(no subject)
Papa, I’m so sick of living for you. I don’t want to live for you. I want you to live for yourself. Tell me where to begin my life when you gave it to me yourself to handle and I can’t handle it properly. The mattress upon which you sleep is my earth.
Somewhere only we know, that’s the land of the Muppets. You always did love Kermit the Frog’s Rainbow Connection. I keep insistently sticking my ipod next to your ear. One of your ears, because the other was rotting because you were lying down for way too long and you got the ear version of bedsores. I don’t even know whether you can hear me, but I know when you hear it, you will know that I’m there.
You know when we were poor, we decided to go to Marche anyway? My mother was sitting there at me, beaming because she thought I had gotten my wish, she’s made her daughter happy, but truthfully I wasn’t. The potato wedges was stuck in my throat, I felt like crying and I hated the meal through and through. I hated the food I was eating, I wanted to spit it all out, return it to the pans, wishing fiercely for some form of time travel that I wished I never even told you of my desire to have lunch there. I was feeling so guilty because we were already so poor, but she insisted trying to make me happy because she knew I was so mad at being poor. And you ordered what? Fucking potato wedges. Out of all the fucking good food in the world, you ordered fucking potato wedges that you can just get at bloody KF fucking C. I don’t know what it was, and I feel guilty for that, but maybe I just think I lost that little bit of respect for you there. I thought you knew everything, that you were a man of the world, that you introduced me to the world of food, to steak, to diners that demanded the use of not wooden chopsticks for cheap noodles, but a classy silver pair of fork and knife. And then what? You order fucking potato wedges, a whole fucking plate that costs thirteen fucking dollars. A complete waste of money. I asked tremulously, why did you order that? You replied that you didn’t know what to order, that how would you know there was better food? You know, we didn’t even finish the wedges. Seeing that unfinished plate just made me angrier. We’re already so fucking poor, and we’re spending money on me who doesn’t deserve anything, and you ordered something that isn’t worth anything, that doesn’t reflect the true worth of what I always thought of you, my father. My mother was so happy, walking out of that diner, and all I could do was to fake it thank both of you cheerily and pretend that I was so full I wanted to sleep like a polar bear. But in truth all I wanted was to vomit, vomit out all the food, vomit out all the truth, vomit out the reality that I didn’t want to be in anymore.
I know everyone gets scared, but in truth, I’m not anymore. I’m not afraid that you’ll die, I think I’ve already lost you for two months. I’ve always tried to be grateful, I’ve spent so much time with you before you passed out, appreciating every moment. I’ve deliberately sat next to you while you slept, staring and memorizing your countenance, for a good twenty minutes, telling myself if anything happened, I want to remember your face, and everything about you. And it’s good that I did, because the next time when I really look upon you really sleeping, not passed out on some hospital bed, you’ve got a half your skull missing, looking like a misshapen man, the part of the brain that may not remember me anymore. But it doesn’t matter anymore, at least for now. I’ve loved what I could, though there’s probably more where that came from.
Papa, tell me when you’re going to let me in. Till then, I’ll just wait outside the hospital, livin’ that life that I’m unsure is mine or yours.
Somewhere only we know, that’s the land of the Muppets. You always did love Kermit the Frog’s Rainbow Connection. I keep insistently sticking my ipod next to your ear. One of your ears, because the other was rotting because you were lying down for way too long and you got the ear version of bedsores. I don’t even know whether you can hear me, but I know when you hear it, you will know that I’m there.
You know when we were poor, we decided to go to Marche anyway? My mother was sitting there at me, beaming because she thought I had gotten my wish, she’s made her daughter happy, but truthfully I wasn’t. The potato wedges was stuck in my throat, I felt like crying and I hated the meal through and through. I hated the food I was eating, I wanted to spit it all out, return it to the pans, wishing fiercely for some form of time travel that I wished I never even told you of my desire to have lunch there. I was feeling so guilty because we were already so poor, but she insisted trying to make me happy because she knew I was so mad at being poor. And you ordered what? Fucking potato wedges. Out of all the fucking good food in the world, you ordered fucking potato wedges that you can just get at bloody KF fucking C. I don’t know what it was, and I feel guilty for that, but maybe I just think I lost that little bit of respect for you there. I thought you knew everything, that you were a man of the world, that you introduced me to the world of food, to steak, to diners that demanded the use of not wooden chopsticks for cheap noodles, but a classy silver pair of fork and knife. And then what? You order fucking potato wedges, a whole fucking plate that costs thirteen fucking dollars. A complete waste of money. I asked tremulously, why did you order that? You replied that you didn’t know what to order, that how would you know there was better food? You know, we didn’t even finish the wedges. Seeing that unfinished plate just made me angrier. We’re already so fucking poor, and we’re spending money on me who doesn’t deserve anything, and you ordered something that isn’t worth anything, that doesn’t reflect the true worth of what I always thought of you, my father. My mother was so happy, walking out of that diner, and all I could do was to fake it thank both of you cheerily and pretend that I was so full I wanted to sleep like a polar bear. But in truth all I wanted was to vomit, vomit out all the food, vomit out all the truth, vomit out the reality that I didn’t want to be in anymore.
I know everyone gets scared, but in truth, I’m not anymore. I’m not afraid that you’ll die, I think I’ve already lost you for two months. I’ve always tried to be grateful, I’ve spent so much time with you before you passed out, appreciating every moment. I’ve deliberately sat next to you while you slept, staring and memorizing your countenance, for a good twenty minutes, telling myself if anything happened, I want to remember your face, and everything about you. And it’s good that I did, because the next time when I really look upon you really sleeping, not passed out on some hospital bed, you’ve got a half your skull missing, looking like a misshapen man, the part of the brain that may not remember me anymore. But it doesn’t matter anymore, at least for now. I’ve loved what I could, though there’s probably more where that came from.
Papa, tell me when you’re going to let me in. Till then, I’ll just wait outside the hospital, livin’ that life that I’m unsure is mine or yours.