Punctuality

I feel as though my soul has taken off its shoes and I sit on the side of the river feeling the waves between my toes. Its a cold feeling. I kind of want to jump in and forget everything.

Lets just say, this week was rough.

Rough doesn’t cut it; this week was brutal.

Brutal as in I feel as if I have bruises from the difficulty of this week.

One of my many “very easily butthurt” incidents always deals with time. Punctuality and reliability. Those are things I was always raised on.

I was told that I was unreliable today. That I often said things and never showed up.

I was told that my bosses would hear about this.

Few agree with this particular individual. But one thing is for certain: he hit home. If he wanted to hurt me he finally found the way.

I don’t know, at the moment I’m trying to remember all of the favors and volunteering that I showed up for. And those I didn’t show up for – with reasons. And I’m trying to pinpoint more than once where I deviated from my word.

Perhaps I’m biased, perhaps I am wrong in my ideas where I always was punctual, was always reliable.

That and mix in a guy. Another one. This one who made me smile, made me laugh and made me hate him in one swell move.

“Nothings worse than a boy you hate than a boy you love.” Markus Zusak.

I feel the fictional water flowing through my toes, my body turns back to reality where I’m sitting, cross-legged on my mattress, fuming about something that really shouldn’t matter to me.

Who cares what the man who thinks I’m unreliable thinks. Who cares that everybody else has a deviating opinion from him.
Who cares that the man who told me he loved me multiple times but told himself he was no good for me kissed another girl and sent me a text message.

I stress myself out by caring too much what others think of me. And that will be my downfall.

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