Your Heart, Not Mine

I love breaking hearts. Not in some weird psychopath way though, it's more than psychotic. 

We all like to feel powerful. It's human nature.

I work in retail; my job simply consists of being submissive and pleasing others. I live with my mother. Therefore, my opinion on house topics, doesn't matter. Her favorite saying is "if you don't like it, there's the door". I look like a prepubescent boy with a little giggly-child smile. It's a feat if someone likes me. I'm not gorgeous and sexy and jaw dropping. I'm an awkward-cute, at best, also a Scorpio. I'm lanky and weird and I'm pretty much fine with everything about me. I've grown to love myself despite how fucked up I am (or how fucked up I like to think I am. Disturbed people are cooler, right?). The point is, I'm nothing special, far from it. 

If you've ever read Diary of an Oxygen Thief just know, I'm not like that. If you haven't read it, the author (someone who remains anonymous) writes about his affliction for breaking hearts. He seeks women and enjoys their undeniable pain. He puts on the facade that he loves them, that he cares for them, and then derives pleasure from their heartbreak. I don't. I enjoy the relationships. I grow genuine feelings for the person. I sabotage them however. I start off relaxed and easy and then over time become more and more manipulative. I show them a mold for something I paint as attainable, a mold they will never be able to fill. None of them will fit this mold, I shape it so they can't. I want to blame my Scorpio-ness, but being a Scorpio doesn't make you manipulative. Being a scorpio isn't making me sabotage my love life.

I like the begging and the "I love you"s. The feeling of being important, of mattering to someone, that validation that I have power. I have control over some aspect of my life, and even greater yet, some aspect of someone else's life. In the breakup moment, I am irrevocably wanted. It doesn't matter that I'm not curvy or a world renowned chef or a model. I, in all my awkward, pale, lanky average at best glory, am someones world. Its not about their pain or suffering, It's about me. I don't cheat or hurt them; I simply just out of the blue, end things. I blindside them when everything could be perfect. I do it because I know they'll come back, at least the first time. Because their self worth isn't developed yet, because they'll spend every waking moment thinking of me. Its days, weeks, months, and maybe even years that they will think. of me. I do it because I can justify being the one that taught them what love shouldn't be. 

We all feel it. It could be  raindrop of a tsunami, we all feel the power, validation, and feeling of being desired that accompanies a heartbreak. 

                                                                                                                           -Goober, July, 10, 2018


       The first time I truly thought I was a good writer was my freshman year of college. My roommate, at the time, told me I was. We were sitting on my bed. I was telling her about my final paper idea and how I wasn’t sure if I should take the risk. She looked down at her notebook and said “you’re a great writer, why wouldn’t you take the risk”. She said it nonchalantly, like it was a fact. She hadn’t even read anything I had written, yet I was so starved of reassurance and acceptance that I believed her. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t read anything, she just knew.

    In high school I had thought of myself as a decent writer; I was just smart. I could get an “A” on my essays writing them the period before they were due, but so could the other “smart kids”. I liked poetry but I tried too hard, or so I thought. Reading my poetry from high school makes me cringe but then again, that’s its appeal. 

    The first time I thought I had any talent was spring semester of 2018. I read my first piece at the first fiction workshop and was overwhelmed with positive feedback. I was accepted and reassured. I’m supposed to be here. In high school friends constantly picked on me for being a “poetry freak”. I never shared my poetry, except in class on reading days.  My friends made fun of me and my family never asked nor did I volunteer to share. After my first in class reading I was praised by my classmates for my ability. I was validated.

    In the first few weeks of the class, I, just like everyone else, picked a few people that I deemed “the good ones”. The writers who were born for this; they were destined to be in this class. Never in a million years did I think I would be someone else’s “good one”. I was ok with that, it didn’t matter if I was the best. I wanted to be here, so I was. I had just as much a right as they did. My favorite writer in the class stopped me after the creative nonfiction workshop and urged me to go into the writing world. My favorite writer in the class stopped me and pushed me to “not let my talent go to waste”. No fucking way. 

    That day came the realization that I am a writer and it doesn’t fucking matter what other people think. I am doing this. I hope.

                                                                                                                      -Goober, July, 1, 2018