There are days I long desperately for a partner in crime. Someone who I can pal around with, divulge my deepest secrets to, with or without the delightful addition of coffee and/or alcohol. I’m talking the kind of friendship I’ve personally only witnessed vicariously through television femmes.
And then there are days when I realize the reason I don’t have that is because I expect too much from people.
It’s true.
I expect people to be honest with me. I expect them to actually give a shit when I am hurting or going through a bad time, and TELL ME that they care. I expect them to realize that sometimes I’m going to have a bad day, and can’t always be the epitome of proper social constraints. And I sure as hell expect them to sometimes check in on me – voluntarily – without me having to say something first. Not all the time. Just sometimes. I expect give and take. Cause as far as I can tell, that’s the way friendships operate.
In other words, I expect from others EXACTLY what they should expect from me.
I am not claiming to be perfect. I spend enough time with myself to realize my flaws, and there are plenty of them to notice. But I am not delusional, or disillusioned. I do make a conscious effort to recognize them, and try to correct them. I make a real attempt at optimism as much as humanly possible, because I don’t want to be a Debby Downer.
My life sometimes sucks shit. It often feels like I’m beating my head against walls. I try to take care of people that don’t recognize or appreciate the efforts I make. I work as hard as I can, and still struggle to make ends meet. And my life support, my anti-depressants, my very soul… a.k.a. my ferrets… well, I’ve lost two sweet angels in less than a year, and it is seriously taking a toll on me. I do not walk around talking about these things all the time, even though they eat at me every single moment. I’d say, all things considered, I’m being a damn good sport about it all.
Like many people, I turn to social networking to compensate for the lack of socializing that goes on outside my laptop. But that’s a joke. The people on the other ends of those conversations may say they are my friends, but I realize enough to know they would most likely be another disappointment in the long line of ‘Potential Besties That Never Quite Best Enough’. Now, I am certainly not assuming everyone is like that. There are sincere people out there on the other end of some of those conversations. Only time reveals true colors.
The outlook for social media grows bleak when everything looks vicious and overblown. How much animosity does anyone need to have with someone who doesn’t share a household, much less a state? And why the hell care that much about the business of strangers? If you ain’t writing it in the next big best-selling novel, then it ain’t research, my friend. It’s just being nosy. And who the hell cares ’bout any of that, anyway? Is there not enough pain and anguish in your own lives already? Do you really need that big heaping teaspoon of OPB in your coffee? (That’s Other People’s Bullshit, if you’re asking.) At the end of the day, it does not make them a better person, and it won’t do a damn thing for your soul, either.
Namaste, motherfuckers. Seriously. Take a friggin Xanax. The world will end soon enough without your implosions.
Memoirs of a Midnight Masochist 