and kissed him back, fighting back her tears and bracing herself as the sirens started wailing.

***************************

He'd always been dark and brooding.

As a child, whenever he felt unappreciated, he would find himself imagining scenarios where he died heroically and all his friends and family realized what a beautiful person they'd lost.

The irony is that he didn't even believe it himself.

He'd spend months working on himself; trying to get to a better place where he could start to be proud of who he was... but the smallest thing would happen, and it would completely demolish the fragile house of cards that was his sense of self-worth.

It cost him so much energy just to pretend to be normal, that he was left too drained to actually function. He would wake up in the morning, put on his smile and reluctantly face the world; all the while hiding the plethora of conflicting emotions battling for control of his mood that day. 

Depression, anxiety and self-hate won, most days.

On one such particularly bad day, they found him lying on the floor of his room.

The note only said "I've had enough."

The nozzle of the gun in his limp right hand was still fuming.

***************************

Her days were all the same.

Wake up, put on a brave face, receive people all day and thank them for visiting.

Every single day, the fun never stopped.

Some people would try to joke around with her to lighten the mood; others would speak stoically and offer her promises that her family would be taken care of; and some would even offer to get her booked in clinical trials that would at best give her a few more years of pain and misery.

It had been a few weeks since she'd officially run out of money to pay for her chemotherapy... not that it would have helped much, in any case... stage 3 metastatic pancreatic cancer was about as survivable as a tactical carpet bombing.

Every day, a few of her "friends" -to use the word liberally- would visit her... now that the news had got out; everyone she'd ever met wanted to make their peace and gain some of that sweet, sweet good karma by visiting a poor, dying cancer patient and offering their sympathy and nothing else.

Every day, she would put up with visits from tens of people whose names she could barely recall.

The days and weeks went by in a blur, and eventually she became old news and they stopped visiting.

When she finally felt it coming; in bed, alone and shivering uncontrollably under the weight of five heavy blankets, she reached for her phone and sent a final text message to the one person who never visited.

The one person who mattered.

When her clumsily typed "i love you" reached him, he glanced at his phone for one second...

Then he deleted the message and smiled at his date apologetically.

"Sorry about that... you were saying?"

***************************

He came to; not really understanding how it was even possible.

Dizzy and confused, he tried to sit up but his harnesses kept him in place.

He glanced to the left and saw his mother sleeping in her chair. His girlfriend was sprawled on the couch next to her, also asleep.

He tried to piece together what had happened; but his cognitive abilities weren't yet fully functional... he knew he'd definitely been in a car crash, and that it was serious enough that the deployed airbag knocked him out on impact. He also knew that it must have been a few days ago, since the itchy stubble covering half his face must have had some time to grow.

He remembered his last thought being "Yep. I'm going to die now".

How was he awake, then? He was in seven different types of pain and pumped so full of pain killers that his head was swimming and he wasn't thinking very clearly; but he was still very much alive. It just didn't make sense.

He suddenly became aware of a dull ache in his chest. A quick inspection revealed a vertical incision at least 7 inches-long. Something definitely wasn't right.

He glanced at the bed-side table on his right and saw a letter. With a sinking feeling, he reached out and grabbed it.

It was addressed: "To my only son; from a terrible father".

His hands shaking, he tore up the envelope and unfolded the letter.

"I tried to do one thing right... I'm sorry for everything I put you through. 

Remember me fondly, son... and take good care of my old ticker"

His estranged abusive father had died to save his life, and he never even had a chance to say goodbye to him... 

but the worst part was that he still couldn't forgive him.

***************************

Retirement suited her well.

Her days were as similar as they were stereotypical; she would sit on the front porch with her husband of 50 years, knitting as he read the morning paper... then at noon, they would visit one of their friends for lunch and card games, and in the evening they would watch TV in the living room... and every night they would go to bed at 9, like clock-work.

It was perfectly normal for a couple that had been together for as long as they had to fall into a rut, she reasoned... especially as they both aged and had less and less energy to fight or try to spice things up... but deep down, she knew that was nonsense.

After all these years, she could still see him from the corner of her eye as they watched TV, looking at her with that bright twinkle in his eyes and the hint of a satisfied, loving smile on his lips. She could still tell that he loved her as much as he had 50 years ago when she agreed to marry him. In his mind, she knew there was no doubt whatsoever; she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Would that she felt the same about him.

For 50 years, she tried to love him, and for 50 years she failed... and every night, she would still go to sleep thinking about her real love; the one she still wondered about after all these years... the one she would have given everything she owned to see again, even once... the one she still cried over, sometimes.

But what her husband didn't know couldn't hurt him. She couldn't give him her love, but she would make sure he died thinking she loved him.

She owed him that, at least.

***************************

I think that's enough for now. Now please google some cat videos for your own sanity.

First Date

She glanced at her tiny wristwatch, sighed and took a delicate sip of diet Coke.

The date was already not going well. First date etiquette clearly dictates that the man should be there at least 10 minutes early; but it was already 8:05 and he wasn't there yet. In his defense, he lived on the other side of town and had to take a very long commute to get there, and he had offered to pick her up, but still... there were formalities to be observed. The delicate art of seduction needs finesse, and first impressions count for a lot; it only takes a little tardiness to kill a woman's interest, and a man of quality would know that... besides; a man's word is his bond, as the saying goes, and his inability to keep a promise as simple as showing up on time didn't speak very well for him.

Or did it?

Could it be some sort of power play? Was he implying that his time was more valuable than hers... or was she overthinking it? She had no idea. In fact, she didn't know anything about him; all she knew was that he was attractive, charming, and a smooth enough talker to talk a nun into a threesome. Within 15 minutes of them meeting he'd already secured her phone number, and she couldn't for the life of her remember how he'd done it.

As she stared into the bubbling, black depths of her half-full glass (or half-empty, depending on your disposition), mentally trying to banish all thoughts of fornicating nuns, she had to admire his directness. A lesser man would have waited for the customary 3 days before calling her to ask her out, but he didn't even wait for one hour. One minute they were flirting; the next he was saving her number on his phone, and before she even knew what was happening, he'd already set up their first date at the classiest restaurant in town... the one you generally either needed to have serious connections with the mafia, the Illuminati or the government to get reservations in. She wasn't sure she wanted to know which.

The sound of confident, purposeful footsteps accompanied by jingling car keys pulled her out of her reverie. She discretely pulled her phone out of her purse and pretended to have been texting until the footsteps were close enough that she couldn't ignore them, and she looked up.

He was immaculately dressed; well-ironed white shirt, grey blazer, plain jeans and gleamingly well-polished black dress shoes with a watch and belt to match. Compared to what everyone else was wearing he was arguably under-dressed... however, not only did he pull it off well, but he also seemed to steal the spotlight. His confident stride spoke of a man who knew what he wanted and went for it; and the way he dressed -elegant yet simple, like he wasn't trying very hard- coupled with his playful half-smile and the way he was holding her gaze while politely ignoring the stares he was getting from most of the women at the other tables (and the thinly-guarded hostility with which their men regarded him) gave him the air of a man who was no stranger to women's attention. She did her best to ignore the sullen, jealous glances she was getting from some of the aforementioned women, and reached out her hand to shake his as he approached the table. He had a dry, firm handshake, and it left her right hand smelling faintly of the particularly masculine brand of bottled testosterone which he was wearing for perfume.

"Look at me, keeping a beautiful woman waiting... my mother would be ashamed of the gentleman she didn't raise" He smiled apologetically. "There is no excuse for that; I'm truly sorry".

A compliment, followed by the implication of an affectionate relationship with his mother and a sincere apology. She was already naming their three children.

She took a quick glance at her watch to imply that she hadn't really noticed as she answered brightly:

"Oh, don't worry about it... I had to reply to some e-mails anyway!"An obvious lie, but he was graceful enough not to push it. "Was the traffic OK?" She asked, then inwardly cursed herself for the cliche, generic nature of her question.

"Is it ever?" He chortled. "But you know, my bigger problem recently has been Google maps. It's been all about dead ends and longest routes lately"

"Oh, you don't drive here much?"

"I do, but I have the sense of direction God gave a carrot." He said laughingly. "But I often feel like if you want it enough, you'll eventually get there... and I did want it enough." He looked her in the eyes as he said that, hesitated for exactly two heartbeats and then added: "You look stunning, by the way."

Oh, masterfully done, she thought to herself. She was shrewd enough to recognize what he was doing, but he did it so well that she couldn't help blushing a little in response and shyly murmuring a thank you as she busied herself with the menu the waiter had just placed in front of her. 

Nervously leafing through the pages, she pretended to read but was really just peering at him from over the top of her menu. He expertly opened the menu, flipped to a specific page, took a quick glance and then closed it just in time to catch her staring at him. He met her gaze, and flashed her a disarmingly dazzling smile... the sort of smile you kept for family and lovers and soul mates and very close friends. The sort of smile that said "you matter to me and I want you to know it". The sort of smile that can get you hooked, like a drug.

In her case, however, she felt eerily uncomfortable; it seemed oddly obscene for him to be giving away these smiles to complete strangers, even if she happened to be the stranger in question. He was radiating so much warmth and sincerity that it made her feel like she was intruding on someone else's intimate affair; it somehow made her feel simultaneously vulnerable, insecure, dirty, and honored to be on the receiving end of it... not to mention some unexpected stirring in the pit of her stomach and nether regions. She looked quickly back at her menu, her heart racing. 

She deduced three things; firstly, he appeared to be a creature of habit, as it only took him a second to decide what to order; he frequented that restaurant fairly regularly, since he seemed familiar with the menu... and last but not least, he wasn't toying with her; you couldn't fake a smile like that... no one was that good an actor. Right?

"So, do you come here often?" She asked, barely able to contain her curiosity any longer.

"I've been here a few times, yes" was his vague response. He was obviously going to make her work for it. Very well then, she thought... she could play mind games too; and she had yet to meet a man who did not enjoy a bit of ego-stroking.

"I have to say, I'm impressed... Not everyone can get reservations here at such short notice." She watched him closely for the telltale, self-important glint of pride she'd come to associate with men with a satisfied ego and the beginnings of an erection... 

But he didn't take the bait.

"Oh it's nothing, I just come here a lot" He replied cheerfully, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Who'd throw away such a perfect opportunity to boast of their social class and connections? His modesty intrigued her... and the fact that his charm came to him so naturally. Why wasn't he overthinking every word she said, like she was? And just how many girls had he taken to that restaurant before her?

She was struggling with another way to probe him further when he spoke again; almost like he could read her thoughts.

"Hey, uh... Excuse my bluntness, but let's not do mind games today. They wear me out and a lot of sincerity gets lost in the process... so, if something's on my mind, I'll say it, and please feel free to do the same... I promise I'll answer honestly. There's less miscommunication that way"

That definitely took her off-guard. The waiter took the 5 seconds of stunned silence to mean that they'd decided what to order, and he walked over to their table with a smile on his face and stood by expectantly.

"Could you give us a few more minutes, please?" Her date asked the waiter politely.

The waiter gave an actual, honest-to-God bow, and retreated... it was like being in the 1950s.

As he looked back at her questioningly, she pondered his request... although she was disappointed that the aura of mystery had been removed, she was also exhilarated at the prospect of having a real, heart-felt conversation with him... So she decided to give it a go.

"Alright, fine" she replied, at length. "What's your name? It was kind of weird that I had to save you as "Mysterious Bar Dude" on my phone"

He chuckled. "Mysterious Bar Dude? Was God's Gift To Women already taken?" He flashed her another smile, his perfect teeth glinting in the candlelight.

She replied with a giggle, but gave no further response save for cocking her head; he wasn't getting out of it so easily. Appearing to get the hint, he dropped his head and appeared to consider her request for a few seconds... then raised it with a sigh.

"Sorry, that's the one thing I can't tell you... But we've talked about this, haven't we?" He pursed his lips playfully at her, like she was violating some sort of sacred rule.

"Yes, I remember the terms of our agreement" she replied, sarcastically emphasizing the last word with the hand gesture for parentheses as she recalled their conversation on the day he'd asked her out. "But since we're doing the whole honesty thing, don't you think our names are slightly relevant?!" She exclaimed exasperatedly.

"I disagree... look, I'm not doing this to be mysterious or to hide something from you... I'm doing this for one simple reason; we live in 2017. All either one of us would need is a first and last name, and we could find out all there is to know about each other through social media... And I don't believe that is the best way to get to know someone. The best way is through good, old-fashioned talking." 

"And you're an old-fashioned man, aren't you?" She asked, locking eyes with him.

"As old-fashioned as they come" He replied, leaning back in his chair... There! That glint of fierce pride she'd been waiting for... albeit wildly out of place, and mixed with another emotion she couldn't quite place... was it self-importance, or something else?

They must have stared at each other for several minutes, because the waiter appeared suddenly as if out of nowhere.

"Are we perhaps ready?" He asked, almost impatiently.

"Yes", she thought as she peered deeply into her date's sad eyes and vowed to know all there is to know about the mysterious man... "Yes, I'm definitely ready."

Outwardly, however, she just said: "I'm sorry, could you please give us five more minutes?"

I Miss You

Where do I start? 

We live in a world that idolizes happy endings, but gives absolutely no thought for the sad ones.

We live in a world that idolizes happy endings, but focuses on the fake smiles and posed pictures and pays no attention to the pain and strife that happen backstage.

We live in a world that idolizes happy endings, but a society which throws so many obstacles in your way that you might as well just give up.

Well, I'm here to speak for the stories that didn't end so well... for all the times you thought it might actually work, but found yourself bitterly remembering these thoughts months or years later and cursing yourself for letting your guard down and letting someone in.

Sometimes there are clear-cut happy endings and sad endings; happy endings where boy meets girl, they fall in love and they live happily ever after -with some complications which are easy to overcome because both parties want to make it work- and these are the endings that get all the hype and the cheesy romcoms; and then there are explosively bad endings, where both sides hate and wish serious harm upon each other... and these cases are tragic, yes, but it's easy for both parties to sit in their ivory towers and victimize themselves. At least in each of their minds, there is a clear good guy and bad guy... and this knowledge sets them free; when you believe that the other person has made all the mistakes, then it's easy to cast them as the villain and condemn them to the darkest, dankest dungeons of your brain.

But what happens when a couple realizes that they are simply incompatible? When they are madly in love but come to realize that they would have to change so much for each other that they wouldn't recognize themselves anymore?

That is the saddest ending of them all.

You can't be mad at each other because you understand where you're both coming from; you can only wish each other good things because while you know that there were bad times, you also fondly remember the good times with a smile and a warm glow in your heart; and while seeing them with someone else would probably affect you, a part of you would be glad that they've managed to find happiness. You can never bring yourself to bad-mouth each other, and would get offended if someone did in front of you... because even though you're no longer together, a part of you -no matter how small- still loves them and always will... and when you're hurting, you can't help sympathizing with them because you realize that they're probably hurting too.

In this case, there is never any real closure. The best you can do is get on with your life and try to push them out of your mind... and when you do remember them, you try to think of all the times they made you laugh or smile or feel special; because that is the only way to honor your dead relationship and all that came with it.

We've both said and done some hurtful things to each other, but we parted on good terms, and I'd be lying if I claimed I wasn't struggling... So, you know what? Even though I'm as over you as I'll ever be, I am not afraid to admit this to myself, or to you;

Sometimes I sit on my front porch at night and stare at the moon, wondering if you're staring at it too and thinking about me.

Sometimes I see ghosts of you in all the places we've been, and it makes me nostalgic and melancholic.

Sometimes one of our songs would play on shuffle and I'd be overwhelmed with emotion for a few seconds.

Sometimes I dream of you and then I can't get you out of my mind all day and all I can do is hope that I'll wake up tomorrow feeling better.

Sometimes I hope I'll see you again, but it scares me that I have no idea how either one of us would react and whether or not you'll be with someone.

Sometimes I wonder if you stalk my social media or my blog, or if you've stopped caring.

I still have all of your pictures, gifts and cute love notes... out of sight, but safe.

And sometimes I still want you so badly that it makes me physically hurt.

But most of all, even though I realize that we're over and that we're not getting back together, sometimes I simply miss you... like I miss my bed after a long day at work, or like I miss home after a few weeks abroad. I miss how you were my comfort zone; my emotional support and my number one fan, and I miss your mischievous smile, your lame jokes, your funny laugh, the way your cheeks would balloon outwards when you're drinking water, your disgusting views on mixing condiments, your disastrous taste in music and all the other little things that made you you... which I still remember, clear as day.

I haven't shared this post on Facebook, so you probably won't ever read it because no one will tell you I wrote it... or maybe you'll read it years from now when one or both of us are in happy relationships... but if you do, I hope I made you smile and I hope you're happy. I really do wish you the best of luck... but I have to hope that it wasn't all in vain.

I have to hope that even though our love story is over, part of it still lives on your heart, as it does in mine... even if you won't admit it to yourself.

*******

Update from a lonely hotel room in Jordan on April 21st 2018, one day after your birthday:

I hate you.

They say that hate and love are not opposites; for the opposite of love is indifference. I'm inclined to agree, but that complicates things; because I'm not sure what implications this carries... and I know I hate you, for so many reasons.

I hate you for hurting me.

I hate you for giving up on me.

I hate you for abandoning me.

I hate you for giving me even more issues than I thought I was capable of having.

I hate you for turning my life upside down when my defenses were down.

I hate you for giving me a hundred reasons to never let them down again.

I hate you for being real.

I hate you for giving me a glimpse of what I was beginning to think does not exist, and then snatching it away when I needed it the most. 

I hate you for not being there anymore...

But most of all, I hate you even more for having been there in the first place... for showing me what I was missing, and for leaving a you-shaped void no amount of distractions or other girls is filling.

You don't deserve my hatred, but my attempts at indifference towards you have not been successful... so I guess that's all I can offer at this point. Maybe one day I can grow to forgive you... or maybe I never will. All I can say is that one of my biggest disappointments in life is that we will never sit down and chat about this; I will never know how our breakup affected you, or how you feel about me now... because I would rather die curious but with my pride intact. 

I hate you because I realize I might never be completely over you, but I wish you well... and I still hope you're happy.

I guess I hate you because I can’t seem to actually hate you.