pleased as punch (punch stab stab)

Here's how the majority of my posts sound: "The weight of the world is pressing down on me. I am going to beat around the bush for a paragraph. I will sound like a cheap imitation of Sylvia Plath now. Here is a picture of a cat wearing a sailor hat. I love you guys."

Yeah. So here's another one of those posts. When you've found your niche, you stick with it.

I grew up with "no guile." Or so my mom says. I always secretly liked that about me. I am truly a nice person. I promise. But lately I have just felt hatred towards a particular person. For those of you "in the know," you probably have a pretty good idea as to whom I am talking about. Whom? Who? Whom cares. Anyway, I know there are meditations out there that could help me get over this hatred and into some kind of a compassionate mindset. But I don't care. I can't "go there" yet. I don't want to wallow in this hatred... Right? I shouldn't give this person the satisfaction of knowing how much they affect me. (I've been using a lot of contractions in this post. Oh god. I hate the word "contractions" for reasons not mentioned, but related to this person. Forget it.)

Okay, so forget it already, Meghan. But the funny thing is, I haven't even begun to know it yet. Sure, my mind thinks I know (note: most confusing sentence so far), but I probably don't. Does it want to know? Does it want to know that her eyes are his eyes? Does it want to know how often and when? Does it want to know the crummy details? Does it want to tell itself it's all okay and that it should be an adult and that it should be and should not be and should always be? I can't remember a time when I have called her a "she" and not an "it." It never happened. What if?

So I will smile for you. I will wear goofy glasses and press my nose to your ear and talk about the things that make you laugh. I will do everything I normally do, even more normally than usual. Normal normal normal. It's me, I'm happy I'm agreeable I'm tickled pink I can't complain.

My blog would prove otherwise, you might say.

But these aren't complaints. They are pleas. They are dead ends. They are masks waiting for some kind of expression.

Help me forget.