Imaginary...
...I thought of calling my dad to tell him that I hadn't returned his call before because my cat had died. Then I thought about how his own father and mother had died, and I imagined what he would never say to me, because he's sympathetic to me, but what I've heard people say about others: that they have no real problems and so they create issues to be all melodramatic about. There are real tragedies in the world, people dying, and in this country, the security forces and the religious fundamentalists are forming a truly scary alliance, and meanwhile I'm scraping to pay the cleaning lady, being sad over a poor little kitten who was too sick to save and never had a chance, buying new furniture, thinking about fixing the falling curtains, thinking about plays and films. And my best friend won't call me, and my housemates won't talk to each other, and they don't have any money so I'm carrying the house until they can, and...
...and I still don't have problems. Because my problems are of my own making. I choose to have housemates. I choose not to live with my parents. I choose to acquire a pet that then dies. I choose to have friends who don't call me back and who fight with one another. I choose to spend my money and then sit there whining.
...huh. In a way, it's kind of empowering. Yeah, everything is my fault, but at least it feels like I have, what do they call it? Agency. Like I actually exist, and can do stuff.ck on,
So yeah, I need to make a T-shirt that says, "BOURGEOIS AND PROUD". Because when a friend unthinkingly called me bourgeois, she was dead-on. I am. I keep a clean house, and buy groceries and washing soap and call the dryer repairman and make sure the place is pretty. I care about appearances (my beat-up car is just a concession to bohemianism) and don't demonstrate or do anything risky... yeah. Rock on, bourgeoisie!