As of now

I spilled beer into the couch tonight. I felt really bad. New couches; new beer smell. Why did I mess up again?

I could tell it wasn't ok with Brian. Someone who was actually not too bothered by the fact would have said, "Oh, it's ok. Don't worry about it," especially after I offered to wash the couch cushion covers by hand. But the reaction I got was,

"No, just sit down."

Mind you. I'm not a dog the last time I checked. I just offered to was the cushion covers by hand.

"No, just sit. It's over." It's over? What's over? Why is it over? Who gets to decide it's over? Why him?

Yeah, I understand that he just wants to relax. I want to relax, too, and I wanted it to be a great night. But I just spilled beer into a couch, and I was and still am kicking myself for being such an idiot, knowing that the house and his things matter to him. I had to do something to make it better -- I offered to wash the couch cushion covers by hand.

But the reply I got was just to sit and that the discussion, as he said, was over.

Why does the discussion have to be over when he says so? Why do I have to sit because he says so? Why do all of these remarks seem so much like commands? Why do they seem so self-absorbed to me? How can I be gentle with someone when I don't feel being on equal plains?

Not ok, and very upset.

I yelled. I really was just trying to argue for what's fair, and just for him to decide the "discussion was over" really wasn't fair. But I think I came off as being a drunk ass bitch exaggerating a problem that's nothing.

It's 2:25am, and I'm still downstairs while he's upstairs ... sound asleep.

If it really matters to him, why wouldn't he try to talk to me? No, don't even have to try to talk; just come and invite me upstairs would be nice. Or even just to see what I'm doing downstairs, even just to see how pissed off I am.

But no. Sound asleep. I feel so bad, I almost think that I owe him to swallow my anger or question how I feel and wonder if I'm just hallucinating just because he let me stay at his house for free, just because he tells me he cares and would do anything for me.

Right. Anything but to think about how I feel. I feel awful for spilling beer into the new couch. I feel like such a burden to have to be moved out into his house. I feel stupid for not being able to help my own self. I feel like a total disaster of a daughter, sister, cousin, lover and friend. I feel like I'm not a 100% as a student. I feel bad for not being able to help him out when he's stressed out with a million things to do. I feel completely alone when I face my exhausting family issues because he has no idea how I feel and would not give me even a couple minutes of his day to just sit and hold me because he's "way too busy" -- and asking for it just makes me feel clingy and needy. I feel completely fat, nasty, weak, uncoordinated, small, feeble-minded, worthless and utterly and disgustingly ugly. I feel absolutely dispensible and easy to be overlook because I'm here everyday and have guaranteed that I will always be here. I feel that all I offer is a sense of comfort and am only good for chores ... only mediocre, at best. I feel like I am a complete failure for being where I am in life -- instead of being on track with a career and making money, I'm still sitting on my ass, going to school to "get smart" and incur giant sums of debt that will never go away. I am scared. I feel like I stick out no matter where I am -- how does it feel to be comfortable? I don't feel like I belong in this house and am having a rather lengthy transition to make this place my home despite my efforts: No, the house isn't mine. The room isn't mine. The food isn't mine (that's why I'd rather ask before eating anything). The Christmas tree wasn't mine. The stockings aren't mine, and certainly not the cat. (In fact, I find it difficult to find anywhere my home.) What do I have?

Sometimes I just wonder what a difference I make to anyone.

Life as of right now ... sucks.

To Me, His Hands

I have decided hands can
tell the story of people,
their experiences,
their work, their lives.

I have never seen hands like his.
Never.
The hands of a man that I'm familiar with
are pale and clean and uncalloused.
A little like mine.

His hands,
big, strong, with courage,
are those of a workman,
of someone who earns his livelihood,
of someone, with strength,
who holds on to the faith that
he can create his own destiny,
of someone who is curious and
passionate about exploring the form
of the world that surrounds him.

He shows me life
when he points,
gestures,
touches,
types,
makes,
cooks,
holds,
squeezes,
protects,
strums,
writes (though rarely),
waves ....

The rough edges, cuts and burns,
dirt that has permanently occupied space under his nails,
impenetrably thick, calloused, dark skin, ...
everything that does not belong to me,
everything that is imperfect,
gives me everything.

[Brian, to me, you are perfect.]

Unconditional Love

This is my take on blog about "Unconditional Love" on Women's Work. I don't know what possessed me to write something so sweet. hahaha!

[Brian, this is for you.]
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"Unconditional love" is just that ... unconditional. It's not a responsibility. There is no agenda. It is not valued by units.

It is a commitment -- a commitment so firm that you have no reservations even though you see the risks and the rugged road ahead, so clear that you will see life in its truest form. Yes, unconditional love is illogical, unrealistic, simple-minded and, in some people's vocabulary, stupid because it makes you feel that no matter the odds and the consequences, you will still prevail. It also makes you brave and courageous and do the unimaginable. It makes you ... believe.

I think if you are "stupid" enough, things might just work because you aren't "smart" enough to ...
- second guess yourself,
- second guess each other's love,
- assess the odds and conditions and interests,
- calculate the returns of investment,
- account monetary units of generosity,
- make prediction of - oh, who knows! -- fate will eventually tear you apart, so you should now prepare for crash landing.

Unconditional love is none of that. It's not from the brain; it is from the heart, which is why it's so hard to explain. It's not words, not numbers, not graphs, not visuals, not tastes or smells or any of that ... or maybe it's all of those things and more, that's why it's so hard to understand (especially if one closes off the possibility of unconditional love's existence).

Sometimes, I would like to think of it as Christmas lights. It's as if you are holding the plug for your string of lights, and you are trying out electric outlets for the right "click", for it all to work. Some outlets are such the wrong ones that they'll shock you -- OUCH!

At this point, you can either choose to give it up all together for fear that you will get shocked again, or you can keep going in hopes that you will see the beauty of that string of lights you got. If you give up, that's ok. Just walk away. Don't go pouring water on other people's outlets though. You just gotta accept that it's your decision.

If you keep going, however, just know that you might get shocked again and again ... and again. A couple of things before you charge on: Yes, in case you didn't know, you are on a "Mission: Almost Impossible ... but It's Worth It in the End". And each time you get shocked, it makes you crazier/more interesting and wiser.

When finally you find that outlet you've been looking for, you might feel like your cells have just been lit up like strings of Christmas lights, and everything just ... clicks. You will look at your transformed self and marvel, "All those times I've been shocked and almost electricuted are totally worth it."

Child Like Me

I must have ruined my life.

I must have ruined my life by being in love. I mean, LOOK! Why couldn't I have waited until AFTER school to be in a relationship? I have a choice, right?

And why do I have to be in debt? Why couldn't I have somehow paid my rent some other way ... like with the student loans that haven't come yet and not on the credit card, so that my parents wouldn't have to help me? Why couldn't I have talked to them earlier about needing some help to start being independent because asking my parents for help is easy and dignified, right? And why can't I just finish my BA? Now I'm in a grad program, and I will for sure have no success. I might even flunk out of it because I'm obviously incompetent.

Now I just have fucked up my life for good.

Look at everyone else -- so and so's daughter, cousin so and so -- they are all on their way to success -- at least that's what my dad told me. Why do I have to ruin my life and be defiant and wild and so non-compliant and do whatever I want without thinking about the consequences ... like foregoing my reputation by moving in with what's-his-face-that-friend-of-yours?

At least that's what my dad said.

Reputation. Even if I don't care about it, my father is certain that someday I will. But who is to judge me? Distant relatives? Friends of my parents? Who? Whose rude judgement will I care about? My grandmother? My uncles and aunts? Sure, I care about what they think! But they've lived their lives and have made their own decisions for better or for worse. Now it's my turn to live mine, right? So what do they have to complain about and be judgemental about?

Maybe the one who truly cares about "reputation" isn't me afterall.

Others your age are going places; now look at you!

[Where have I heard that before? Oh, I know. All my life.]

Others have such children, and I have a child like you. I am disappointed, he remarked.

Yes, a child like me.