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A recent conversation with P talking about rings and their significance had me recall: I had a ring too, once.  I used to wear it on my right hand because I didn’t like wearing accessories on my left.  I’ve never told anyone, but I wore that ring for a very long time, even after the breakup, and I also remember how my finger developed a tan line from wearing that ring.

The thing is, to me, the bad stuff is just…well, bad.  And I can handle the bad things, you deal with them and you stop dwelling.  But the good things, the memories–they haunt, impale, and embed.  I don’t know what else they do, but I think they behave like some kind of emotional shrapnel.

But that was just my ring and my promises.  And then I wondered why and for what.  I don’t remember when, that one day I just decided to wear the ring for one last time and allow myself to be saturated with the horrible good memories.  Then I took it off, and I never wore it again.  So I guess if we’re going to talk about the significance of rings, then that should be as symbolical as it could possibly get.

I didn’t notice when the un-tanned portion of flesh managed to blend in with the rest of the finger.  Call me heartless, but I also don’t remember where the ring is now.  I’m a hoarder, hoarders know that the item is in the drawer, somewhere, but they just don’t know where it is, exactly.

I think I’ve mentioned to my friends before; that I am nothing more than a mirror reflecting the aura they present to me.  And this is why I need to be with pleasant and happy people; they bring out the best in me.  People who are constantly miserable, well, are generally miserable to be with.

I seldom get sinus attacks, but when I do, it is diabolical, and I wake up from pounding headaches.  It’s like getting a hangover without the benefits of the alcohol the night before.  For a morning person to wake up feeling like crap, is very bad.  I know it is a hard day when I realise that I have yet to smile.

I know that also because many years ago when I went through that breakup, I sat down one day and I questioned: when was the last time I felt really happy?  And then I couldn’t answer my own thoughts, because I really couldn’t remember.  So after a year of pretending that I had it together, I decided that I’d had it with myself, and that my friends had probably had it with my dreadful acting as well, I ran away.   And then I came back.

It took me all of one week to come back renewed and happy.  Call it a self-discovery trip or whatever, but being truly alone, worked.  If anything, I also affirmed that I do make a terrible actress, and came to terms that the film industry was definitely out for me.  I summarise my life a lot, details can be heartbreaking for those people who care.

But that was then.  Why did I even talk about this.

Oh, sinus attacks.  See what happens when you start your days with oppressive headaches and breathing disabilities.  It makes you think about and do strange things; such talking about the past, such as discussing deaths with P, and as if it was not depressing enough, I went on and lived through a book about deaths.  Reading about protagonists’ dying process made me feel somewhat rude for intruding.

The point is I need to stop radiating misery over a book, and over my headache.  I need some time to rearrange myself and constellate my scattered thoughts.

And sometime in between my constellation, there’s a bottle of vodka that I need to finish up; E wants a vodka bottle as a water bottle to drink from at work.

I'm not working hard enough, clearly.

I’m not working hard enough, clearly.

So let me raise my glasses and lift my spirits! Literally and figuratively! And maybe I’ll paint better; I mean that’s what artists do, right?  They drink and then they get inspired.

Gosh.  I’m going to read a chicklit.  No more dying now, ok?!

This might work for my sinus attacks.

This might work for my sinus attacks.

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