(no subject)
I acknowledge that most of what I feel has no justification other than the thousand natural processes of a hormone-full female in the tail end of her teenage years.
However, how can I help but be frustrated? Why was I convinced that college would be so much better, on the intellectual front? Oh, typical disillusionment, oh damn my former self for being so precociously stuck upon this idea of an intellectual haven.
There are a few elements to this, all of which I think I have expressed, in some way or another, before. The first element is the overwhelmingly suburban environment. I am not a spoiled, rich, lily-white, ignorant little girl. Nor am I even truly counter-culture, indie-rock or whatever goddamned else. <-- not that they have a place here. :-(. I struggle with my identity because I am so mixed. I live with the face and giggle of any typical overly-suburban white girl, yet I have such broad ranges of culture and experience of culture living in my head that I am disgusted by any suggestion that I have yet to be exposed to the world, or to anything beyond the wonders of a white picket fence . I have no qualm with many of the wealthy, lily-white folk I speak of, but that is not who I am.
Kenny and I both carry this near-bitterness with us, because no one who would look at us would peg us as having been subjugated because of our race. No one, at first glance, could know that we have this blackness in us; these memories of fried catfish dinners held at street parties, of being called "white-ass," of lying about grades so as to avoid conflict with the other kids, who werent getting "A"s. (To this day, I cannot stand academic competition - I study for myself alone). We carry this around with us, and then are told by random parties that we couldn't possibly know "how the other half lives" to use a trite phrase. What they dont realize is that we've lived *with* that half. It's a strange thing, this.
Then there is the same disappointment I seem to constantly run into; lack of intellect. I want to surround myself with those who are inclined to analysis. I find it so difficult to dumb myself down. I've never known how to be anyone other than myself. I have tried; no one can deny that I have tried. I have tried to join "giggle-fests" as I call them, and I am often able to, esp. when drunk, for at least a little while before I either start to hate myself or slip into a speech of some import/intellect, and suddenly the faces before me turn to green jello, and I force a giggle and find a way to escape.
I feel guilty for not loving everyone that loves me. They cannot love me; it is more that I feel guilty for not wanting to say "I love you" when people say it to me and I feel guilty for not finding people attractive when they find me attractive. I cannot love everyone! Firstly, I am already madly in love with someone, so romantic love is out of the question for anyone else. Furthermore, I find that this man of my heart is far superior to any other being I have imagined myself to be in love with prior to this glorious awakening he as wrought in me, which causes me to look with disgust on anyone else who offers their love, romantic or otherwise. He has raised the bar, thereby damning substandard relationships.
This idea of feeling bad for not finding people attractive - forgive me, goddamnit. Can I help that my pheromones seem to draw people like ants to sugar? No. I am slowly losing my modesty, and , in so doing, the idea that not all people who are nice to me very suddenly are attracted to me. It's - basically - bullshit. (Along this vein, fuck every dirty old man who ever dared to say the word "cunt" in my presence, who asked me whether or not I was eighteen, who told me to find him when I was, who told me I was "worth his time," who cowed me into smiling politely when he told me I'd be nice to take home. FUCK YOU.) I have to keep reminding myself that it is not - and cannot be - my job to give love every poor bastard who thinks he has a right to it. Not that I try to love them, but that I feel a twinge of guilt when I don't. I cannot help but love someone whom I *admire* not pity - pity is but pity, and even compassion, or fondness, is a far cry from romantic love. Forgive me, would-be lovers, but I cannot love you, and furthermore, I bear you great resentment for daring to covet what is Michael's and then making me feel guilty for it.
There is this torrent that keep wanting to flow from an unknown well, hidden not in the deep paths of my past, but (likely) existing somewhere in the hypothalamus. I am trying to avoid this "torrent" as I made a fool-ass of myself enough yesterday. Go I, then, to the world of proofs (I see we meet again, proofs. You may have kicked my ass in high school geometry, but I am here to see that those wounds are repaid ten-fold!)
However, how can I help but be frustrated? Why was I convinced that college would be so much better, on the intellectual front? Oh, typical disillusionment, oh damn my former self for being so precociously stuck upon this idea of an intellectual haven.
There are a few elements to this, all of which I think I have expressed, in some way or another, before. The first element is the overwhelmingly suburban environment. I am not a spoiled, rich, lily-white, ignorant little girl. Nor am I even truly counter-culture, indie-rock or whatever goddamned else. <-- not that they have a place here. :-(. I struggle with my identity because I am so mixed. I live with the face and giggle of any typical overly-suburban white girl, yet I have such broad ranges of culture and experience of culture living in my head that I am disgusted by any suggestion that I have yet to be exposed to the world, or to anything beyond the wonders of a white picket fence . I have no qualm with many of the wealthy, lily-white folk I speak of, but that is not who I am.
Kenny and I both carry this near-bitterness with us, because no one who would look at us would peg us as having been subjugated because of our race. No one, at first glance, could know that we have this blackness in us; these memories of fried catfish dinners held at street parties, of being called "white-ass," of lying about grades so as to avoid conflict with the other kids, who werent getting "A"s. (To this day, I cannot stand academic competition - I study for myself alone). We carry this around with us, and then are told by random parties that we couldn't possibly know "how the other half lives" to use a trite phrase. What they dont realize is that we've lived *with* that half. It's a strange thing, this.
Then there is the same disappointment I seem to constantly run into; lack of intellect. I want to surround myself with those who are inclined to analysis. I find it so difficult to dumb myself down. I've never known how to be anyone other than myself. I have tried; no one can deny that I have tried. I have tried to join "giggle-fests" as I call them, and I am often able to, esp. when drunk, for at least a little while before I either start to hate myself or slip into a speech of some import/intellect, and suddenly the faces before me turn to green jello, and I force a giggle and find a way to escape.
I feel guilty for not loving everyone that loves me. They cannot love me; it is more that I feel guilty for not wanting to say "I love you" when people say it to me and I feel guilty for not finding people attractive when they find me attractive. I cannot love everyone! Firstly, I am already madly in love with someone, so romantic love is out of the question for anyone else. Furthermore, I find that this man of my heart is far superior to any other being I have imagined myself to be in love with prior to this glorious awakening he as wrought in me, which causes me to look with disgust on anyone else who offers their love, romantic or otherwise. He has raised the bar, thereby damning substandard relationships.
This idea of feeling bad for not finding people attractive - forgive me, goddamnit. Can I help that my pheromones seem to draw people like ants to sugar? No. I am slowly losing my modesty, and , in so doing, the idea that not all people who are nice to me very suddenly are attracted to me. It's - basically - bullshit. (Along this vein, fuck every dirty old man who ever dared to say the word "cunt" in my presence, who asked me whether or not I was eighteen, who told me to find him when I was, who told me I was "worth his time," who cowed me into smiling politely when he told me I'd be nice to take home. FUCK YOU.) I have to keep reminding myself that it is not - and cannot be - my job to give love every poor bastard who thinks he has a right to it. Not that I try to love them, but that I feel a twinge of guilt when I don't. I cannot help but love someone whom I *admire* not pity - pity is but pity, and even compassion, or fondness, is a far cry from romantic love. Forgive me, would-be lovers, but I cannot love you, and furthermore, I bear you great resentment for daring to covet what is Michael's and then making me feel guilty for it.
There is this torrent that keep wanting to flow from an unknown well, hidden not in the deep paths of my past, but (likely) existing somewhere in the hypothalamus. I am trying to avoid this "torrent" as I made a fool-ass of myself enough yesterday. Go I, then, to the world of proofs (I see we meet again, proofs. You may have kicked my ass in high school geometry, but I am here to see that those wounds are repaid ten-fold!)