FEATURED POST: Thought Catalogue

I first got introduced to Thought Catalogue by a friend of mine. He felt it was something I would like and he was right. I didn't read it only up until yesterday. I was having one of those slow Saturdays. You know the type that make  you feel like a potato with absolutely nothing to do. Thankfully, I remember that he had sent me a link to it in my Facebook inbox. Thus, my Saturday was restored! Lol.

One post in particular stroke a chord in me. I didn't know just how I felt about it. Funny enough, I still don't know. Anyway, here's it is....

http://thoughtcatalog.com/elle-jones/2014/03/why-did-you-even-text-me/#7mkZz8m4CRXd3Imz.01

Why Did You Even Text Me?

MAR. 28, 2014 By ELLE JONES

You text me at 2 AM. I’m already in bed with another guy. Still, the sight of your name on the screen of my phone is enough to jumpstart my heart in a way that he never could. You ask me to come over. I ask if that is a good idea. You respond that it is—that you’re single now. That has my attention. I don’t even bother to ask how recent this development is. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t been waiting for this moment since the day you started dating her. I never understood why you were with her in the first place, why you weren’t with me. We have so much in common. You get me in a way that no one else does—or at least that’s how it felt, right off the bat—and I’d like to think that I get you too.

So this news that you’re single now, coming to me on a Thursday night at 2 AM, has me creeping out of bed and putting my clothes back on, nervously checking over my shoulder that this other guy, the guy who is filling the space in my bed where you haven’t been in months, is still asleep. He is. Looking at him I feel nothing but regret now. I leave my apartment, closing the door as quietly as possible, walk down the long hallway to the front of my building and emerge into the freezing air. My hands shake from cold and nerves and excitement as I try to light my cigarette.

It’s only a short walk over to where you live, maybe 30 seconds. I’m there before my feet have time to get cold, before my cigarette is even halfway done. I walk up the stairs to your apartment and slip inside. Next thing I know I’m standing in your room and you’re undressing me, kissing me like you never have before, like I’m a huge breath of air after being underwater longer than you should. You carry me over to your bed.

It’s amazing. At least it is for me. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be with you, like my skin is on fire, like I’m finally home again, like everything in the universe is exactly where it should be. I haven’t let myself feel this way in a long, long time, so I’m not sure I remember: is this love?

Afterwards we lay there in your bed—my head on your chest, you arm around me, stroking my back—and we just talk. About anything, about everything. I’m not someone who is great at talking to people, but you make it seem easier than breathing. We talk until after 5 AM when you finally fall asleep. I have class in the morning, so I have to get up and leave, and it breaks my heart. I would stay here forever with you if I could. I try to be as quiet as possible, but part of me hopes that you’ll wake anyway, so I can get one more kiss goodbye. But you don’t wake up and before long I’m back at my apartment. I sleep on a chair in the living room because going back to my bed and sleeping next to him, this other guy, could never compare to what just happened between us.

Now it’s Saturday, two days later. It’s a beautiful day out, the best we’ve had in months, and I’m at a day party. There are maybe two hundred drunken people here, it’s chaos, but even through the sea of St. Patrick’s green I see you almost right away. I’m about to come over and say hi, but then I see her standing next you. She’s hard to miss, she really is beautiful. She walks away from you as I watch, and I think to myself that maybe she just came over to pick a fight with you. That could be possible, I tell myself. But I already know. And an hour or two later I see you walk off, holding her hand. It’s maybe the least affectionate gesture of any, but it takes all the wind out of me, because I know what it means. I want to sit down right there where I’m standing, but the party is still in full swing all around me. That’s probably the hardest part—having to put a smile on my face and pretend I’m having a great time for the next 20 minutes, until my friend finds me and says she’s ready to go.

On the walk back to our apartment I tell her what I saw, and being the good friend that she is, she immediately calls you a dick and tells me I deserve better than you. Is that true? I don’t think you’re a dick. Deep down I think maybe you’re just damaged like I am, fucked up beyond repair.  I can understand it, which is why I think we would fit so well.

But what you did was shady, there’s no denying it. Were you even broken up, or was that a lie? Why did you even text me? What did you want—whatdo you want—from me?  Were you thinking about her when you fucked me? When you held me? Did it make you feel anything like it did for me? Or were you just using me, because you needed to feel better about yourself, and because I was close by and you knew I would come over?  What gives you the right to treat people this way? Does she know what you did that night?

I don’t think you meant to hurt me—quite frankly I don’t think you took my feelings into account at all, which may be the worst part. You only thought about yourself. You were beyond selfish that night. And now, what am I left with? I’m mad. I’m mad at you, and madder at myself. Because you did hurt me, and I let you. I do have feelings. Feelings in the larger sense most definitely, because I’m a person just like any other, but feelings for you, too. Because I love you. I have for a long time now—more than a year, maybe more than two years. I loved you from the first time that we had sex, but I never told you. Like I said, I’m damaged. I was scared. I thought you were out of my league. But now I’m realizing, maybe I’m out of yours.

FEATURED POST: Everything Comes At A Cost

I once tried my luck at fictional writing. Boy oh boy, didn't I rack my brain that day. I came up with a decent story, so I think. Okay, it was fairly decent. I must say, I got a few good reviews but I don't think it's something I'll do too often. Anyway, today I'll share with you a really good post I read. I thought to myself it was to good to read and not share. So brace yourselves for the writings of Chipo B.

Before we get into that, I want to say this is an awesome story. If you want to read more of her work, you can check her blog THE CHRONICLES OF EVERY WOMAN; http://chroniclesofeverywoman.wordpress.com/.

....................................

 Everything Comes At A Cost

The shopping bags hit the floor the moment Cynthia entered the door.

She kicked off her Jimmy Choo’s and sighed with relief as she felt the blood rush back to her toes.

“Beauty knows no pain, my foot!” she grumbled as she bent over to pick up the load of shopping bags. She paid no mind to the weight of the load as she semi-limped to her bedroom. She threw the bags onto her bed and fell next to them. She felt her body cry out in delight as she hit the plush, silk covers that covered her king-size bed. She sighed as she allowed her body to rest. Shopping was no menial activity. She shook her head. It was work – hard work. She willed herself to get up before she dozed off – she couldn’t afford to fall asleep. She entered her bathroom and stopped to admire it. It had just been renovated and she loved it. The ebony and ivory theme she’d chosen looked much better in reality compared to the picture – and the picture looked amazing. She made a mental note to send Steve another “message of gratitude”. She smirked. It paid to have a close connection in the architecture industry. Especially a connection who was able to get a renowned interior designer to offer her services – free of charge. If it weren’t for Steve, she probably wouldn’t have found the amazing penthouse she was able to call her home.

Steve… she wondered. It really did pay off to have such a close connection.

She walked over to the favorite part of the bathroom – the large black and white pearl bowl in the center of the room that was her bathtub. She turned the gold taps and let the water run as she returned to the bedroom. She jumped onto the bed and reached for her handbag – Original Louis V of course. She smiled at her bag.

“Nothing less than the best!”

She pulled out several purses. She emptied each one and examined her phones. She picked up theiPhone and quickly typed a sweet message of gratitude to Steve. She added that they should meet up for drinks sometime soon. She chuckled. She doubted that his wife would approve. She rolled her eyes. These church-going, pretentious wives were all the same. She chose not to dwell on her thoughts. She paused to look at her newly-manicured nails. What a day it had been, she thought.

Her vibrating HTC reminded her that her day was far from over. She looked at the number on the screen – Tito. She slid her finger across the phone’s screen and answered the call.

“My sparkling gem,” he greeted. The sound of his gravelly voice made her smile.

“My big boss man,” she spoke like a lovesick teenager – she knew that was what he wanted to hear.

“Did you enjoy the outing today?” he asked.

“Yes I did,” she upped the pitch in her voice as she dragged her voice a little bit. Vulnerable. She needed to sound vulnerable.

“Thank you for spoiling me,” she simpered.

“Do you like what you got?” he asked. He was beyond chuffed. It was in his voice. She looked at the mountain of shopping bags.

“Yes I do,” she cooed. “I love every single thing!”

She could barely remember half the things she’d pulled off of the racks.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t drop you off myself,” he said, sounding guilty. “I had to…”

“I know,” she replied calmly. “Your wife needed you.”

“You understand right?” he asked. She rolled her eyes. Men always sound so tough until their weaknesses are exposed, she thought.

“Of course I understand, honey,” she said. She listened to him sigh with relief. “But I hope you haven’t called to cancel on me.”

“Of course not, angel!” he was very quick to assure her. He sounded so desperate; it was rather pathetic. Tito was a very successful man. But there he was begging for her approval. She wasn’t even his wife. But he sounded like he couldn’t afford to lose her. He wasn’t the first man to need her so much. She found it fascinating. The power she had over these men.

“Good,” she said. “Now I need to go and get pretty for you. I’ll see you later, honey.”

“Okay, angel,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

She ended the call and put her phone aside. She looked around the room. Nothing – from the Persian carpets on the floor to the Egyptian silk bed sheets she had – in the room was anything less than premium quality. Her life revolved around opulence – a lavish home, designer clothes, gourmet dining – the list was endless.

She remembered the days when she was a little girl. Her answer to every “What do you want to be when you grow up?” was “A Princess.” And she was a princess – to some extent. She was beautiful. She had her own castle. She had beautiful clothes. She had everything she wanted – two luxury cars, technology galore, enough accessories to supply a chain of stores…

She had everything.

She jumped off of the bed. The tub! She rushed to the bathroom but sighed with relief as she saw that the tub hadn’t overflowed. She removed her clothes and slid into the welcoming hot water. Her body shuddered as the heat worked on her muscles.

She thought of Tito. He was new to her. Well a new “client”. A new source of provision. She sighed. Everything came at a cost.

Women in her area – mainly uppity housewives – looked at her from afar and gave her the widest berth they could possibly give. She knew the names they called her.

“Prostitute.”

“Upperclass whore.”

“First Class Hussie.”

“Prime-time gold-digger.”

She smiled bitterly. Everything came at a cost. Yes, her lifestyle had been funded by wealthy – usually married – men. Yes, she gave them sex in exchange – but only when they required it. She knew what she was. Her “ways” were her own.

It all started when she was working as a PA for an esteemed CEO of a large insurance firm. They had an affair. He showered her with gifts and money in exchange for a listening ear. That’s all. Yes, they were intimate but all he ever wanted was what he never received from his wife – care. His wife was so into her life as a wealthy man’s wife, she neglected her husbands needs. Ironic. That’s how Cynthia got the job. His wife didn’t have time to keep his life in order, so she hired Cynthia to do that for her.

Cynthia’s natural ability to empathize and listen well made her hit it off with her boss. They became firm friends fast. His wife paid no mind. As long as her husband was happy, she was happy.

It was no surprise to both Cynthia and her boss when they ended up in a lover’s clinch one warm, summery night. That was their first moment. During their two year-long relationship, Cynthia knew that her boss would not leave his wife. She didn’t want him to leave his wife. She didn’t love him and she knew that he didn’t love her. He loved the attention and affection she gave him. The same affection and attention he craved to receive from his wife. The gifts and all of the money weren’t bribes. He never had to beg her to keep quiet. Confidentiality was an unspoken agreement. When they parted ways, he gave her a kiss on the forehead and said,

“Thank you for letting me see you as my wife. Thank you for filling the void she’s been failing to fill.”

That’s how it was with all of her “clients”. She was their temporary wife. Whatever they lacked in their marriage – they came to her. In return, they gave her gifts. They gave her money. They contributed to her life as a princess. Her family never asked questions – there were barely any family members to ask questions. Her father passed away when she was twelve – alcohol poisoning. Her mother lived with her younger sister in a quiet suburb in another city. Cynthia had demanded the house as payment from one of her “clients”. She sent them money every month. They asked no questions. She told no lies.

The men she’d helped saw her beauty first and they’d come to her to distract themselves from their failing marriages. But once they’d talked to her, their needs for her developed into something more emotional. Something more sincere. She smiled as she thought of how each man’s  ”tough guy” act would drop once she got to their core. Once she figured out what it was that was making them come to her. Everything she owned was a result of her hard work. She gave men compensation for the damage they received at the hands of their wives.

Their wives thought that as long as their husbands physical needs were met and they, the wives, still looked young and fabulous – then everything was fine. How wrong they were.

She thought of the anguished confessions she’d heard from “her” men. Their cries for attention. She’d seen their tears. She’d held them and rubbed their backs as they hurt and healed. She saw herself as an unorthodox therapist for men. She laughed when she thought of the judgmental housewives. They were busy mocking her but it’d only be a matter of time before their husbands were at her door, begging for her services.

She drained the water in the tub as she got out. She wrapped herself in a fluffy towel. Everything she’d sheen and heard pained her. It made her want to love her future husband so much in any and every way possible.

She winced at that forbidden thought. Everything came at a cost. What sensible man would accept her past? He wouldn’t see her as a ‘therapist’. He’d see her the same way the housewives did – as a money loving whore.

He wouldn’t laud her. He wouldn’t pat her on the back for “helping” all of those men. She sighed. Not every princess got her heart’s desire.

There were some clients that had fallen in love with her. They tried to propose to her but she’d turned them down firmly. She would not break a marriage. She sometimes regretted saying no, though. She sighed.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart did long for love too. For someone to call her own. She shook her head vigorously. She erased all ridiculous thoughts and looked at the bags on the bed. She’d bought a number of dresses. She’d wear one of them on her date with Tito.

Everything came at a cost.

This princess had to keep the ball rolling in her life – regardless of the cost.

FEATURED POST: Dont Judge Me

Today, I feature a friend of mine who opted to remain anonymous. This is what our anonymous blogger had to say:

Don’t Judge Me

More about nothing:

See, nowadays it’s hard to just be yourself around people because you're mortified  of what people might say or even think, okay mortified is too big a word let’s say maybe scared would be a better fit. Everyone has something to say about you, other things don’t even add up, one moment they are saying you don’t do much later you do too much and then again you are too average,  see confusing and crazy.

I have been called a player and mushy by the same person, see people are crazy!!. Those two things are not exactly adverse but they are not consistent either way. The reason I was called that was because I have  friends who are girls but are not my girlfriend and the reason I was called mushy was because I had expressed my feelings towards my girlfriend through picture I saw on the Internet (set that picture as my profile on one of my many social networks), the picture contained some touchy feely cliché stuff. See there is no way a person can be nothing and something at the same time, believe me if that was possible I would know about it, I love physics and anything science.

 All in all I guess what am trying to say is don’t go around making people change themselves because of what you think is best for them isn’t what they are, simply accept people because it’s not possible to know someone better than they know themselves.

 We are all trying to answer the question who am I? What are people’s perception of me? So we constantly drift from a path to path, testing the waters if we don’t like we move on it may be subconscious it may be conscious but it does happen. I do it you probably did it or still do it if you are fine and content with who you are that’s your limit stay there and let other people that have set there limitation bars somewhere above the clouds keep searching.

As 2014 creeps in, please say thanks to the good Lord because this is an awesome day and age to be alive. We have seen machines that talk to you, people that have mechanical limbs, free Internet music, and free Internet movies the list goes on. So before the year ends at least say thanks for one thing or everything. Merry Christmas and have a blessed new year.