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You’re different, just like everyone else.
So, I’m walking down the road, walking my dog, and I see these two kids down the street. Actually they’re older than me, and taller too. Tall and pencil thin. Well, the guy is. The girl’s acceptably chubby; her double chin accented by all the pale make up she’s wearing. It looked normal from far away, but once I got up close it was fairly disgusting. Not that that was what crossed my mind at the time, far from it. When I spotted the sun gleaming off his thick studded belt and her gauged snakebites, I immediately craved acceptance. Smoky coffeehouses and backstage fumbles were the stuff of gods, and these two seemed closer to it all than I had ever been. I wanted to lick the ambrosia off their fingers, to savour the taste of individuality. I couldn’t get enough of their sweet defiance, and they knew it.
As it turned out, they knew too well.
Not even a glance was spared as I passed by, smiling a bit and crumpling my hand in a half-wave. And I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more rejected in my whole life, not even when I walked all the way to music with a hole in the seat of my hot pink pants and suddenly no one was my friend anymore. I didn’t even know them. It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. That anonymous recognition of your worth becomes the scale that you rate all other comparisons to. If that person over there hates me just by looking at me, how am I able to look at myself in the mirror every morning?
So then you start not being able to. And it’s all downhill from there.
I couldn’t bring myself to look back at the future alcoholics and high-school dropouts, so instead I looked down. There was paint all over my shirt, and I think my pants were inside out. Painting my dad’s porch in ninety-degree weather was not my idea of summer, but, well, we’re related. I wanted to cry. My dog just wanted to keep walking. And my thighs were really starting to chafe from the sweat and denim.
So I went on, and fell into the Chuck Palahniuk view of life, where cynicism and criticism rule over hope and emotion. It isn’t comforting. It doesn’t make me feel better that there’s actually nothing out there for me, and if I die the stock market won’t even go down a point or two. If I ever get a tumor, I’m naming it Marla.
And the sickly sweet nectar is always just out of reach.
(sources)
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/say-anyth
http://i60.photobucket.com/albums/h24/d
http://www.foxmovies.com/fightclub/
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