18:23 - YOUR ROCKSTAR LIFE AIN’T GOT SHIT ON MY LAME ONE.
Current mood: chipper

Metablogging, again.

I once befriended one of my teachers in high school, an old nicotine-addicted Catholic Democrat who did a kickass impersonation of a hooker leaning against a streetpost and flexing her hips back and forth. Okay, so he was a bit of a creeper. But I begged for any consistent force in my life at that particular time, and the guy didn't mind my ranting emails, sent at all hours in all states of consciousness.

He once told me I was "born to blog," to abandon MySpace and create some sort of online identity and just bitch all the fucking time for anybody to hear. While this idea might appeal to me when I've more firmly resigned myself to spinsterhood (dear Christ, my spell checker didn't slap a red dotted line under the word "spinsterhood"; that shit's a real word), I like to think currently lack that pressing need for anonymous cynicism.

I still have the self-esteem to take credit for my own thoughts, twisted and fuck-word-laden though they may be.

Yeah, I'm alone -- medicated -- a bleach-dependent brunette -- pody-mouthed -- awkward -- fucking damned to the state of North Carolina for like seven more years -- clumsy -- utterly confused -- and so on and so forth, use your flippin' imagination.

But I'm me, I'm Cassidy Jane, and goddamnit, I'm okay with that. I really am. For the first time in my life.

I'm not useless because I don't give head. I'm not a phony because I'm so addicted to dying my hair. My eyes are the color of honeyed shit. After a good meal, the backs of my thighs resemble cottage cheese. I always say the wrong thing. I leave dirty underwear on the floor. I'm too snobby to date a guy who wears flip-flops to the bank, especially Rainbows. I mean what the fuck? Rainbows? Ugh. Grow a cock, please.

Speaking of cock, when I'm home alone, I yell "COCK!" at the top of my bloody lungs in the parlor -- just because it makes me feel delightfully dirty. I might get too caught up in giving you a hickey and end up drawing blood. Can't handle it, well go find a girl who will stick your dingaling in her cakehole and pretend she likes it. I hate parties. The movies, well, I hate them, too, unless I'm sucking somebody's face. I really like kissing. I don't care if red meat kills me, I'm gonna eat it until the day I die. Cheese and beans, too.

I can make a dirty joke out of nothing. And I'm going to be the best mother fucking Kindergarten teacher in the whole bleeding universe. I go to UNC Asheville but guess what? I'll probably vote Republican for the rest of my life. That's right, I think Barack Obama can kiss my rotund and blindingly white Irish ass, and Hilary Clinton... okay the thing I had for her was just TOO obscene for this blog. Ask me in person. Oh, fuck. She can suck my bald pussy. Bah. That felt GREAT..

So anyway, this same fine educator once told me a horror story about his son. Be careful, or you'll be in the situation my son is in, he tells me. And what is that?, I ask, trying to dissolve panicky urgency in casual coolness, then failing utterly.

My son is a very intelligent person, like you are. Okay, I say, but I know this comment he's making, it's more sinister than a compliment.

And he's in his thirties, he lives at home with me, he's obese, depressed, he'll probably never get out. There's not much of a chance.

Great, because I'm sitting here rotting from the sinewy depths of my seventeen-year-old heart and this is just what I wanted to hear.

Cassidy, you've got to find yourself somebody who appreciates you for your mind, soon, or you're going to end up like him, he tells me.

Well you know what?

I like food, I like lounging around the house, depression stimulates oodles of creative juices, and yeah, it's not a fucking Castle in the Sky, but it's not the end of things. I'm not saying I want that life or ever intend to have it.

I'm saying fuck you, you fucking old fart, for ever fucking planting such an idea in a vulnerable kid's crushed heart. Just because you're bald and smoke cheap cigarettes doesn't mean you have to squash my big fat dreams with your son's big fat ass. Suck my big fat cock.

Just kidding. I'm not all that irritated anymore.

But a thought is a hard thing to control, ask Winona Ryder's character in Girl, Interrupted. She'll tell you all about it. And a tiny thought-thing, well, it breeds. Asexually. The little bugger undergoes mitotic division after mitotic devision, encountering radioactivity along the way, mutating into a cancerous and smothering growth.

Clinicians like to call this "depression," and that's an apt enough word for it. Where you once stood upright, you're now a depression in the fabric of everything. That solitary thought bogged you down, drug you underground. You're just a pothole in this otherwise smooth, solid, dependable blacktop. You're not in a rut, you are one.

So you can lie there, all concaved and weird, and listen to people cuss as they drive over you. Or you can string up that thought-tumor round the neck and let it know what a feisty mother fucker you are. Come back with a vengeance. Eat it for breakfast. Attack that shit. With a machete.