I’m always striving to become more something. More enlightened, more cultured, more aware of privilege and class and where I am within it for the purpose of challenging it for everyone to step towards greater equality. I strive to become more informed – it’s why I read and boy do I love it – but with this dedication I have abandoned many common aims of others, like buying or building a nice house, having children, owning nice cars, and so on. These are the things that are built day by day in our lives. At our day to day jobs we talk about the day by day to the people around us. Some of us will find common ground and get good tips and learn things from each other while forming a solid social bond that’s key to an effective workplace. Others – well, me – will practice the craft of maintaining conversational eye contact where there’s absolutely no interest and my limit for how much of this chit chat I can handle is approaching.
This followed with a text to Dirk: My epitaph is going to say “Fucking plebs.” See, I’ve been trying to be more nice to Dirk lately as we had a Halloween-weekend chat when I was suddenly blonde and he was Steve Jobs undead and we talked about all the style of friendship we’ve strayed from. I want to shed the animosity from the onset and let it build up gradually in every encounter to make each moment special and unique. And the good thing about having what some may consider a terrible person for a good friend is that he will appreciate my sentiment. It’s a good reminder of why I chose to steer away from the love/marriage/baby carriage life stream, and why I would even steer away from the sex/ohgodohgodohnowhatdoido/baby carriage stream as well. If in that realm mine would be more like sex/OHGODOHGODOHYESSSS/reading about the history of homosexuality in civilization. (The sex would be hetero, if you want to appreciate that a little more.)
Because although I’m listening, with nothing better to do right away, and I’m keeping eye contact and nodding my head, I could not be less concerned with the logistics of taking your children trick-or-treating in a mall first, then seeing if there’s time to take them door to door, and feeling bad that you won’t be giving out candy. I have nothing to offer in the ways of advice on the matter, except don’t take your kids to the mall for trick-or-treating because the people working there really don’t fucking care about costumes. Just…live and deal with your own problems, of which you are fully capable. Let me deal with all of the things in my life you don’t have, like learning, imagining, and thinking. Or I’m going to sit on your desk and go on and on and on and on about the pubescent nature of national socialism when seen in the context of broader history. I’ll do it. I’m not afraid.