Lately, I've been busing sulking about something - someone - that I barely had time to put my thoughts into anything worth reading. And the bad part is, he's not really someone I could talk about, or rather, should talk about. This is the pits, because being as garroulous as I am, I am filled to the brim with stories and questions and just...words.
Work is boring for now. There are too many things to do, but so routinely that being busy offers no salvation from wayward thoughts and conflicting emotions. Much as I love my job, there are days I seriously wish I'm doing something else...like being a belly dancer...Kidding aside, my fears of getting less studious and intelligent with time is preventing me from seeking a scholarship in IT.
Anyway, I wrote in my STARBUCKS DIARY (I just had to mention it, right? After all, not being a coffee-holic/caffein addict, I had to suffer palpitations for days to get this thing) yesterday that I came into a realization that I can call myself the Salvation Army..Yes, I do have a feeling that most men see me as a charity foundation aka mother hen aka little sister aka tissue paper. Most men *attracted* to me (quick, pop my head before it bloats with air!) are weak, suffering from emotionally draining relationships, in need of mother figure, a text mate, a drinking buddy. Someone to comfort them and tell them they're not doing pretty bad in life despite the series of unfortunate events that started with their birth. Someone to listen to their sob stories. Misery loves company, and these boys/men are drowning in it. The list is long, and out of respect for these pool souls, I shall not mention their names.
This latest one, I admit, left me, for a while, in emotional limbo. Because despite the warning signs, I trodded past the barriers and made myself as vulnerable. And in the end, it was I who needed salvation.
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