Thursday, October 27, 2005

Careless; Confessional

My wallet was stolen from me on the metro. Stupid, stupid, stupid. NorIda bought me a ticket home. Instead of moping, I snuck into the political science party, saw Swiss Alps and cheered myself up, dancing with strangers pulled from their booths. The live band was funktastic, but them white people were content just tapping their feet, bobbing their heads, smoking that weed, and swigging the bottle. Get up, damnit! This is why privileged hipsters are a pop culture punchline! Swiss Alps introduced me to L, who told me she was on the school shuttle that day I chatted up the bus driver and performed a Seinfeldian exchange. She said she was mighty impressed with my pep and improvisational skills, but I think she was just making conversation. (Although old Greek bachelors with fake Japanese mistresses are crazy funny nonetheless.) L in turn introduced me to, my oh my, Mr. Intensity -- the formerly dreadlocked heartthrob of journalism. He and I know each other from class, we explained. Then he whispered something in her ear as we shared a laugh.

"What did he say about me?" I teased. "Look at him, already running his mouth like he knows me."

"He said you're beautiful. And that you're going to be a famous newscaster."

That's not for me, I dismissed. I'll just be sucking off the boss all day.

*sidenote: We coolly flirted in an unusual noir-manner. Mr. Intensity smokes like a Montrealer. Not surprised, not impressed. I suppose it beats Elmeraler's mock aroma of wino blossoms and musk. And everyone's always trashed. Simply said: Hard men are good to find, but can't stay hard for me. Go crochet that on a pillow.


I missed M. Biologique by mere minutes. He was apparently very drunk and spotlight hungry. Swiss Alps said "the group" is behind me (they're like the mafia except gender balanced and susceptible to cheap liquor). "Don't worry, baby. We've discussed it and we all agree he treated you like crap."

Ha! To be worthy of being the topic du moins. I guess this tidbit was supposed to be a comfort to me though the knowledge that they continue to share two-faced pleasantries with this unconscionable creature is ... disenchanting.

Is it wrong to wish the fucker misery and isolation? Narcissists don't suffer half as much as they deserve. Bad childhood? Get over it. Couldn't they take their own lives and return the world to Technicolor? It's like a bad dream I can't shake off. He took advantage of my nature and being, and quite generously exploited every weakness. "It's your fault for staying." I was a stinkin' mess of Stockholm Syndrome: appreciating him for withholding abuse instead of providing kindness. "You must've seen this coming. Why didn't you leave?" My mental state simply can't get any worse. I am in such an over-compensatory mood nowadays that I feel guilty when I'm not crestfallen and beaten. I don't know whether to be crying or kicking myself for letting him get to me. I charm my way through crowds and confidently talk up lustful schmoes, all the while staunchly afraid of being discovered as the less attractive me. I hate him for making me into an impressionable ball of wax: so weak and malleable, resistent to reason. To feel this crippled should be a crime.

Relief was supposed to come from shopping, but my freakin' wallet is gone. Grief, utter grief. I'm no longer even a Canadian citizen anymore. I have no IDs to apply for additional IDs. Country-less, job-less, and lovelorn; I'd be meat-less if I weren't so optimistic.

No comments: