one may be lonely, but five is just ugly

May 19, 2013

Once upon a time there was a girl, and she lived in a house in toronto with her husband and her cats, her hoops and her dead dolls in coffins.

She had a computer.  She had a keyboard for this computer, and she had hands.

She used the fingers of these hands to type and create a blog because she liked to write; not about anything in particular,  not about anything that she thought others would care about, and not because she thought she was particularly good at writing, but because she liked the feel of a pen gliding across paper or her fingers pressing gently down on keys.  She liked to watch the paper, or the screen, fill with words and since her babbling capabilities could go on ad infinitum, she could look at  what was previously blank and feel she had actually accomplished something.

Mostly, the girl wrote about random musings from her life and her mind. She wrote about spaceships and strange little snowmen appearing from nowhere; about mermaids and cat vomit and time spent with her belly dancer friends.  And she wrote about her dreams.  Not the big dreams about life, the little dreams that take place while you sleep that are mostly about shoes.

Occasionally, the posts became a little more serious for the girl and she struggled with this as she really only wanted the world to see the quirky crazy, the if-someone-had-a-really-big-butterfly-net-she-might-be-in-trouble-crazy.  She could accept this part of herself and even choose to revel in it, but the dark, cavernous, pit of despair kind of crazy was another aspect completely.  One she not only wanted to be able to hide from the world, but also from herself.  For the girl had a problem with the wiring in her brain and despite her best efforts, she could not control this.

In fact, her wallowing, oh-woe-is-me capabilities were second only to her babbling ones and when these combined with messed up synapses, it became a very potent, self-destructive cocktail.  No pretty drink umbrellas to be found.

So why does all of this matter?  What is the purpose of this story here?

Well, the clever reader would notice that it has been well over a month since the girl last wrote.

You see, while there is no specific happily ever after ending to this story, the girl did come to realize that there was a benefit to sharing more than just the stories of her attempts to sabotage her husband; that sharing the dark moments openly and honestly as part of who she is has had some cathartic benefits for herself and occasionally has also helped others.  Yet despite this knowledge she once again forgot this.  She stopped writing and the longer she let it go, the harder it has been for her to come back. She also noticed that this would be her fiftieth post and let that intimidate her.

Having not written for so long she felt that her come back at the fifty mark should be witty and brilliant, but as nothing in her life or her mind was providing such fodder, she waited.  Of course the longer she waited, the more amazing the post would have to be and a vicious circle formed.

However, the girl fought back.  She pushed against her self sabotaging behaviour, accepted non-brilliance and finally wrote something down.  So while her journey and struggles are far from over, she did have a small moment of triumph.

Of course, there is the possibility that all this above is just a big steaming pile of poo and that it is simply her dislike of the number five that she has been avoiding.

The girl thoroughly detests the number.  She finds it ugly written out (five) and even more hideous in numeric form (5).  And the sound of anything containing the number, well, it’s kind of like taking the above mentioned pile of poo and putting it in your mouth.  Disgusting.

She’s been known to lie about her age, but only when there is a 5 at the end.


There’s a slight possibility that the time spent over the last month trying to (unsuccessfully) banish the number from existence may have left little room for writing. And that, while the brain wiring issues may be true, it’s also possible that in the end, it was the paste eating kind of crazy that got in the way.

I guess only the girl knows for sure.




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