And my mom told me that people were just really disappointing sometimes, and there wasn't anything you could really do about it other than not being too mad at yourself for doing the best that you can with them. (x)
I wonder sometimes whether I'll ever stop feeling sorry for myself or whether that's something that has already been ingrained in me and there's nothing I can do to scrub the self-deprecation off my skin. But that's unfair, both to myself and the things that I've had to put up with over the years. Pardon, the people I've had to put up with over the years. But things move on, I guess.
As usual, the spark to every single internal philosophical discussion I have begins with my Dad telling me something. Preferably in the car, but any old place would suffice. He told me yesterday, on the way to pick Hanna up, that he's going to a thing at his old friend's house. His old friend from Form 3, which is my age (I know, right; tell me something I don't know). A lot of words later, he finally came to the conclusion that he hopes, years down the line, that I'll still be friends with the people that I'm friends with today.
Yesterday I went out with Hanna and Xueh Wei. Nisa was there as well but only for lunch. I think it would be fair to say that I'm not doing anyone any favors, myself included, if I just locked myself up in my room all day, wringing my hands and worrying that the sky's about to fall. It still hurts, like tiny little pinpricks to the heart, like missing someone, when I realize that nobody's ever going to really tell me what I need to know in order to be a better person. Nobody's going to pay me the same courtesy I insist on paying other people by telling them about their flaws and urging them to change for the better. Because that's what honesty does, you know? It makes the world a better place, in the end. But I can't just sit down and sulk about it and cry because I'm not going to achieve anything with that route.
After Nisa left, Hanna, Xueh Wei and I headed to Harvey Norman, pretending to look for a red chair and finding this awesome beanbag chair instead. We ended our day at Borders and it was a little bit odd, a little awkward around the edges, but most of all, I just felt like crying, because it was so weird. I would never not love Hanna and Xueh Wei, I'll be the first to admit, and what kind of love that is, I'll be the first to say that I have no clue. But it wasn't really supposed to go that way. Well, not really. I mean, I went two whole years without any bridges burnt and things staying constant and static and then suddenly this year there's just this big boom of change and I don't think I'm emotionally equipped to handle it.
When we separated with Xueh Wei and walked all the way to the main road to wait for my Dad (because there was something going on in front of the Curve and roads were blocked), I told Hanna what's been bothering me for a long, long time. I realized it during camp but I think it mainly just started after PMR.
They were all mine first.
When I was younger, I had absolutely no one to talk Harry Potter with. Farhana got into it because of me and then we had some semblance of a common ground to stand on but she was still a huge bitch so I can't say I enjoyed lengthy and intellectually stimulating conversations and all. And then my cousins, but they were in it for the Harmony and I just couldn't stick that. I forced my parents to read the books and of course my mother didn't get it. I was young, I was seven maybe eight maybe nine. I didn't really know my sister. I couldn't ask her. Harry Potter was, in every sense of the word, mine. And it continued that way, because I talked about it a lot, too much, throughout school. They knew me as the resident Harry Potter expert. I fell in with the Mugglenet crowd and it felt like home, you know? It felt good to argue and debate and read fanfiction and squee together over mindless things. It was all virtual. It was all mine.
And then came Sri Aman. I didn't realize there were other people who liked Harry Potter with as much passion as I did and I didn't understand, not really. I surely didn't understand the way they liked Harry Potter. How can you just like the movies? How can you not know the difference between Philosopher's Stone and Sorcerer's Stone? How can you not know all the balls involved in Quidditch and all the past Gryffindor team players' names? How can you not read fanfiction or join in message boards or even know what a fandom is? How can you be, do, think all of that and still call yourself a fan? It didn't make any sense.
I'm not even all that attached to The Hunger Games and yet I still get stabs of insane crazy whenever I see someone else fangirling about it. Where were you when the book first came out and reached its zenith of awesomeness outside of Malaysia's several-years-backwards walls? Where were you when I was browsing and scouring the Internet for fanfiction and fanmixes and discussion threads? Where were you when I couldn't sleep because the book just won't let me put it the heck down? That was, what, years ago? And I know it's okay to like something that's old. Heck, I discover oldies songs every day and flaunt my love for said songs without shame. But it's just mine. I was the Harry Potter girl and I got credit for that and I'm okay. I had to endure being alone, with no one in a thousand kilometer radius who could possibly understand the emotions I was feeling, and I got recognition for that. Now I just don't and people think they can just start gushing about a three year old book that I suffered through ages ago now?
They were all mine first. And now they're not talking to me. They don't want me. They talk to each other instead. Behind my back, out of the corner of my eyes, just out of hearing range. They were all mine first and now they're best friends and they like each other way more than they have ever or will ever like me. They were all mine first and I don't even get recognition for that. I don't even get remembered.