Flashback…
Remember the time you were 13, in cute little shorts and blue shirt, sitting on the first bench, bright-eyed, black-haired, listening enraptured to your very first crush. Oh! My dearest OCD, I am sure you remember that time quite well. I am even sure you sometimes fantasize jumping up from that rickety shit of a bench into the arms of that beautiful Goddess, divine, crush incarnate and fall into spasms of giggles, considering you are lack basic instincts to be doing anything more than snorting like a pig.
Well, my intention here is to not remind you of them beautiful times which I am sure you have relived so many times even the memories are too scared of finding its way back into your filthy little under-nutritioned head. My aim, specifically, is to remind you of that question you had sniggered at like a smarty-ass-pants, that one fateful day.
"So what do you kids want to be when you grow up."
"Doctor."
"Engineer."
"Pilot."
Even Mr. India and barber had popped up somewhere. But none of you shitheads had said teacher, but who knew half of you would turn out to be just that.
I never want to do this, you know OCD, but most of the times you just leave me no choice, no freaking crack on the wall that I can breathe through. You are perfection, perfection in all the ways that are so offensive to me, I want jump from the sky every time I hear you talking. But you know what I have made my peace, finally. I tried to be good to you, kind also; I tried to lend you my ear, when it was hurting so bad it felt as if it would split, I gave you the shoulder so you could cry your miserable snitchy tears on even though my back hurt like hell of carrying all the pent up emotions.
I tried to help you too, so forgive my insolent phrases. I tried to shout it out to you, I tried to tell you nicely, but you, you stupid ass think you know everything and that I am so stupid I wouldn't even understand if I wanted to piss.
But at the end of each of those painful days, I always thought you were an arrogant, egoistic ass. It never crossed my mind you were pathetic, so pathetic to the core that even shit would bow before you. I regret trying to even make myself heard and not realizing that people like you are so thick skinned and so full of crap that even the loudest noise could hardly move a hair on your head.
Just yesterday you came up with some very new idea of proving to the world you are nothing less than a genius and that is why this blog post found its way into my head and on to the keyboard, which might disintegrate I am typing so hard.
I have never been so disturbed to hear my phone beep for a new text.
<Hey. I'm so happy 4 u. i wanna meat u soon ok>
<Well, honey, I'd like to 'meat' you too, but they'd put me in jail for that> I typed, and then realized that this was a futile job. Some people just don't seem to understand. Or even try to do so.
They should have a Nobel Prize for standing shit. By shit, I mean actual 'fresh out of nowhere ape-shit'.
The other day, OCD called me just before I'm about to sleep.
'Dude, I think W likes me'
'Oh. Does she know she likes you?'
'No. She does not.'
<awkward pause>
'But my tailor does. My tailor says she is into me'
'Dude. Did you check? Maybe your tailor is into you. Curves and dimensions, you know, and the fact that you have been blessed with man-boobs. I have heard somewhere that tailors of both sexes have cross-dressing fantasies. How old is your tailor anyway? How does she know W?'
'Well, she is like 45-ish. She does not know W. But she knows me. People think they know me, but they don't, you know. I know everything. Dude, she is so into me!'
'Fine, fine. What is the problem then?'
'She does not know that she craves me you know, like real bad.'
'Dude dude dude. Are you sure you are talking about an actual human? I mean, someone who can think, and walk, and talk?'
'Well, depends. Inceptions differ, you know.'
'Yeah yeah. Good luck dude' (I wish they invent some contraception for the conceptions of your inceptions.
And so goes the story. Some town far away, a middle-aged, "I have nothing better to do in life" woman listens to whatever you have to say to her. You are her only source of information. She magically decides that W is madly, deeply and hopelessly in love with you. Wow dude. Wow. Call me a snob, but seriously? You believe everything a middle-aged woman tells you about a person she has never met, let alone interacted with? We live in an age where 'daddy issues' and 'milf obsessions' are trending topics among schoolboys and schoolgirls respectively. Why would you even tell her stuff like that? I'm pretty sure it takes only one-tenth of the same courage to ball up and ask the girl directly if she is 'into' you, or 'all over you', or whatever.
Let us leave your courage aside for a moment. You must have fainted the first time you had a boner.
O great mysterious mystic woman! Let us consult you!
And you ask me why I have pent up emotions… At least I have told you I hate you, you have nothing better to do than to speak behind people's backs or ask some middle aged bitch about advice on fucking. I wish someday someone kicks you so you can find your own voice, and by own I mean own.
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