Making Believe

7.45-ish, I'm sitting on my bus home and can't stop scribbling, can't stop my mind thinking. Seen two friends and feel I shouldn't have, then guilty for feeling it. Some kid is playing with one of those noisy toys, and the whole bus is listening to electric bird sound chirping, and it's one of those moments when I'm considering not having children at all.
For some reason I can't explain I didn't feel like meeting my friends at all. Perhaps because I had to run all kinds of errands before. When we entered the café I alreafy felt like going home, sick of the smoke and the dim lighting. While they were at the counter I decided to get myself together and drink some spirits or whatever to get me in the mood and not spoil it for them. I thought what if I got even worse after drinking and why spend money when I'm the worst off among the three of us. Then I had a glass of rosé and felt fine and surprisingly talkative for like two hours. Then when they started to discuss their plans of getting married and having kids I went like nuts.
Why? Do I not have a boyfriend (and a proper one for that matter)? Shouldn't I be happy with it? Turns out I shouldn't cause one of them is telling me I'm 25 now and should get a grip on my life, give it some direction, make him want to go for it, and follow the good wife (good life) scenario.
But I tell myself it's not like you turn 25 and someone pushes a gun into your face saying make up your mind or I'll shoot you into shit. Or is it? Am I making excuses defíing them or should I really just forget about them and live my life?
I mean, what do I want in life? A nice piece of gold on my finger with a goddamn stone on it and a swollen belly and hollering babies all over the place? I mean, course I want those things, just... not now. Not this way. Not because of them (whatever them refers to.) So when we get out the bloody place and head for the tram stop I feel even worse than when we were heading for the café, wondering if I ever wanna go through this again.
Who are my real friends? Do I have any? Am I on friendly terms with myself at least? Will I turn out to be an alcoholic party pauper in the middle of everyone having fun discussing how little their promotion money was? What promotion? What money? Like I care.
Well, I do. And I do care about having my own place at last, free from anybody telling me what to do, organizing my household chores for myself, not washing dishes with my beloved sis lying in front of the TV.
Perhaps they look down upon me for having free sex without bonds or shackles. Perhaps I'm just paranoid (or drunk from a glass of wine, which is about the closest thing to pathetic.) Anyway, I'm nowhere near having free sex, and not even want that. We're not kids after all.
Wish I could dye my hair and try out new nail varnish colors and not give a damn about all those adult things. What if I have to tame my boyfriend to want to strive for mainstream capitalist values such as a flat or a car? Is he anything worse than their guys because he likes it comfortably living with his daddy and reading hundreds of pages of history books per week? Than what? I'm all the same, too, only I read literature and not history books. And practically that's what I wanna do the rest of my life. Reading bloody books and listen to Diana Krall or someone who will do it just as well.
Thank God the guy next to me is getting off now and won't sneak into my scribbling as if I were mad or something. Already written three pages and it's been just about half of the way home. I reckon this is about the best of my writing yet but perhaps I'm drunk indeed.
They tell me we should save some money and not spend on eating out, and I've just spent 4,000 on books and will spend another 6,000 more on stuff I've ordered from Avon. And I'm gonna keep reading like I'm starving and painting my nails with all the colors of the rainbow.
I really am mad. But why do I write it down? I just have to. I have to get rid of it, throw it up all. What they told me about getting somewhere in life is something that often crosses my mind, but it feels just so none-of-their-business hearing it from them. Like when at primary school I told my friend her mom was stupid and she got really angry, and I didn't see why because she had just said the same thing.
You know, what I want in life (and need badly too) is writing. Never mind if I don't make a fortune on it, I can't stop it. They want to grow herbs and trees, let them do it. But I have to plant seeds in heads and hearts and genitals. I've never been the entrepreneur type, though I've considered opening a café or gallery or flower shop. Something that suits me. But never to make money. Just to open up a place of mine, like my mother says I'm always off to my secret world. And maybe for kindred spirits, too. Like people who want to watch Amelie, listen to J.J. and eat muffins.

And then I had to get off and there he was waiting for me, and now I wonder if anyone will ever get to know me. Pathetic again.