Dear daddy, I’m not your daughter

Well, maybe parts of me are. My mother used to tell me I was too serious and manipulative. School teachers said that I liked to play the system. My girlfriend told me that I have evil eyes. You told me that you’re always thinking and I always do too.
But daddy, I’m not your daughter.

Well, maybe parts of me are. I am a womaniser. I am a fatist. I hate authority. I have an addictive personality. I make promises I can’t keep. I gamble and drink and smoke too much.
But daddy, I’m not your daughter.
Maybe one day I will be the daughter you’d be proud of.
I’ve yet to keep my girlfriend hostage. I’ve yet to dictate what she does or does not wear. I’ve yet to throw her down a flight of stairs only to drag her back up and kick her down again. I’ve yet to leave her nose scarred from trying to bite it off. I’ve yet to hold her over a bridge. I’ve yet to play with acid. I’ve yet to stalk her family and throw boulders through their windows. I’ve yet to leave her to get new teeth. I’ve yet to leave her to get her ribs fixed.

She’s yet to feel the need to abscond to a different country to seek a safe haven. She’s yet to live in a hostel with no fixed address. She’s yet to live with depression and PTSD and too scared to leave the house.

Daddy, I’m not your daughter.
Maybe one day I will reach my full potential. Maybe if I have a child I will reach my full potential.
Maybe if I had a child I’d kidnap them. Maybe if our faces were painted over national newspapers and maybe if my blurry mugshot was played on the evening news, you’d be proud of me. Maybe when their uncle dies on their birthday, I’d tell them their present is slowly burning on a low heat. Maybe that’ll make you proud.
Do you know who the fuck I am?
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Lots of Love,
Not Your Fucking Daughter.

An Acquired Taste

Like something to everyone, I am an acquired taste. I am someone people learn to like, learn to love. I’m not someone you will fall in love with instantly. I am unapologetic and brash with no verbal filter. I am proud and not ashamed. The acne scars, stretch marks, the bruises, and blemishes are my battle wounds. They are me and I am them. I am hardened to this world and that makes me difficult to love.

Love is all-pervasive and compromising and I am not. You have to bend for love and I don’t want to chafe. 

It’s usually in a drunken haze my friends tell me that I’m “alright, actually”. Their initial notion of me being “intimidating” had changed. They had the time to see past my Resting Bitch Face. At my latest annual appraisal, my line manager’s constructive criticism concluded that I was unapproachable. Defensively, and probably proving her point, I asked her why she thought that was a bad thing. I’m here to do a job and, fuck, I am good at my job. I’m not here to play the bubbly, happy-go-lucky Dumb Blonde. And I won’t be that for you.

Here, I consider myself to be submissive but that doesn’t mean I am spineless. I have opinions and you will respect them. You will admire them and I will force you to question your own perspectives, question your own preconceived notions of what you like. And that makes me difficult to love.

Like all the best things in life, I am an acquired taste. 

Beer, good beer; whiskey; gin; coffee. Nobody likes these at first sip. But we dance with them again, then again and again, usually because of how we want to define ourselves. They give our soul extra value.

I remember my first sip of coffee. I remember asking my mother what to ask for when I entered that pretentious Artisan coffee house with their rustic bags of coffee beans pinned to the wall and wooden crates up-cycled into the uncomfortable but aesthetically pleasing – so fucking cool – seats. I was fourteen or fifteen, impressionable and I wanted be to be a grown-up. I wanted to be sophisticated and cool like the regulars who used this haven as their second home. I read my book and delicately sipped on my espresso. Bitter. Gritting through closed teeth. Take another sip. Like a college hazing, character building. This is what it takes to be a cool girl. I am a grown up. And now my digestive tract is constantly coated with cappuccino. I can’t get through a day without it. 

I love the ritual of preparing it, like decent foreplay, the anticipation of the end goal. Grinding the beans down, the aroma already taking home in my lungs, soon to take me hostage. And then the waiting game. Letting the water diffuse through every shredded bean. Stir gently, add more water. Pushing down on the French Press is my favourite part of preparation. Like when you’re on the edge. Push it gently and pour. Nearly there. Anticipation building.

And that first sip. The bitterness never leaves but it’s a bitterness I have learned to like, learned to love. An acquired taste. 

Of course, I have instant coffee and a little part of me dies when I spoon the granules into my precious bone China mug but it does the job. It gives me the instant gratification required when I’m running late or feeling particularly lazy and don’t want to invest my time into something more worthwhile. 

I suppose I am a synonym to instant coffee. Quick to prepare, always available, require little effort. But there’s always something better if you want to take your time, so much potential if you wanted to take your time.

I may be an acquired taste but I am a taste certainly worth acquiring.