I’m annoyed, an unnamed kind of annoyed. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Maybe it’s because I’ve made a new friend and I’m a little excited. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s Mercury retrograde. I don’t know. I don’t understand the reason behind many things. I try to figure them out, but often give up halfway. In the end, only the questions I can’t avoid are the ones I really dig into—like death, abuse, cults, the deep unconscious, projection, love, and becoming your own doctor through chronic pain.

I hate people who think life only has one path: marriage, children, work. When we went to Alameda County Government to register our marriage, we didn’t know we needed a witness—we thought just the two of us would be enough. Only when we got there did we find out: there’s a ceremony, and while you can skip the audience, the witness is non-negotiable. We asked a friend last-minute. He was thrilled, said “I’m honored.” The next day, he showed up in a suit, white shirt, dress pants—more formal than me. I wore a French Connection dress I found at Goodwill for under twenty bucks. That was the only time I wore that dress, and so far, the last. Also my only white dress. A one-time dress. I guess it fulfilled the wedding dress requirement, technically.

We were at Alameda County Government waiting for the office staff to escort us to the ceremony hall (yes, there’s a small ceremony hall on the second floor just for this purpose), when I saw the name of the department we were in: Public Records of Life, Death and Marriage Certificate. I thought, isn’t this how a person’s life gets summarized? Birth, death, marriage. So cold. So formatted. So hollow, dry, devoid of substance. And maybe the people who believe life has only one path think of it this way too. Birth, check. Marriage, check. “Get a job,” check. Death, no one checks.

What about how I feel? Doesn’t my subjective will matter? Can’t I sculpt my own life? If I work at a dispensary, how is that any of your business? Is there a discrimination ladder for jobs now? You good? You think your job is so noble, cloaking your superiority complex in concern. You like me as a person, and you also criticize me as a person. You like my warmth, understanding, care, tolerance—but you attack my not fitting in, my “lack of class,” the “meaninglessness” of what I do. Capitalists leave their names all over the world with force, calling it legacy, but they can’t reach the human heart. What’s inside is what connects us. What’s outside? That can be whatever.

Does my life need your management? What does my world have to do with you? You think you know my inner experience better than I do? Who knows what I’m supposed to do—besides God? I didn’t ask your opinion. If you ask, I’ll answer. If you accuse, I’ll explain. If I explain, you say, what’s the point? So then—what does your opinion have to do with me?

How arrogant must a person be to think they carry the responsibility of telling others how to live? To me, having skills doesn’t mean having wisdom. You respect, but you don’t understand.

I’m annoyed, an unnamed kind of annoyed. I don’t want to talk too big, but these people love projecting their values onto me. I’m wrong, crazy, abnormal, off-track—then what about you? How well do you follow the rules? Your double standards make me look down on you. If you were truly rule-abiding, I wouldn’t say a thing. But from what I’ve seen, you haven’t respected marriage, work, or life either. If no one’s taking it seriously, then why the act? What are you trying to get from me? To crush me just to prove your way is right? Because otherwise you’ll start doubting your own life? “She didn’t follow the path, and she’s still okay?” “Did I do it wrong?” Is that why—because it triggers your cognitive dissonance? Well then, what does your dissonance have to do with me? You don’t even care about my inner world.

I am emotion-driven. I am interest-led. I do what I like until I don’t want to anymore. Life means nothing to me. Just a trip. A good trip or a bad trip, depending on how you handle it. I want a good trip. If you want something else, suit yourself.

Some people think I don’t take life seriously. But it’s the opposite. I take it too seriously. I know I’m not here to indulge, which is exactly why I savor every moment of indulgence I get. You think following the so-called path will shield you from pain? It won’t. The ending is always the same: death. You think doing something will make people remember you? It’s useless. Even if they remember your name, they won’t understand you. Not the way I did. But you’ve already lost me. So do what you want with that.

You say it’s care. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just lonely. Why you’re lonely, I don’t know. Maybe others feel, like I do, that you’re hard to talk to. Arrogant and stubborn, with your eyes on your forehead. What else can I say. You’re no child of destiny. You are exactly the kind of person I hate the most. Do you even know what it means to be born under heaven’s favor? That’s privilege in the blood. You’re just longing for my understanding, while refusing to understand me. You love to guide me with your limited knowledge and narrow wisdom, but when it comes to yourself, you share nothing. What do you want from me? Don’t come to me cloaked in concern for my “mental health.” The first time I told you about my condition, the look on your face was like I was insane. You didn’t care. You told me you couldn’t help me. You don’t care about me. So what is it you want?

Were you raised being constantly compared to others? Is that why you feel the need to compare yourself to me? Want to see how well you’re doing? You really bought into their value system and discipline, didn’t you? Because you think you’ve always been number one, the one who benefits. But you’re wrong. In this structure, there are no real winners. The real beneficiary is the one watching all of you fight each other to death. You so obediently adopt, promote, and embody this twisted meritocracy. Guess what, I have a little surprise for you. In a system built by others, you are just being used. Do you even know that some people can change the rules at will? Have you seen that before? Still want to walk this path?

Do you want to see me change the rules? I’m here. Waiting for you.

I am emotion-driven. I am interest-led. Aren’t you? You are. Are you really that thoughtful and deliberate with everything you do? If you were, your words wouldn’t still be this ineffective and inappropriate. What is meaning? What exactly is meaning? Working for capitalists, is that meaningful? Finance, is that meaningful? Who remembers financiers? How wide is their reach, really? There’s more than one way to accumulate capital. Want to compare? I bet I’ll get there before you do. If we’re playing the merit game, how about using money as the metric? By your rules, that must be success, right? Then let me succeed, and show you what that looks like.

Are you jealous of me? Jealous of my “freedom”? Jealous of my “luck with men” (?) Jealous of my abstract management skills? Jealous that I got married? I don’t think it’s any of those. You’re jealous that I don’t follow the path, don’t follow the rules, that I mess around however I want and somehow still seem ahead. But I’m not ahead. These things don’t mean anything to me. Don’t impose your standards on me. You want to compare yourself to me, but when I compare myself to you, you’re afraid to lose. What should I say about you? No guts, don’t play with me.

Why be jealous of me? Why not jealous of men? When I bring up gender issues, you say you don’t know, you don’t think about those things. Is it that you don’t think, or that you’re afraid to think? Afraid of knowing yourself too well, afraid of knowing too much about the world? You’re afraid of being proven wrong, but you were wrong from the start. You know your logic is shaky, your understanding limited. The world doesn’t move in clean, linear deductions. It’s messy, chaotic, full of interacting variables. Your so-called big-picture view probably doesn’t even exist. But I have one. You want to beat me in the area you’re confident in, just to feel better about yourself. But in my field, I’ve already passed you. So how about I beat you in your own “meritocratic” arena too? Let me beat you at your own game.

I am emotion-driven. I write when I’m angry, I write when I’m sad, I write when I want to connect, I write when I want to express. When I’m happy, I don’t write. When I’m secretly delighted, I don’t write. I don’t write about what I treasure the most. You’re not worthy. I won’t share that with you. That’s my secret, reserved only for me and the ones I choose.

What I show you is exactly what I want you to see. Not what you think you know. You know nothing, my god. Every time I watch you, clueless, performing over there, honestly—it’s kind of surreal. You’re not even a real person anymore. Not someone alive. An NPC. An archetype. A page printed from a machine. Why am I even bothered arguing with you?

I know I’m weird. I know I don’t make sense. You think you’re confused? What about me? I’m even more confused. Fuck—how did I end up like this? I’m strange too. But I’m not at the point where I need you to tell me who I am. Because clearly, you don’t know who you are either. Ugh.