Damn Kris and everyone's expectations.
Ok, so Kris is in town this week. Per usual, he has a million things planned. Needless to say, my importance is of low status. At one time I and Jason were his best friends, but I suppose I am not cool enough to be a good friend anymore. Oh, I don't hold vapid conversatiobs about moto racing and the like. Oh, shit, sorry--I guess speaking with me about working on my house and getting my fucking doctorate isn't as interesting as having friends who are OBJECTS so you can convince yourself that you haven't lost your edge. Craphead!
Personally, even if I get blond hair, a tan, and Barbie pink clothes, I am *still* a flaming freak. I am so over this crap. If one more person tries to talk to me about how counter-culture they still are because of the clothing they wear I *will* vomit. Blood, in fact. Jesus, what a bunch of classist crap! Oh, well, I am so damn sorry that my tiny, tiny bit of money has to go toward work clothes and I don't have money to wander to Macy's, or some tony joint on the Haight. I can't afford the multi-colored extensions, the new shoes to replace the ones I have worn into oblivion. When I replace my tshirts with holes I have to buy the cheapest and least pretty ones. Sorry I couldn't spring for the $30 chic version.
Shithead has time for his special friends, but not me. Truth be told, it hurts. He may have valid things going on and this time might not have to do with me. The underlying issue is that the last time he was here he was making noise about coming to see my home--which would be nice since he didn't bother coming to my damn wedding, etc. He was five minutes down the road at Shannon and Jeremy's, but described coming for 10 minutes to my home as too much trouble and that the others he was traveling with not being into doing so. Ah, I see. My friendship isn't worth that 10 minute trip, huh? This time he describes himself as all booked up. Feels like a pattern. I wonder if I was of value to him when he could use me as an object, but since I don't fill that need (of escaping his wife, of being seen, of feeling like a cool, cute guy), then my humanity and friendship is of no consequence. That is heartbreaking to receive from someone I used to love. I did; I really cared for him quite a lot, but I cared about him enough to not drag him through my dark night of the soul. I knew what was coming on and I couldn't do it to him. Most people don't know how deep the darkness in me goes, and I can tell you that it's a very dark world in me. Until I had a handle on it, I wasn't going to beat anyone else with it. By the time I had a handle on it, it was clear that things weren't meant to be.
Truth is that I feel kicked in the belly by most of my old friends anymore. I thought they liked me for me, not for what I wear, or the image that makes them comfortable. I'm working on an education that is a big deal for me and I get tons of blank stares. Right now I have time for nothing, never mind clubs, shows, and clothing shopping. I would have thought that people cared about more than my subculture adherence. If I had the time, energy and money I would love to be wearing clothes I enjoy and doing fun things. I could just cry; in fact I feel like I might. I have no reserves to deal with anything, least of all friends who can't understand me.
Fuck Kris and fuck anyone who has their image of who I need to be--I have a paper of transgenerational trauma to write. and frankly, my research and client work is worth more to the general good than their petty slobberings.
Personally, even if I get blond hair, a tan, and Barbie pink clothes, I am *still* a flaming freak. I am so over this crap. If one more person tries to talk to me about how counter-culture they still are because of the clothing they wear I *will* vomit. Blood, in fact. Jesus, what a bunch of classist crap! Oh, well, I am so damn sorry that my tiny, tiny bit of money has to go toward work clothes and I don't have money to wander to Macy's, or some tony joint on the Haight. I can't afford the multi-colored extensions, the new shoes to replace the ones I have worn into oblivion. When I replace my tshirts with holes I have to buy the cheapest and least pretty ones. Sorry I couldn't spring for the $30 chic version.
Shithead has time for his special friends, but not me. Truth be told, it hurts. He may have valid things going on and this time might not have to do with me. The underlying issue is that the last time he was here he was making noise about coming to see my home--which would be nice since he didn't bother coming to my damn wedding, etc. He was five minutes down the road at Shannon and Jeremy's, but described coming for 10 minutes to my home as too much trouble and that the others he was traveling with not being into doing so. Ah, I see. My friendship isn't worth that 10 minute trip, huh? This time he describes himself as all booked up. Feels like a pattern. I wonder if I was of value to him when he could use me as an object, but since I don't fill that need (of escaping his wife, of being seen, of feeling like a cool, cute guy), then my humanity and friendship is of no consequence. That is heartbreaking to receive from someone I used to love. I did; I really cared for him quite a lot, but I cared about him enough to not drag him through my dark night of the soul. I knew what was coming on and I couldn't do it to him. Most people don't know how deep the darkness in me goes, and I can tell you that it's a very dark world in me. Until I had a handle on it, I wasn't going to beat anyone else with it. By the time I had a handle on it, it was clear that things weren't meant to be.
Truth is that I feel kicked in the belly by most of my old friends anymore. I thought they liked me for me, not for what I wear, or the image that makes them comfortable. I'm working on an education that is a big deal for me and I get tons of blank stares. Right now I have time for nothing, never mind clubs, shows, and clothing shopping. I would have thought that people cared about more than my subculture adherence. If I had the time, energy and money I would love to be wearing clothes I enjoy and doing fun things. I could just cry; in fact I feel like I might. I have no reserves to deal with anything, least of all friends who can't understand me.
Fuck Kris and fuck anyone who has their image of who I need to be--I have a paper of transgenerational trauma to write. and frankly, my research and client work is worth more to the general good than their petty slobberings.