To, My dear self.

Sometimes I don’t like myself too much.

And before you think that this is a revelation, I would like to just bring your attention to almost 25 years of self loathing over and above the not liking.

I am used to utterly hating my own guts, and the one or two attempts to eradicate the source of this hatred have unfortunately not borne fruit. Oh well.

But then there are times, when I get a little bit ok. Fine, I screwed up. Made mistakes, created an unholy mess out of my life. But, inside somewhere, I’m a nice person. I’m a decent person. I’m someone who cares. Or so I like to think. If I did not think of myself as decent, a lot of experiences would become just too harrowing.

Mary fucking Magdalene. That is me. Underneath the shine and the tawdry humour, I’m a good person.

Then again, sometimes I realize that it is all a pretense and I really don’t give a fuck. I don’t care if people go out of my life, or if they judge, or what they think of me. And that scares me more. That is when I don’t like myself too much.


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