I was born for this.

A few months back, someone told me that I was the most dramatic person he knew.

I scoffed, of course. And balked. Me? Dramatic?

You must be joking. I'm totes down-to-earth. I'm the chillest of girls-next-door. I'm the anti-drama.

Yeah, you can stop laughing now. I realize how defensive I'm being.

I *am* dramatic. I was born for drama. I was born to live through a war, a foreign occupation, an apocalypse, the gosh-darn Second Coming. Take your pick. I'll take any of them.

I was born for the long silences. I was born to inhabit a world with more time to think than anyone knows what to do with, and more work to do than can possibly leave time for thought. I was born to gaze at empty horizons and listen to wind whistle, unimpeded by voices. I was born for those moments when time and the spinning of the world stops and you can hear the pulse in someone's throat, the closing of a door down the street, a dog barking in the park.

I was born for the meaningful gazes, for the mindless chatter that covers up those gazes. I was born for Austen's repressed Regency or Chang's occupied Shanghai. I was born for Bombay after the British left, London in the late '30s, Kyoto in the '40s. I was born for Paris during WWII. I was born for Johannesburg when Mandela was coming to power, or Elroy's Los Angeles. I was born for Catherine's court, or for Rabat's Terror.

I was born to play these roles. Elizabeth Bennett, Wang Chia Chi, Nitta Sayuri, Anne Boleyn, Mary Magdalene: I was made for these archetypes. I was born for intrigue. I revel in betrayal. I delight in picking apart the personality and piecing together the puzzle. I was born to stand immobile in the face of unyielding pressure.

I am the most ridiculous of drama queens. And I love it.

Consider this my resignation.

I am resigning from the human race. I'm done being a good person.

Effective immediately.

So, the next time you want me to care about something, you'd better pull out your big guns. A text message isn't going to cut it. A phone call probably won't, either.

No, if you want me to care, you're going to have to show up on my doorstep, in the rain, soaking wet and probably catching pneumonia as you stand there and plead with me. Kneeling in a puddle that is six inches deep will not be going too far.

Visual aids are required. You must produce your crazy friend/injured cat/broken down car/alcoholic family IN PERSON. If they are not present, you can forget about getting anything from me. My heartstrings will not be tugged.

And really, because it's me, I want eloquence. I want simple, powerful prose that tells me whatever story you want to tell effectively. This means that you must choose the correct words, they must make sense, and they must be strung together properly. Any attempts at overblown alliteration/assonance/rhyme will be laughed at and mocked mercilessly. Likewise for grammatical errors, pronunciation errors and any other error I may think of as you beg me for compassion.

I have no mercy, world. I'm done with it. It's useless.

My conscience is in effective stasis. It will not be making any more appearances in this life. I will feel no guilt while I stare at you with steely eyes and joke about your dead babies, your health problems, your broken hearts.

I am a statue. I am stone. Nothing touches me, and nothing ever will, until I'm finally worn down by the nature of the world that kills us all.

Trying asking the rain for understanding. You might have better luck.

Jeux d'enfants

I watched a movie last night that I've been putting off watching. I was concerned about what this particular film would do to my rather delicate emotional equilibrium.

And good lord, was I right.

You know what I'm talking about. Those movies that you watch and think the entire time, "This was me. This could have been me. This could still be me."

It's unsettling, particularly when there's death, dismemberment and/or epic romance involved.

I think that the movie is supposed to be a cautionary tale against the dangers of the adrenaline rush, of the relationship that pushes you to ever-greater heights of outrageousness, that pushes you past caring about anything other than "What next? What now?" I mean, they do end up dead, buried together under a ton of concrete. And while the end of the movie flashes back through all the choices they could have made and shows them happy together, the fact remains they didn't make those choices and spent their adult lives completely miserable.

It's romanticized and beautifully filmed, but still, I think it's supposed to make you realize how unhealthy those kinds of relationships are.

Too fucking bad.

Have you ever played a sustained game of truth or dare with someone? Where you didn't get to pick whether you gave a truth or did a dare, but the other person did? One in which you had to finish the game?

I have.

"Buy a plane ticket, right now." No money, no job. Do it anyway.

"Pick me up in a company car." Could get fired, and who else is going to hire someone with a criminal record a mile long? Do it anyway.

"Lay in Anne Boleyn's bed."

"Fuck me in the choir loft of Temple Church."

"Roll this joint on the train so we can smoke it as soon as we get to the car."

"Let my spastic American ass drive your car through London traffic."

"Would you let me cut your feet off?"

"Would you teach me to fight?"

"Would you wait for me, if I got sent away again?"

And on. And on. And on.

And all the movie made me realize was how much I miss it. No one plays enough anymore. Everyone takes things too seriously, and not the right things. Even me. I've lost it. I've lost that absolute confidence, that unshakeable direction, that true north.

Now I'm ordinary.