Diary
Me
“I would probably like you.” My best friend’s Facebook is a travesty to my discerning eye. I shudder. The word shudder, here, is very appropriate. I envision drawing solid wooden curtains to shield my vision from a peeping tom or aggressively sordid downpour. What ever attracted me to you? I demand of myself. I am a most intolerant person. I’m not open-minded. I’m not cheerful or cute or charming. Who’s the snake, the serpent or the charmer? That’s a philosophical question.
How did I ever get hooked up with her? Lately I wonder. I’ve always wondered, but personal milestones tend to negate mistakes/discoveries made along the way. She is a truly dependent being. I understand that my therapy has given me GREAT personal insight and advantage, but she doesn’t even want to try. Therapy, driving, voicing her opinions, conflict resolution, new food, anything. She reminds me of my mother. Conflict is the worst evil. Like the mentality that going to the doctor gave you cancer. Uh, that logic is a little flawed.
I want to say to her, “If you don’t want to be told what to do, take control of your life. But with control also comes responsibility. You might be afraid, but really, what’s the worst that could happen? Swing and a miss. That‘s called living.”
I can’t be honest with her anymore, she makes such excuses for herself and people she likes. I used to be the same way. In an odd sense, it makes me hate her sometimes. But that’s the root of the decay in our friendship. We used to be able to talk honestly as peers. Now it’s like I’m her counselor, and our only bonding points are from the movies quotes we exchange. Whenever she does something she knows I will tell her is stupid, or if she blows me off, she’ll say “Don’t get mad.” And my gut response is to rip her for being so passive and immature.
I operate best alone. This doesn’t mean I like it, but it’s how I’m wired. I don’t like the “scene,“ parties, drinking, party drugs, even weed. I don’t indulge in Gossip rags or new shades of makeup. I’m simple. I like gummi worms, sex, and chill sessions with a close friend. I really only have 2 or 3 people I really like in my life… You know what? Me beating up on myself is fashionable, sexist feminine humility. I know better. My instincts, forged in “the heat of family dysfunction,” are dead-on. My therapist even told me this. I am intuitive and smart, and I don’t need to make all these concessions of “Oh, well, some people think I’m a bitch, but…”
Pardon me, but I like who I am. What I have is priceless, and if you do not have it, you will scorn me. Sour grapes, you know.
I have a wealth of useless information. Today, I shared with a girl I study Ecology with that in the 1900s, white people used to divide the races into Negroid, Caucasoid, and Mongoloid. In turn, she shared with me that she stopped doing heroin because she got pregnant. People are strange creatures. I’m sure the people who I dismiss as mundane and vanilla think I’m just as expendable and fleeting as I think they are. I seem to attract a lot of Narcotics Anonymous members. Also, people who tune into my discontent and want to feel such conviction. Kind of like how America is fascinated with the dead or the uber-religious. We don’t want to be either, but we envy their dedication and finality.
Past Five
are you blind or somethin'? - 2009-11-24
given - 2009-11-15
rape of reason - 2009-11-13
rubbed away - 2009-08-13
eager eyes - 2009-07-24