Much mess

There are two ways in which people deal with their problems. One, they face their problems and do something about them; two, they whine about them. I happen to belong to the cadre of people that believes in the latter ideology. I derive unexplainable pleasure from complaining, protesting and moaning about…Let’s say just about everything.

 And for good reason. For starters, I feel like an old woman owing to the premature whitening of my hair when I’m only 18. And they’re so noticeable because they’re so prominently placed, right over my forehead. I’m all for ageing gracefully and all but hello, too soon!

Now, I know that teenage comes with lots of its problems, even when it’s about to end, the most gruesome being- pimples. Every girl’s nightmare. Imagine this- you wake up one morning, and as you brush your teeth, something in the mirror catches your eye. A big fat pimple that sits so comfortably right on your…lip. That’s right. Who in the world gets a pimple on their freaking lip? Let me tell you who- I do. What’s worse than a pimple on the lip? The distorted, badly applied appearance of the lipstick I might use, thanks to the pimple. I was huffing and puffing around like an angry dragon until it finally went away.

I have major self-esteem issues. And they’re the weird kind. The kind where I like myself but I assume others don’t and they have no reason to think otherwise. And what do I do to improve them? Nothing, nada. Instead, I tell everyone I have them and enjoy being the object of all their fussing and adoration. I kind of like that. The world revolving around me, I mean. But let’s face it, what woman doesn’t?

This hasn’t been clinically detected or anything but I think I may have ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder) and OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). With respect to the ADHD, I can get my best friends to give testimonies about how I would be talking about their broken hearts one moment and wondering why cows don’t fly, the other. Or atleast something on those lines. As far as the OCD goes, ever since I was a little girl, like really little, I would count my steps. And count the number of stairs I climb. I would also ALWAYS begin walking with my left foot and would want to end it on my right. Now I count in 4’s. Because I like 4. It’s a brilliant, perfect squared number. I also like 8 and 16, but mostly 4. Somehow, these things make me believe that there’s peace in the world. That if I don’t start walking with my left and end with my right and if I don’t count everything in 4’s, there wouldn’t be stability and symmetry. Like everything would become meaningless and futile. Don’t even get me started on floors with checked tiles; it’s my symmetry OCD ailed brain’s worst nightmare.

What was the point of this entire post, you say? Nothing, I just enjoy whining like I mentioned previously.

Traalalala, that’s all for today.

Signing out x