pronoun glory
I normally don't use this journal for real-life stuff, but somethings this shit needs to be vented about.
"I saw the best mind of my generation... working the night shift at McDonalds," he tells me. Then he gets pissed when I tell him I know he stole that from the "heroes_of_culture" blog. Hipsters. I swear to fucking god... but who else am I going to hang out with, when I'm queer as fuck with such horrible taste in clothes and such great taste in music? And I like this other flat-voiced, pennyhaired girl with hipster glasses who looks great in her crisp button up flannel; squeezed into her plush bright blue skinny jeans and with 80's sunglasses perched so debonairly on her button nose. By “great”, I mean anorexic. A lot of girls hollow out when they start doing acid, learn to numb themselves for more beautiful trips. But I never saw the look look better than on her. I can't tell yet if she is smart, but goddam she can fake it. She has all those social justice lines down pat (“TOMS just capitalizes on the altruism of hipsters instead of helping the economic infrustrature of third world countries!”). Yeah, she's got all those nifty meta-cultural quips down pat. Knows they dole out dryly over 1,000 Faces coffee. I'm scared she'll turn out to be someone who can spit back a textbook, but who's never been blessed with an original thought. I'm more scared she'll see right through me. One of the things about the last love which irked me most was that she misused the word "postmodern." Everything is goddam "postmodern" these days. "Postmodernism" is the new "existentialism", by which I mean, that word pretentious hipstery English majors brandish about without knowing its real meaning.
The irony is that "postmodernism" is pretty much my favorite word. But I like it for what it is, and stopped reading Rolling Stone partly out of protest for its misuse. But mostly because that magazine is sexist and lame and had "Jersey Shore" on the cover. "Irony." Another word raped by pretension.
And all I want to do is drink my vodka and talk to this girl I like about radical feminism and queer theory and Dr. Who. And a boy I nearly made out with once won't even talk to me because I hate Vampire Weekend. They take themselves so seriously; these snake-skinny heralds of a great and glorious counter-culture. Their seriousness makes it impossible for me to watch them brood without a giggle. Them and their class privilege and eyes awash in the best Hamlet impersonation to hit town since Conor Oberst. But my chosen family overlaps with them smoothly as a Venn diagram, so I guess they're stuck with me.
And what makes it all better is a passing comment from another girl I barely know...
"Hey, (insert my name here), just out of curiosity...what pronouns would you prefer me to use when I'm talking about you?"
I rise with my red hair and I eat patriarchy like air. And that's the beauty of postmodernism: everything is repeat.