Although I am in love with creative nonfiction, I have always wanted to give short stories a go. This is an interesting list-

http://interestingliterature.com/2017/02/08/seven-of-the-best-modernist-short-stories-everyone-should-read/

http://thoughtcatalog.com/lauren-jarvis-gibson/2017/02/this-is-why-you-need-to-let-him-go/

He called me crazy. Now, I couldn’t agree more.

I let myself tremble at the thought of him with someone else. Following eleven months (and counting) of devastating struggle and distance, I figured that my temporary insanity has been quite a sane response.

He called me crazy. Now, I couldn’t agree more.

Because fear is the heart of love, betrayal – even just the slightest thought of it – has been so threatening. Distance has been so consuming. Paranoia, absolutely life-altering.

Did he actively try to avoid speaking to me online? Did I just sense the nervousness from his voice as he scrambled for every possible excuse as to why he can’t provide me with the time I go beyond for to give? Am I not worth the sacrifice of a lifestyle he isn’t really supposed to be living in the first place? Does his friends really matter more?

It’s all wrong. I started to feel embarrassed for letting this one person get away with disrespecting me so fully. I got angry at myself for constantly letting it happen – that giving of so much of power to someone who won’t seem to take me seriously or see me worthy of his attention and understanding.

My willingness to put up with more than I normally would when I’m not emotionally invested and involved has been stunning. It seemed never-ending until I found myself unknowingly able to twist the game of perspective, transforming it from my worst enemy to my most favorable ally.

How did I actually do it? Well, I didn’t – I got exhausted. One time, for reals.

Imagine putting up with resentment day in and day out for eleven months. It took a toll on both my body and soul – so tough on my health and rough on my spirit. Anger, paranoia, betrayal, and resentment imprisoned me from real joy in every aspect of my life that I withdrew myself from what seems to have been killing me.

The withdrawal occurred in phases he would not have failed to notice (had he really been in love with me). When the final straw has been drawn, it hit me hard. It shook my world that I’ve grown stronger, strong enough that saw what a waste I have been!

My mistake or the rain’s, I thank the heavens for now I know. I only have one go-around.

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Dear Daddy

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When I was five, I believed you were a superhero and the best in everything you did. You had my world revolving around gaining every single bit of attention I could get from the awesome you. Damn, I was punned.

You were the best musician-bass guitar player, amazing badass tattoos, wonderful singing voice. A rock star! Hey, you were a good cook, too. To top it off, you were the best driver and car salesman in the world. Everybody said you looked good and were so young to father a child – you had them all believing you had me at eighteen when you did when Mom was seventeen and you, well, twenty-two (or three?).

See, you got to be proud your baby grew up pretty smart and figured things in a different light. I saw and followed the beam called reality that is beyond your fantasy world. You took me to your beer-drinking sessions when I was barely four. You hopped from job to job because of negligence and-see, the real adults, they call it laziness and irresponsibility.

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Daddy, three-y/o me, and glass of beer

I used to feel horrible for having been born out of wedlock and to be coming from a broken family, with my parents so young and separated. I perfectly recall each of them girls you brought home to Grandmama’s house (because you never really had your own place). At least three of them’s a Cathy – but, I specifically recall the bitchiest Cathy with whom you did drugs with. I was seven at the time she was your chic and when I called to say I missed you, you said to me:

Honey, listen. Never call this house again.

“Why, Daddy?”

Because I said so.

Wow. I am not being emotional or remorseful – please don’t get me wrong. Those words broke the seven-year-old girl, sure. But, they also made the woman I am today. Thanks to you, I grew up tough and brave.

I have to say great choice on my Mommy, though. While she never emphasized, I grew up to recognize she was beautiful, strong, and just naive when you had her. She learned, too. We both did and we both fought.

These days, you call me a lot and as I am not to upset Mommy. I pick up, be polite as she taught me. But, Daddy, I got to admit it felt terrific when we last talked –

Baby, I miss you. Will you meet me, at least?

“I am sorry, Daddy. I am terribly busy.”

Forgive me if I was a jerk or if I have never been a good father.

“Wow. You knew that? Holy macaroni. I need a drink. Will you buy me a beer?”

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Me and Daddy, 2016. In good terms. What does one get out of anger?

Recognize.

Art: Solitude and Discovery

When I was a child, the adults said I was good in drawing and art. Looking back, I remember how I made pretty neat stuff (puppets, paper dolls, shoebox houses, and popsicle stick fences). As I went to school and met kids who were doing better at it, I got scared. I felt behind and discouraged and limited. Anyway, wrong attitude. Moving on…

Just recently, I broke up with my boyfriend and thought I needed to work on my self discovery. Hence, my attempt to revive this blog and search for the artist in me (among many other things I have been fighting for as part of the change I am eager to attain).

I ran to a store, purchased tools (chalk pastels, charcoal, a sketchbook, some pencils), and worked on a few pages. I know that the output don’t even measure, but the effort I put into each of it made me feel great. Guess what? It’s the process that counts. The relief, the strange joy, and the solitude while I have been working on each was inexplicably fulfilling.

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Chalk Pastels

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Colored Pencils & Some Soluble Graphite

While I have certainly commited myself on deciding which sort of art journal to have and maintain, I don’t feel the rush. I call these days (or months) to come part of my discovery not of where I am good at, but of where I am happiest with in terms of medium and styles for my art. Today, the style is random and the pressure is off.

Disclaimer: Now I know that this is supposed to be a ‘photo’ challenge. But, I decided to take it for my art. Why not, right? Solitude

Heartbreak, Drama, and Lady Gaga

When I started this blog, I was like you and your boyfriend—excited. Hell, very enthusiastic and eager to keep it filled with awesomeness that screams and says, ‘hey, my life is amazing!’

But, hell no, it’s not. At least, not everyday. The past year has been particularly difficult. 2016 is the winner of ‘the greatest transition award’ of my life (so far) where I had to go through a whole new world where I have expected a hundred thousand dreams to see…all after eight years of pseudo-independence. To spill the beans and keep you kind of engaged (because, hey, I can be an attention whore sometimes, too – right?), the issue is that I left my Alladin behind. Don’t roll your eyes ‘coz this is another break-up story.
From 2008, I have lived away from my family. That was when I started college and thought I was too smart. Damn, I have been an idiot. I can either ignite you with rage or bore you to death with countless stories of my life-ruining escapadesthat no one the hell in my family found out about. Ever. Because I was a spy, just like that.

The thing is, I am part of the mob. I am mafia, badass. Bam!

Lie. Well, I guess my trend explains the name I picked for the site. I sugarcoat a lot and I would bet my ass you do, too – maybe not as much as I(?) See, I said sugarcoat when I actually meant I have been a liar – a very, very deceitful one. But, we all sugarcoat and this can be a ‘fun’ problem with people. And, like too much of all things fun, it turns to ‘bad’ and, the next thing you’ll feel is the ricochet that hit your bottom.

I mean, you might love it if you’re Goddamn gay, who knows? Okay, shut up, judgmental you – I love my gay friends and we joke a lot. I was serious, though.

Lie. For days, I have been trying to come up with a pseudonym. “Dear Sugar” or “Hey Honey” sort of thing to communicate as so you don’t figure out who the hell this crazy, ranting person is. I also imagined cute thumbnails of cats or penguins or piglets – you know, to go with my sugar or honey or bumblebee. But, why would I hide behind a cat when I can be annoying being me, and not an orange?

Life is not cotton candy. It’s difficult, a struggle, and a journey. For resilience and freedom of my soul’s sakes, I want to be out—transparent and honest for the first time in my life.

I have been enduring crap and I know I am yet to endure more crap. Chil, you will, too~ *winks*

Here’s a sample. I saw myself starting this project of a wonderful ’30 days of stories’ prompt I found two years ago. Must I say yay because I stopped at day two? Sure. Zero consistency, very unreliable, horrible work ethic, blablabla.

Lie. No way. For years, I punished and blamed my self for how things turn out and how life failed. To be how my (recent ex)boyfriend, my family, and the society have envisioned has been all that mattered. Then, it hit me like whiskey. After having had too much – as I hope it does for you as well – I understood that I buy my shit, and I pay for my choices after all!

I am not proud of shit, don’t get me wrong. But, it’s my shit. I did it and I have the option to watch it float and disgust myself or I could flush it down the drain and forget about it. I may even choose not to not look at it before I let it go because tomorrow I will shit again. With the right food choices, it must feel easier. Besides, I got better things to do.

Truth. Thus, I apologize to me and I forgive me.

2017 is the year where I should stop being hard on myself. It is my year of discovery and truthfulness. I invite you to journey with me, wherever and whoever you are, my faraway and lost soul sister in heartbreak, drama, and Lady Gaga (admit it).

Let’s get out and don who we are. Let us stain ‘em all haters with red lisptick like we just found out we’re the bosses of us. Without doing harm to anyone, but bringing joy to those we love. Without inflicting pain on ourselves, but fueling our very desires.

So long, old me! I am out. When will you be?