smothered hope

I'm in the process of auditing my entire life. What am I doing with myself? Why am I choosing certain things? Why do I associate with the people I do, and what should I do about it if there is a problem with any of them? Recognizing and attempting to jettison mental and emotional baggage. This is difficult.

It's always easier said than done, of course; I spent my lunch hour counselling my friend to put her foot down with her controlling boyfriend. It sucked having to tell her that for two reasons: I've been in her exact position (only I didn't have the guts to admit to anyone that my ex had been treating me that way, exacerbating the situation), and the fact that her boyfriend is also a friend of mine. In fact, he's the same friend who helped me survive my last year of high school, so the tie that binds is long indeed. I just hope she makes the right decision. I told her that if she felt too embarrassed to tell her friends about the problem, it was because she was projecting her opinion of herself onto them (us, me).

Oh lord; I've gone and put my sweater on over my headphones, and now I have a wire running down my shirt, trapping me in my seat.

Some mental graves have been exhuming themselves lately, one in the form of a nightmare this morning. It wasn't a scary dream, but an infuriating one. And I'll spare you the details; you're welcome. I had two nightmares last night, both waking me with a start and in a foul mood. While I am trying to stay in a good mood today, I will admit it's been hard work. I want my past to rise up, so that I may sentence it to death once and for all. I'm sick of the past popping up here and there and trying to make me feel shitty for things nobody can change, things which weren't all my fault, things that do not reflect who I am now. Even if the concern and need for closure is really just a product of me projecting my own low self-opinion upon others, I still want the chance to face that. I want it to be over. I don't want to dread certain encounters or find out I'm three degrees from a scandal. Ghosts, this is your invitation: come and get me. Now. Get it over with. I'm waiting.

Now, for the present: I've nothing planned immediately, since I need an emotional rest after such poor sleep. I'm supposed to do a few re-shoots this week with Jason, but I have to e-mail him and tell him I'm too effin' tired. Tomorrow. And the gym? Oh yes, I need to make a schedule and stick to it. I need someone to go with me, at least a few times, just enough to keep social anxiety from getting the better of me. (Like I care what a bunch of post-ironic-mullet-wearing hipsters think of me, anyhow.) And here's a deal with you: once I find out whether or not I've been accepted to school, I'll post the contents of the ridiculous letter of intent I sent with my application. Nobody can accuse me of taking myself too seriously, if anythign is to be gleaned from that letter.

People who take themselves too seriously tend to live in a certain neighbourhood of Montreal. I will not name it, because I'll surely get at least one snotty message abou how cool people live there, and how all the best clubs and shops are there, and how it's a real community, and basically all the same bullshit the same phonies were saying about last decade's hot neighbourhood, before it was gentrified (by the same yuppies who both populated and then vacated once they realized how popular it was - they have no-one but themselves to blame for their beloved neighbourhood's economy - ugh!). Um, ok, tangent aside, in this particular neighbourhood, there was a rent party on Saturday, and one of Sabine's co-worker buddies invited her, saying that the bands playing would be right up her alley. Unfortunately, they were not. We all agreed (myself, Sabine and Steve) that they were merely a bad Lightning Bolt rip-off, and even so, most people don't like Lightning Bolt, never mind dance to it. Oh yes, there's nothing which iritates me quite like little hipster girls, whose wardrobes betray the fact that they were born post 1984, pretending to like the foul noise their boyfriends' bands emit to the point of dancing to it. I mean, if you dance like Ani DiFranco, chances are you don't listen to post-ironic-garage-noise (or whatever it is your effette, mullet-wearing boor of a boyfriend plays). Just admit you're not into it, put Dilate back on the stereo, and shut up about who you saw at the Green Room last night. Go do some more coke, you waste of oxygen. You make me want to puke.

Oh god, being mean makes me feel so good sometimes. I fucking hate phonies. I hate being forced to be one by playing nice with them. I hate their attempts to be edgy by wearing stupid clothing they'd never have been caught dead in five years ago. I hate how they've appropriated everything I once liked. I hate how they have no freaking emotions, unless you count envy and greed. I hate their haircuts, I hate their shoes, and I hate their music scene. Shave that beard, hippie! Cut your hair on both sides, dimwit! You're not expressing your individuality if you look like all the rest of your friends, you stupid lot of toads! Cripes! Even I figured that one out in high school.

Sigh. I am officially old and bitter. But you kow what? Saying it feels way better than keeping it in and pretending to be open-minded and hip. Another form of phoniness. I don't need it. I'd rather be a cranky bitch, making fun of people who wear thrift-store Jordache sweaters in an attempt to cash in on the Irony Cow than some dweeb nearing thirty, desperately trying to cling to her youth by pretending to get it. Fergeddit. I'm me, and I'm way cooler than some spoiled brat with access to a Wolf Parade CD. (Tom Vek's cooler, anyhow.)

I'm definintely too cranky to go out tonight.

back | forth

listening:
reading:
ingesting:
(see entries before 20.11.05)

previously on Smothered Hope:

unreal - 20.05.08
in which our narrator kinda just babbles on a bit - 15.05.08
drank several margaritas last night. they were great. - 04.05.08
spacey - 29.04.08
i will most definitely regret posting this in public - 28.04.08