The Bird in the Hand

I'm not a choice.

I don't want to be weighed and measured against. I don't want to be held up in comparison to something else. I don't want to ever think...it's me until something better is there.

There should never be a moment when I am scrutinized and a decision contemplated. I should be that which is placed high, that which is most wanted, that which is not a choice, but a necessity.

I don't want to be patient and understanding. I want to kick and yell and be a child.

I want to say...there will never ever ever be another of me in that bush.

But most of all, I'm sick to death of seeing that train rolling down the track, and waiting for Dudley Do-right to come cut the rope. There is no Dudley Do-right. There is only Me Do-right. It's me to get out of the ropes, it's me who carries me home, it's me who salves the wounds. It's me who fixes me. And this is why I can't let myself be dependent.

I think there is a turning point in every woman's life. Am I self-sufficient, or am I going to need Dudley? I don't think it's conscious choice, it just happens. And once it's done, you can't undo it. Those Dudleys smell it on you...the ability to walk away from them because you aren't going to need them, and it offends their egos.

I am completely, utterly, irrevocably disillusioned. But I am still not going to be needy. Not for you. Not for any Dudley.