Polite
Dear Fuckface,
No, I am not interested in what the world has to say about me (although all of my self doubt stems from “what will people think”). No, I am not bothered that people will “get the wrong idea” with me driving a small car. And I am especially not concerned that I don’t have the resources to be a society lady, mostly because I’m not interested in being a society lady.
It doesn’t matter that I’m not rich. I doesn’t matter that I sometimes have to deny myself a night out because I don’t have the money to spend. It doesn’t matter that I have to go over my finances every single night, or that literally every rupee has to add up. It doesn’t matter that I oftentimes feel 55, balancing all the different factors I have to. And it doesn’t even matter that it furrows my forehead as I sleep.
What does matter is that all of it is mine. Only mine. I haven’t had any help getting any of it, and I have worked fucking hard to get every tiny atom of what I own. Long days, longer nights, and most often, weekends too. But that doesn’t matter. I would rather have my one small item that is the satisfying result of sweat and toil, than two kazillion things that my mommy bought me.
Right now, I have happiness. I have contentment. I have satisfaction. I have a loving family (too far from me), a bunch of awesome friends, and most importantly, the beginnings of belief in myself. Luckily for me, I have not too much faith in materialism. Fortunately also, I have no time (or patience) for judgment from a sorry sod.
So instead of passing opinionated crudities that stem from an incomplete evaluation of someone who doesn’t even care half a hoot for you, how about you try something new for a change? Try taking a good, hard, long look at your pathetic, penniless, dismal self, and evaluating that instead. Attempt partying with your own money, instead of with pocket money from mamma, and in the process, try teetotalism for good measure. Make a list of things that YOU have bought your mom, and a list of things YOU have bought yourself, you shit-faced cork-sucker. And for god’s sake, get a life of your own, instead of even wringing out even the little that your mom has left in her – you’ll be demanding her nipple day after tomorrow, at this rate. And no, don’t expect that it will be laced with alcohol.
Tomorrow, when your whiskey/rum/vodka tinted glasses are off, try not to cry when your reflection sniggers at you and spits in your face. Seven years ago, when you were my age, you didn’t think you were going to end up quite so tightly wound in your mother’s dupatta, did you, you warty wretch? I mean, if you had to nuzzle closer to someone tighter, wouldn’t it have helped you if you had tried kissing ass at work instead? Now your poor mom (who loves you to death anyway) is saddled with her beautiful, spoilt, single, loser son, who reports in at work, to people five years younger than him.
And that, you pimple-faced, ugly, miserable, two-bit sonofabitch, is more a mark of (lack of) success than my small car is.
Sincerely,
Reveur.
posted by La Eposa @ 6:17 PM
