So what’s up with the stigma on being alone?
Alone doesn’t mean lonely.
I love the expression on people’s faces when they ask what I’m going to do for my birthday or thanksgiving this year and I either tell them I have no plans or am going to do something by myself.
“Gasp! What. No. You shouldn’t be by yourself.”
I love my own company.
I have no problem going out for walks on my own. Taking myself to breakfast, lunch, dinner. Showing up solo to events. Introducing myself to strangers.
I would consider myself an omnivert, which as defined by the good ol’ urban dictionary means “Someone who is an introvert and extrovert.”
I don’t care for some people.
And I don’t mean that I don’t care about them or their wellbeing – I genuinely wish everyone good. But what I mean is that some people just don’t interest me. Others annoy me. Their ideas are whatever. Meh.
It’s such a relief to own up to this truth. That I really just don’t vibe with every person. Just like every person doesn’t vibe with me.
It doesn’t mean anyone is better or worse. Just different. I’m oil, you’re water – or vice versa, I don’t care. You get the picture.
I want to become more assertive.
To not laugh at people’s jokes who I don’t find funny simply as to not make it awkward.
Why do I get so worried about hurting people’s feelings?
I guess I was taught to be polite. Extremely polite.
But is polite just another work for fake?
Because that’s what I’m being when I smile at your face but inside I really couldn’t care less.
I don’t want to be like that.
I think people are too sensitive.
So what if I don’t care for you and don’t agree with you? I’m not deliberately hurting you at the end of the day. I’m just living my life in my own bubble. Stop being so sensitive. Grow some skin.
I need to grow some skin too though. So I’m not one to talk too confidently on the matter of sensitivities.
I need more skin. More balls. Less fucks.
That’s my rant on that.
down with the stigma that being alone is a bad thing. It’s not.
It’s fucking glorious if you ask me.
Obviously not all the time – that’s just some sociopath type shit.
But there’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking yourself out and simply enjoying the company of your own being.
So go. Plan a date with yourself. And fuck the haterz.
Lost and Found
Some days it feels like nothing goes my way. My jacket zipper gets stuck. I miss the train by seconds. I travel far for a project that doesn’t pan out. My hair gets brutally tangled in my necklace. I glance at the clock and suddenly I’m running late. I blindly sit on someone’s spilled coffee. A stranger’s bad breath poorly concealed by minty gum is blown towards my face. It takes the cashier 5 painful minutes to return me my change.
Is the world against me? Or am I moving too quickly and have missed the lesson here?
I watch other people pass me by and wonder if their life is easier. Maybe their zippers never get stuck.
I start thinking that if maybe I was someone else then misfortune would somehow escape me.
I know it’s ridiculous to think this – but I do it anyway. Then I come here and write about it.
Then I get over it and come back to the moment.
I play tug of war with the now and my rambling mind. The endless commentary in my head seems to win most of the battles. Yet even in the chaos of my inner world I arrive at luxurious moments of peace.
Then it’s lost again.
I realize it’s not about how many times I fall but how quickly I get up, beat the thick brown dust off my warrior body and keep on truckin’.
Truck, truck, truckin’.
Truck, truck, truckin’.
Just never gonna stop.