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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Helen Hoang
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December 27 - December 27, 2023
I don’t question why people do things. I just observe and copy. That’s how to get along in this world.
I took a leave of absence because I can’t perform when I’m stuck playing in loops like this. I haven’t told my family because I know they wouldn’t understand. They’d tell me to quit indulging myself and snap out of it. Tough love is our way.
People like me better when I make them feel good about themselves. So I’m constantly assessing her reaction and editing my words to appeal to her.
When we first started dating, Julian told me that it hurt his feelings when women didn’t swallow, that it made him feel rejected. As a result, I’ve probably swallowed gallons of his semen to safeguard his emotional well-being.
Family is not safe. Not for me. Tough love is brutally honest and hurts you to help you. Tough love cuts you when you’re
already bruised and berates you when you don’t heal faster.
“Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean we need to throw it away.
and I’m okay in the kitchen as long as I don’t have to touch raw meat. It’s slimy.”
“She watches people eat, like the food tastes better in someone else’s mouth,” he says with a grin.
No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself.
Because it’s complicated. It’s true that Anna and I have been texting all week, making random observations, sharing funny news articles and cute animal videos and stuff like that. Talking to her fills a space in my life that I didn’t realize was empty, and I’ll be sad to see that end.
“Don’t judge. Everyone’s got their own issues,” I point out. “There was also the one who made him brush his teeth before kissing,” Khai adds. “That’s just good hygiene, especially in the morning,” I say. Michael points his glass at me. “She also made you use hand sanitizer before holding hands and shower before sex.”
“You know, I can tell based purely off text messages if a girl is into someone,” Michael says. “Yeah, like if the message says ‘I’m into you,’ that’s a pretty sure sign,” I say dryly. “No, get your phone out and text her. I’ll show you what I’m talking about. I can tell within three lines,” he insists. “Plus, don’t you want to know how she’s doing? You guys were originally going to meet up tonight.” Grumbling, I take my phone out of my pocket and text her, How you doing?
“I’m not going to show you if she says something personal. Also, what if she doesn’t respond right a—” Dots start jumping on the screen, and I get a new message with a smiley face. I’m okay. You? I show Michael so he can analyze the exchange like it’s tea leaves or some shit, and he grins right away. “A smiley emoji straight off. That’s a really good sign.”
Worse than that, I’m overly sensitive, difficult, “lazy,” and, quite frankly, a bit of a disappointment—except for my relationship with Julian, the son-in-law of their dreams, and my accidental Internet fame.
Everything passes in time. All colors fade.
Why does she have to put everyone in their place like this? Why can’t she just be happy for him? For me?
“You know I tell you these things so it’ll hurt less when you hear it from others,”
But I guess that’s how it must be when someone’s standards are so impossibly high and their capacity for empathy so limited. They are cruel to others, and cruelest to themself.