The Lost Entry: My Personal Relationships

I get so many emails from people wondering where certain blog entries went. During the change over, when my site went from FesteringAss V 1.0 to V 2.0, a couple entries got dropped. I have to go back and repost them in my archives, and given my hectic schedule, that won't happen until 2008.

But one entry has been specifically asked for. In fact, when this entry was up in the archives I would get regular emails about it. Seems it resonated with a lot of you.

As per request, I am honored to give you one of my most heartfelt and emotionally sloppy entries: My Personal Relationships

My sister has this friend. He's funny and well-intentioned, has a good job and likes his life. He's totally unremarkable, and yet, happy. Profoundly happy all the time, and though I like to look at people like that and say something snotty and baseless like "ignorance is bliss," the truth is, I couldn't be more jealous.

He came to visit my sister a few weeks ago, and hung out with me and my friends. He found us all to be charming, because we are, dynamic, because we are, and wholly dysfunctional. Ahem. We are. Before he left, he said something along the lines of, "That's a fucked up bunch of people, I tell ya." I wasn't there to hear it because happy normals don't make improperly offensive statements around others, so I only assume his intonation. The more cynical side of me also assumes he made his joke, drank a coke and flew merrily merrily home to watch episodes of Baywatch Hawaii on his big screen television, not giving us a second thought with the bouncing boobs and all that inner peace and self love.

I hung out with him, yes, but more out of sisterly obligation. He bores me.

You see, I'm a collector of broken people--emotionally not physically. Everyone around me is messed up for one reason or another, usually because they had a troublesome childhood, parents who were bad, abusive or soulless, or they lacked any love and affection during their developmental stages. I don't collect serial killers, but I collect their compassionate kin.

I don't intentionally do this. Its more about attraction than anything else, a lunar magnetism that nature enacted to keep things orderly in bars, to keep the crazies from the regulars. If there is a mixed atmosphere, I can find the bruised soul in the room. I'm drawn to it instantly. We meet and we chat and discover little about each other, and this is because we already know each other very well. We test each others weaknesses and pick at each others scabs, make unrealistic criticisms about the majority and later we'll drink till we puke and have ridiculously rough sex during which we can't come (or at least they can't). It will be so awkward in the morning.

I'm fully able to admit I am a mess. My favorite metaphor for myself--and I have so many--is this: a dropped pot, glued back together. This explains the embarrassment I feel around normal people, for it is embarrassing to be so obviously broken, and so obviously glued together. I feel like my cracks show, so I surround myself with people who are just as cracked, and I stay away from the ones who aren't. I don't like our little cracked crew to be infiltrated by the unblemished surfaces of people who've been through nothing. Why do they go home early? Why don't they hate religion? Why are they so peaceful inside? We huddle together, confused. There is a sort of unspoken camraderie between us born out of similar dysfunctions, and together we're calm because no one is going to get up and do anything perfunctory in the morning, like go to a normal job, wash and wax their car, or shop for big screen television sets. 'That would be an empty pursuit,' is what we say, but 'I wish I could have that,' is what we think.

We live off the grid and we think that's romantic instead of criminal. It seems as if we are these "fuck everyone" free spirits, these fly-by-night vagabonds, avoiding taxes, avoiding spouses, avoiding...life. The reality is that we're more chained than anyone, and in the sickest of ironies, the things that we're chained to are our real or imagined enemies--those who dropped us and broke us to begin with. We faithfully carry that baggage because It's a whole lot easier than just fessing up and getting better.

Maybe this seems romantic. Sure, I hang out with loads of artists and scholars, because they tend to be most broken, and I have lots of imaginative sex and passionate conversations, but running with this kind of crowd is way more dangerous than it seems. Remember the scab picking and boundary testing? That never stops. And once there's enough rough drunk sex, feelings get out of hand and we get wrapped up in each other. We get twisted around and love triangled. Sometimes I think we like it this way, because it redirects our attention. We can't feel anything else with all that drama going on. Could you hear a pin drop at a Megadeath concert? Could you come to any kind of emotional realizations with your head pressed against a brick wall, a hand around your neck and a cock in your ass?

It's not love, that's for sure, because love isn't supposed to make you feel so bad. What's worse is that no one is anchored to anything substantial, so the entwinement, the wrapping just keeps on going until its nearly impossible to distinguish who's parts belong to who. It is a miracle to get out of it and harbor no grudge. I choose not to. I choose to just untangle myself and hope for the best.

Comments

Posted by: RazrMazr at October 21, 2006 10:31 PM

Posted by: MemberName at October 22, 2006 01:05 AM

Posted by: She-Kapo at October 22, 2006 09:13 AM

Posted by: Mango#5 at October 25, 2006 01:48 PM

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