Hordes

Lines of force through my house manhandled me for a month. It's kind of a true story, if only I could get through what I mean by that. I got to see the worst that fashionable Toronto had to offer, sitting in rapt attention drinking my tea watching reain trail off the firetrucks passing by, then returning home to find yelling in the attic until all goddamn hours of the night. These people: I never had this feeling before. They were judging me. I wasn't passing muster. The thrift store clothes they wore were uncomfortable; they had obviously spent three hours applying the "starving artist" makeup--or whatever. I wasn't passing muster beacuse my thrift store clothes were actually comfortable and out of style. My "it" band was a few weeks out of date, and you should have seen their expressions when I expressed an appreciation for some music written over a year(!) ago. (What would they think of my new-found appreciation for Bach. Is he so unhip that he's wrapped around to hip again? And how many times has he done that?)

What's worse: there's no content to what these people were saying. It was actually an exercise in social grooming as they preen and fucking posture. "Look at how tight my jeans are!", "I saved three dollars on this cauliflower", "I love your leggings", and so on, yelled out ad nauseam, walking the streets up and down our block dissipating energy. That's all. Fucking energy dissipation. I understand the need for that, but you shoudl find a way to do it yourself. What's the point of coordinating hordes of similarly-dressed people to jump in dank rooms all hours of the night? Oh, I forgot about the ether-guffing and various other ways to kill off your prefrontal cortex. Godd job!

You use your freedom for this? Fuck your libertine lifestyle. And don't get me wrong: I sympathize with libertinage. But executive libertinage, none of this almost-Freudan-it's-so-obviously-to-get-back-at-your-father shit. I thought your hordes were low-quality friends, but they turned out to be strangers. My tolerance for strangers is about two per day, not fifteen per day. Fuck. It was back to high school, back against locker, condescending eyes, threat of violence, male posturing, female posturing with honeyed tones--the honeyed tones I can't fucking stand.

You think everyione assumes you're sweet and innocent. I've seen your fucking fangs. Bitch.

(If I can't get along with people my age and similar socioeconomic background, what awaits me after graduation?)

Consider: "Religion don't mean a damn thing / It's just another way to be right wing."