I once thought I was intelligent. Oh yes; and not just your average garden-variety type of intelligence where you can somehow manage to pass from class to class, but rather, the top of the class without even trying, kind of intelligence. Granted, I wasn’t aware of this – I honestly just thought that it was because I’d had an early Ugandan education and our teachers don’t fucking play – until a fellow student asked me how it was that I managed to pass so highly yet I was constantly reading novels. Constantly, she said. I was rather offended by the insinuation because I also spent time watching cartoons, eating, and doing that annoying Saturday morning house clean-up thing that all parents seem to force their children to do. Yeah, I should have known then, from my wandering mind, that I wasn’t that clever. In any case, after I’d huffed indignantly, I took a few seconds to think about it and I realised that I actually didn’t know how I stayed top of the class when I quite literally never read for exams. Therefore, I surmised, I must be intelligent.
This eventually led to years of confidence and topping classes in my high school and I was convinced that I really just was a special egg. So convinced, in fact that I never bothered to consider how it could all go wrong. Never, that is, until I reached medical school and found myself in a basket filled with equally, if not more, special eggs. It was like god carefully selected some gnarly rings to wear right before backhanding me in the face and I was quite taken aback when my first exam results came out. Turns out that if wanted to pass highly, I had to study. Go figure! Of course, I decided that I was perfectly comfortable being an average performer because studying? Ain’t nobody got time for that!
Obviously, I never really learned my lesson and so it was with the same great surprise that I came across crushes. Ugh, crushes. There’s something about unwanted attraction to another human being that just makes me want to breathe fire. Like most young girls, I often got so intoxicated on the propaganda society tries to sell us that I pictured myself getting married to the perfect intelligent prince, sorry Disney. In any case, I thought it’d be a cakewalk; that was until I hit my mid-twenties. Truthfully, all the crushes I had gotten up until that point would last a day or two at most and I had no idea what people were whining about when they said they’d been crushing on someone for years. What manner of nonsense were they spewing? Were they performing their animal sacrifices badly and being punished for it? I honestly had no idea.
That was until I experienced my first adult crush.
Imagine if god fused his propensity for threatening to kill children, with Lucifer’s need to overthrow him. You still with me? Now imagine if that mixture were infused into a yearning for a particular boy and then vaulted across the universe, gaining momentum, until it hit me in the face. Yes, that’s exactly what it felt like to me. Like little seedlings of the devil’s desires and murderous rage were holding me as I mentally fawned over someone who clearly wasn’t right for me. Not right for me, I’ll say, simply because I have no time for this shit! Why would I still be crushing on some random dude when every part of me was clear on the whole single-for-life–have-my-dead-body-eaten-by-my-dogs-when-I-die thing? It defeated all my logic. I was confounded, flabbergasted, devastated even. My beautiful daydreams were suddenly wasted on some asshole and it wasn’t all roses and happiness even. A little insider secret about me is that because I could never willingly decide to be physically attracted to anybody, I always hate the crushes I have and so end up picturing the object of my affections dead. However, even killing these people in my head wasn’t enough to cure me of the devil’s yearning.
Usually, it doesn’t hit me until much later that I am crushing on someone and often enough, the realisation comes in the morning, after some harrowing dream starring Mr Crushy Mcgee. Perhaps this is the reason I have come to despise mornings so much. I often think to myself right, I know what this is as I wonder what in damnation I did to anger the gods. I was pretty sure my burnt offerings for the year were done. Were they demanding for more? Did I have to maintain eye contact to establish dominance again?
Honestly, is this Karma’s way of getting back at me for not being extra nice to these people? It’s like if a vampire craved the blood of some hot virgin dude with a sweet arse only to find out that said blood was slowly dissolving away the…er…vampireness. So now, our protagonist is forced to choose between that sweetass arse and precious immortality.
That’s what crushes feel like to me: traps sent to make me submit to the devil’s yearning. They never end well. Often enough, there’d be a higher chance of a zombie apocalypse occurring and my fat arse surviving that horror than me getting together with a crush. Heck, world destruction by solar flares, à la all the badly written Sci-Fi movies, would be more likely to happen. Even chances of our dear supreme leader not running for yet another term would have a higher chance of happening. This is not because there’s something wrong with me but rather, because there’s something wrong with a universe that takes my I like being single determination as a cue to afflict me with three goddamn crushes in the span of two years. Why doesn’t it concentrate its efforts on making the Fire Nation attack and trapping the Avatar in a glacier for a century, or something like that? I’m just small town, small time.
Getting rid of a crush seems to be a process that requires the sacrifice of 10,000 innocent souls and a bag of chips. It makes no sense that I will bend over backwards, trying to ensure that I return to my normal apathetic self and yet the infatuation only grows stronger. It feeds on my consternation. Even WikiHow’s how to get rid of a crush has a step that just states that you should accept defeat. What manner of universe would subject us to such cruelty then? Would it not be nice if we could just choose to be attracted to someone else? Imagine if, when you encountered an awesome dude, your brain gave you the options a) catch feels, b) wait to decide, or c) hell no! get me TF out of here; I’m good! And say, what if you could tell whether that person had also selected that they can catch feels; wouldn’t that just be a much nicer way to deal with everything? Evidently, that’s just too much to ask.
I thought I was introverted and anti-social before but now, I am even more so because god forbid I meet a nice guy with the ability to follow my conversations and some wit, without wanting to crush them with my breasts (something that could very well happen because man, these babies are lethal). I’m simply just terrified of waking up in the morning one day and realising yet another guy is the unwanted object of my affections, as my mind screams what nightmare hath god wrought?!