saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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I'm going fakeeeeeeee!
I don't feel like I've aged past 20 years old. I really don't.
Or perhaps I'm having huge misconceptions about what aging is about or should be like. All I know is that I am on the downward slope to 30, and I'm a veritable adolescent mindfuck. I am.
I miss my friends. A. Lot. I'm fearful that they don't miss me. This makes me ponder not only my ability to "move on," but also my sheer Friend Value. By pounds and ounces. Tax free.
Not to say that I haven't made new friends. That's inevitable. It's just that I haven't boxed up my old ones with the prom corsage and the yearbooks and crammed it all into the back of my closet.
Well, the corsage and the yearbooks, yes. Just not the friends with them. Of course. Don't be silly.
This is where I get confused: where is it written that when we get older that we have to look back on our past and chuckle at the naivete and find a whole new social structure to latch onto? I'm supposed to bed down with a lifetime mate, procreate like mad and brush aside all past relationships as the dregs of the maturity process?
Well, fucking hell...I think I missed that announcement. Poor unresolved, bitter and backwards me. I still like a lot of the friends I made when I was 17. Someone call the Social Police.
And the stigma attached to the age of 30 is beyond me. As I see it, my choices are as follows:
1. Don the Izod and slip into facetious banter regarding my age, taking in my pristine lawn and mighty-mortgage, cookie cutter home with wild, trapped eyes (as a good little 30-year-old should),
OR
2. Do what I like, and be forever viewed as petulant and unrealistic by the crowd that watches and wags its collective head.
I don't do drugs.
I don't abuse animals.
I don't sleep in a shack or work at Hot Topic.
My daughter doesn't want for anything (except a new Nintendo game, as she has so often told me over the past few weeks).
I don't dress up as a spooooooky vampire and call myself Drucilla Wolfsbane.
I don't run up the stairs two at a time, fling open the bedroom door and shout, "Haha! Caught you, Mildred!"
I do have purple hair.
I am pierced and tattooed.
I listen to music that is "different."
And I really. Really. Really like my old friends.
This does not make me immature or in denial.
So there.
Well. That came out a lot more pissed off than I meant it to. Have a lovely day, cats.
(Not-terribly-subtle subliminal message: Sign the damned guestbook. Show me love. No strings attached.)
9:47 a.m. - 2001-07-17
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