scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

2.11.06

on fugly Caste.

so i was never on the A team. ever. and you never know exactly why, really, i think it's because my face isn't symmetrical enough or something - but. i never, ever was. The thing that was so lovely about powell house (or, really, one of many things, but the one that is the topic for today) was that you could pretend you were. Mostly. Almost. And even when you didn't quite believe it, really, somewhere you did. and there still was an elite, clearly, and there were untouchables just as much as anywhere else, but you could - if you were just oblivous enough - you could still get away with anything. It's a funny thing to know you're both at the very top of the pecking order (just like everyone else) and also really not at all, to know that you have the freedom to do whatever you like and they can't do a damn thing about it, not here, but somewhere in their secrets you're cut off.

This was hammered home at the reunion thing over the summer because there was this person there who sent me a real, paper letter talking about what an incredible person i am, or i was, back in the day. It was written on purple note-cards so you knew he meant it, and i always rather liked him (not in that particular way, but just in the way that he was nice and i honestly respected him), so knowing that he rather liked me and thought of me in this clearly glowing manner was a good thing. and i think somewhere i still have it because i still have everything that anyone at powell house ever gave me, including the little plastic bunnies and the tube of glitter and the old tacky bracelets and the strawberry chap-stik that has long since dried out, which i bet you didn't know was possible. but knowing that this person that i highly respected and whose opinion i valued thought that i was also a good person, that was nice. That was very healthy for my self-esteem.

Person was on the a-list.

and at the reunion? Person had no idea who i was. and i think eventually he remembered: but by then it was too late and it was all uncomfortable and weird and after enthusiastically greeting him upon his arrival and receiving that patented chilly Quaker hug, further contact was so not coming from my corner. And i was kind of surprised and hurt and i went to every damn thing i could at that place for years, so to not know me at all? Ugh.

and the only reason that it was okay was that i didn't want to be in that circle any more. i don't need it. And still somewhere it would be nice, sure. but at some point, i'm just not emo enough to be an A-lister there. my crazy Quaker mind-meld doesn't work that way. so, yeah, i'll go up to the cornfield and have a beer and just fucking chill with MY cool people, because being all deep and intense makes me sleepy. and i have learned that i like to just fucking chill, instead of trying to be all this other random bullshit: and that cheap yellow American lite Pabst fucking knockoff was the best beer i have ever had.

i remain convinced that under any other circumstances, Genny Lite would be fugly. "excusive bottom-fermenting yeast?" retch.

scrawled @ 23:23