Men are like bags. Eye candy. I get that rush of wanting when I see a new one. I simply MUST have him it. Each one has it’s own personality, it’s own function, it’s own story. I always surprise myself at how much I’ve amassed and moan that I didn’t even get to take all of them out for a spin.
I could go crazy for a while, obsessing over that new man bag. What I really hated the most, however, was that with every acquisition, I start to build my life wardrobe around him it. All that constant fussing, the constant update; if He it could be perfect for this party I’ll be attending, or if it’s the right shade of pink that will go well this new pair of Louboutins I got online (which has been patiently waiting for its perfect match). They are useful for a while, and after a short infatuation with it, they are carefully wrapped and tucked away to my bag closet, and will patiently wait to be remembered. The bag has finally faded into obscurity.
And so, every couple of weeks or so, I unearth everything from my closet and review my bag collection. Every time I get a new one, I have to rid of an old one to make room. I can only keep just as many (or at least what my heart closet allows me to). My rule is to let go of the bag that hasn’t been used for two months. That must mean I don’t even remember having it. Nor obsess thinking the perfect outfit with it when I use it the next day. No more planning weddings outfits.
And this past few weeks, I have been purging like crazy, ridding myself of unnecessary feelings clutter. There are too many of these men bags that I kept flitting here and there but never really learned to appreciate the beauty and function of each one of them. And so, I decided on which ones to keep. It was a very long and painful process; I lovingly caressed the satin linings and examined closely the monogrammed leather, thoroughly evaluating and justifying if I should keep him it, not wanting to regret that should the right dress, heels or occasion come, he’s it’s no longer there to complete me the ensemble.
Needless to say, it hurt. I’ve invested so much on these men bags that I’m not even sure if I’m getting what they’re worth, or at least claim to be. I’ve been in a buying frenzy for the past year, only to realise that I don’t even know what I want in the first place. Some of them are so intricate and complicated pretty to look at that I didn’t even want to use it, thinking that I didn’t have the right dress or heels for it yet. In my insecurity inadequacy, they have become useless.
But it had to be done. It’s all about me now and liberating myself from the unnecessary. I’ve never really focused on what I want and what I really needed that I thought I needed every man bag that came my way. I always reasoned that I will eventually use them at some point. You know, the just-in-case’s. But it turned out to be a mere quick fix, a quick high to fill that void called emptiness closet space.
And I’ve never felt so light. All that excess baggage just had to go.
Expectations
You know you are not yourself when you end up doing things that are unexpected of you, and having people calling your attention because of it. Case in point: this blog and my latest entries. Some SMSed and called me even, to ask why I’ve been writing, or in this case, haven’t been writing. I’ve been questioned about the authenticity of my entries as well. Oh please. I even credit the pictures I post here! Come now, I’m not that stupid. Anyway, my readers need to learn a thing or two, and this is my space, I can write my entries as lengthy as I want them to be. You can’t tell me what to write, or long I should write it. If you’ve got ADD, then it’s not my fucking problem. Go, leave, and stop coming back.
I’ve also got a serial comment-er/or (whatever) hounding almost each and every entry there is and left me some terribly, terribly bitter comments. Thing is, these comments, while derogatory and I’m sure were intended to piss me off, did not bother me at all. Surely by now I’m used to these things. I only got miffed when he corrected me on “light black”. I agree with you, it is definitely NOT a color, nor there are such words used in a string, so why the hell would I even use that? What’s worse, it’s not even written or used in that particular entry. Are you blind, bitter man? Surely you were referring to another blog?
Anyway, I thought of putting up a static disclaimer in consideration of those who come stumbling here, hoping to read some smut. I am, “The Bitch Goddess” after all, and its expected that I should be writing about really racy, exciting sexual accounts. So you’re disappointed I’m not Abby Lee. Does it mean because I don’t write about my encounters I’m a “half-baked” bitch? It’s not always about having sex beyond the borders of what is normal, usual, ordinary, you know. In my case, it is my state of mind, an attitude. In-your-face. Paris’ studded tank top illustrates it better.
To those who have been following me faithfully, by now you’ve noticed that I’ve never written anything close to erotica (‘cept one lousy poem in the past) and should have figured that I never will. And especially about my sexual encounters. Why is this? Well, as much as possible, I want to keep this blog as literary as I can while maintaining to leave out accounts of my sexual encounters, which is, surprising as it may sound to you, quite personal to me, no matter how random. I’m almost stripped bare here, with my soul out in the open, available for hounds to feed on me, so please, stop expecting. There’s an abundance of trash out there for you to feast on, go ahead and indulge yourself.
My patience and understanding is running thin, so don’t mess with me. Unfortunately, I’m not hard core right now. The reason why my entries are such lately is because I don’t want to write about what’s going on with me. In fact, I’ve driven away each and everyone who seemed to care for me. Somehow, them being around just wont do anymore. They can’t give me anything I need. And this fragile vulnerability is fucking me up. So, really, I don’t need your crap right now.