It's a bit like care bears having no one to care about, and end up sleeping in their own barf after a drinking binge...

"A" said he had a lot more people to care about. And that is why he has a lot of committments. I don't. I'm not afraid to admit it, because what's wrong with having no one to care about when they're so screwed up anyway?

I told him he's lucky; at least there are people who are worth his time, and he can erase any trace of lonliness when he's with them. Not so for me. It wasn't like that all along though. I did have people I cared about. Hey, I'm not a loner, you know.

It started with my grandma, my parents, and my nannies. I was always smiling, singing, and sucking up to anyone in sight, whereupon they would be taken in by my fat concentration and ironically offer me more candies. The more they found me adorable, the more fat-inducing substances they gave. Well, I was a fat kid then. They cared, and of course, with all my little heart, I cared too.

But when you're in an all girls secondary school when you're fat, not so dandy, and you're 13, and getting your first period was an extremely frightening thing, you won't want to care. I didn't care about them, nah, I just cared about what was being said behind my back. It hurt, and till now, it still does. When I'm smiling for the camera for yet another modelling audition, sometimes I still catch a brief glimpse of a fat little girl in the camera lens. And I feel like crying. Not for her, but rather for myself.

I've had people whom I didn't realise I cared about, till they were long gone. They cared about me, but I was always blind, deaf and dead to them. Till they themselves passed on, did I start caring. To one, I was a special student and a good girl. To one, a favourite niece to lavish treats and gifts on. To one, a true friend whom he loved and never could forget. To all 3, I'm just a sorry being, being played around by time, beguiled by people, swept around by my own confusion.

When these 3 are gone, how could I have anyone left to care about? When A himself can afford to love himself, and to divide his love among the people he has to care for, how is it highly possible that I can afford to understand, and to try to love? When I'm blamed largely for his negative changes, how can I be expected to smile, and say it's ok, when I know it isn't? I'm not a saint, not an angel, not perfect. I am mortal Man, no, woman. Blood and flesh are in me. Desires and lusts lurk within, evil intentions are being brewed indefinitely.

I want to be good. But see, a woman's fury is what I possess. And I'm tired. I don't think real life is like complex numbers, where impossible integers exist and you can manipulate them on paper and get tangible answers. I can always invent imaginary friends and care about them. I can even choose their genders, their names, their ages, their thoughts, which isn't bad.

No thanks. They'd all be like me. And we might end up killing one another.