My name is Astrid. And I'm a hopeless romantic. There it is, no excuses, no lies, only the bare truth. It’s quiet funny. I’ve always found it awfully weird and rather awkward when people said that putting yourself out there can make even the bravest man feel exposed, as in naked. But I get it now, and oh my god I can’t believe I just said that. Why can’t I just learn to shut up, it’s not like I’m forced to say anything I don’t want to.
And no, I can’t think the unthinkable, and you can’t either. It’s not like I wanted to say it. To be honest I didn’t really plan on saying anything at all. But for some reason the words had just stumbled out on their own. Like as if they were on some kind of fieldtrip to embarrassing town. It literally forced me to come up with something smart to say in a short amount of time. Cause no doubt there would be questions and lots of them. Evil words.
My name is John Doe. And I’m a something-aholic. That’s almost how it’s suppose to sound like when you confess a sinful behaviour in front of a group of fellow human beings, whom you really don’t have anything in common with other than all of you have problems that you either want to fix because you truly want to change but don’t have what it takes to make it happen. Or like me you were simply forced by your stupid parents to go to this ridiculous waste of time better known as a support group because you’ve been mobbing around in your hideous though comfortable pyjamas with some nonmatching worn-out leopard loafers and a loyal bucket of old fashion vanilla ice-cream for almost a year now. I know what you must be thinking of me. What a pathetic, spineless, looser I am. And maybe that’s true. But what’s even more sad is that my parents are convinced that by sending me to some kind of crazy woman (the counselling lady Wanda) who obviously also have some obstacles in her own life that she struggles with, automatically makes them good parents. Yeah, as if.
“Now that’s a good place to start my dear, tell me what’s the problem in that?” Wanda always spoke with an annoying calm voice and with a mild forgiving sight in her eyes, it really made me frustrated, because I felt flustered and vulnerable every time I looked at her. She seemed so put together, so perfect, like one of those Greek goddess statuettes in raw white marble that you see at the museum.
Wanda was a middle-aged woman, but she looked at least ten years younger than she was. Whenever I would have the courage to look at her, all my thoughts went numb but one. She must be photo shopped or something, there’s really no other rational explanation to it. Because she wasn’t even just plain pretty, no she was beautiful. She had long, thick, lustrous hair; big brown deer eyes, perfectly full lips and then she of course also had the killer body any woman would die for.
It always makes me so angry when I see people like her. Why are some people that good-looking when others have to be either boringly plain or straight up ugly. I can’t wrap my mind around it. Oh god do you just hate me or do you just hate me?
“Astrid, Astrid my dear, I know it can be difficult to open up and letting go, but the sooner you’d learn to embrace the situation your in, the sooner you will be free”. I have no words. The sentence did made me snap out of whatever thoughts I was caught in, but just to wake up to something even worse. A Chinese fortune cookie.