Friday, June 19, 2009

Brain Vomit

Subconscious Debris

For the most part, love IS ironic. In the name of love, doing the things you detest seems acceptable. After all, these acts still operate within the framework of happiness, or rather the pursuit thereof. It’s called sacrifice, they say. But that’s entirely dependent on your role in this otherwise symbiotic relationship. If you’re a taker, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. If you’re a giver, well now, you’re in big trouble. (Or whipped like the family pig, whichever you prefer.) Either way, you’re still screwed. Now let’s see if you can still appreciate the irony after this.


Nothing intensifies the feeling of pain more than other people’s pity. Soothing words, consoling hugs—these may as well be radioactive. Because if we are to be honest about it, concealing the gulf between your countenance and the damages your heart has sustained is sheer hell. Nobody likes doing that, unless you’re a glutton for punishment. And if that’s not enough, you’re obligated to feel better because it’s just rude to shun the efforts of the people who—true or not—care about your wellbeing. And if that’s not a testament to the ridiculousness of the situation, more’s the pity.

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