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Mental
Constipation and Brain Vomit
By
Winnie Khaw
I
need to strip down my essay to the bare minimum. Flay it alive, to
the bone, for heresy.
There
is a hard little ball of something inside me, as if I started
playing with some rubber and kept winding it around and around…
it gets bigger and bigger. It might be anger. It might be hate.
It's certainly a general negative feeling towards the whole world.
In
Fahrenheit 451, when Montag burns his house down, I can't
help thinking that the fiery flower—the "seed" Clarisse
planted, the gushing, the torrents, the plastic fireproof covering—sounds like a condom didn't work.
This
all goes to show that one can't do anything with good advice
except pass it on—it's never of any use to oneself. Wilde, of
course.
So
I go home and stare at my ceiling. It's hard to accept that
something I care so passionately about, something I think could
work so well, doesn't strike a chord in others. Oh, some people
respond, and I can't begin to express my appreciation to them for
caring, but the majority completely ignore me.
Ignore
me. I say that to myself again. Maybe there's nothing worth paying
attention to—I'm not a compelling public speaker, I'm not
brilliant, and I'm not really a good person. Mediocrity seems to
be a calling for me, and I answer dully.
It
is a game in which the character tries to pick up treasures from
the ground. I just let the character go on its merry way, and
every so often it scores points. More often, I die.
The
knot in my chest began in Theatre. I cannot describe the mental
anguish and exhaustion that plagued me. I was like a snail
stripped of its shell by academic living and then thrown into salt
water.
I
am performing a rather clever monologue on a stage… with my back
to the audience.
I
can't cry all the time. I can't plead with people to please,
please work because this is something they should care about. And
yet, I can't sit by and do nothing.
My
paper needs to lose weight. There is too much fat accumulated
around its middle. It needs to be slim and toned.
So
I do all the work. All the worrying. And I'm tired.
I'm
not a leader; I am clearly a Beta, destined for behind-the-scenes
work. I don't mind, not really, but I can't get things done, not
the things I want to do.
So
I shouldn't stress. Take over my life for a minute, and then offer
your advice. Stop telling me other people have bigger problems.
Solve my problems first.
I
am drowning and someone is pushing my head down. That's not
helpful.
The
self-centered life is pretty unbearable. I know the curtains will
drop on this stage in my life, and I'll move on… but I can't
forget.
I
can't forget the people who stick around when I'm at a high point,
the people who insist on calling me "smart" as
though it's through some kind of magic and not years of hard work.
Their smiling faces, so flattering and—for that sycophantic
moment—so blank, like the stones on the beach rubbed smooth by
the waves.
But
these are nice people, really. Everyone has these moments. It's
just… when it happens, it's hard to remember that they are
people.
But
then, in the low times, the waves of people ebb. No one wants to
stick around after the show when the makeup is washed off and
costumes changed.
People
were perfect until last year. Then, suddenly, they developed
flaws. I see it now with a vengeance, and no one has more petty
scrapes and bruises than I, without the imprinted valor of worthy
wounds.
My
essay is a eunuch—cut, castrated.
I
need help. Desperately. And the first thing I need to do is to
take out the "I."
WINNIE KHAW has existed for a span of sixteen years, during which she has lived as an introverted bookworm. She currently lives in the United States, that great melting pot of fried cultures, chopped languages, and
fattening foods. Winnie is an aspiring writer who enjoys British humor, however obscene, grotesque, and condescending. Lower capitalization in her reading is her only preference, which allows for a large variety.
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