I’ve lived in this God-forsaken shit town for 3 years and I haven’t made one friend. I’m not looking for your pity or sympathy either. This blog isn’t about that. I’ve got my pillow to cry into and a therapist who hears me bitch enough about being a loner. I am a loner, but it’s not by choice.
I just don’t fit into this cookie-cutter community. Apparently I don’t know the secret fucking handshake in this one horse town. Most women here are trust fund girls who went to Yale and probably have their silver spoons embedded up their snatch to prove their purebred status. I’m the mongrel they secretly want to spit on, the girl of which a few of their husbands sometimes secretly steal furtive glances when they’re not looking. Something about me makes these women uneasy, but I’m not sure why. I’m college educated too, but I didn’t go to an Ivy-League school. I had to get to a state school through work-study, scholarships, and financial aid.
But something about me threatens them, because they can’t even make eye contact with me when they’re away from the “pack” all by themselves. You know, the clique they usually stand in? The group of women that just like in high school, stand to the side and whisper in hushed tones as you pass by. Most of them are approaching middle-age and have starved their way to being thin through daily yoga and pilates. They walk around toting their children they adopted from a foreign country because they were way past menopause when they started their family and because it wasn’t working out having just dogs as surrogate children anymore.
Everything is sanitary, sterile, and healthful from clothing to food. I don’t think any of their kids have ever tasted a cupcake with red dye #4 and high fructose corn syrup. Hell no, they subsist off of organic soy and sunshine products that both look and tastes like cardboard. But those kids won’t learn that until they get far enough away from mommy’s helicopter apron strings.
At the last PTO meeting I attended they were all clambering who’d take home the compost pile from the Harvest garden at school. I wanted to raise my hand and offer to take a shit in the compost bag just to see if anyone would notice I said anything.
When I walk by they don’t even acknowledge me. As if I do not exist, like I am a non-entity, a non human being. And in those moments, It makes me fantasize about being on my knees and sucking off one their husbands, purely out of spite. But I wouldn’t. I have morals and besides their husbands are just as narcissistic, arrogant, and filled with hubris as they are and equally creep me out.
And yet, I am still on the outside looking in. Filled with a palpable sadness. A long-standing dolefulness that spans years. The kind of penetrating sorrow which makes one turn a collar to that cold and damp, almost as if to shield oneself from its grip.
It’s like I’m seven years old again on the play-ground and some asshole kid won’t pick me for the team because I don’t have the “right” clothes. It’s the same bullshit, just that those kids grew up and became adults. Now they’re still the same pretentious elitist assholes just older….Same as it ever was. And I, I still don’t have the teflon I need in life to let it all roll off.
Despite what people think, addicts have feelings too.