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Saturday, Oct. 09, 2004 / 1:43 p.m. ~I, Misanthropist Revisited~ Any post-Presidential Debate glow I had last night is now just a dull haze. It's all been replaced by soured friendships and the debate over whether honesty is a good thing, and the wondering if anyone can ever really handle the truth. I'm a grownup, despite appearances, despite demeanor, and I have strong principles and morals, I'm steadfast yet changing, and I earn a living, I want to go out with friends, like I see on television, in movies, people going out with friends, eating dinners out, going to festivals, plays, movies, having fun, sitting in cafes getting drunk on bottle after bottle of wine, talking, laughing. To think that people can't afford it, can't go out, or will accompany, but without money to enjoy, is not part of the fantasy. I want the friends who are available, who are willing, who are solvent financially, people who don't have children interrupting us constantly, or babies who stink of old formula and are so fat they can barely sit up straight. I have fantasies, ideals, I exist outside of reality, and in my fantasy I have friends who stand by me, friends who understand me and are endeared to me, people who support me and have fun with me, and can maybe even take turns with the check, who like to shop and buy things impulsively, people who aren't always wondering where their next meal is going to come from. I'm an elitist, I'm a pseudo-intellectual, I'm a wannabe Bohemian, I'm a hippie neverwas, I suck, I'm unrealistic, I have unrealistic expectations, I exist inside a dreamworld of my own construction, and the walls are thick, no entry unless you meet the vast and wildly fantastic criteria, and now I shut all out. There is no room here for anyone but me, no one passes the test. I don't want to smell sour formula, I don't want to play on the floor with 5 year olds, I want to talk to the grownups, and I want them to remember my vitals, my c.v., I want people close to me to know who I am and where I came from, to remember my country of birth, I want to spend time with those people in my fantasy, the ones bright and educated, moneyed, capable, willing, adventurous, attentive, caring, and wildly artistic. They don't exist. It's never been real, none of it, and I've settled, I'm one of those who settles, one who every so often does not want to be alone, the extroverted hermit who wants to connect, who gives in to the willing, but is never truly satisfied and leaves disappointed, plays it all over later, reworks it, and analyzes it to a sure death. It was never good, none of it, never has been, there never has been anything real, anything like the fantasy, and life is not like art, art is what life should be, but can never be. And there is a reason fantasy exists, if only in our own minds, to make reality bearable. So I'm the horrible person, I'm the horrible one because I want the people around me to enjoy themselves, I want my friends, if I were to ever have any real life friends, to be able to afford the things they want, to have the fun they want to have, to enjoy life as we all know we can. I'm not sorry anymore, I realize I have no need to apologize, I am not an apologist for your bad decisions, for your poor choices. I hate my life, but I find joy where I can, I take pleasure in small things, and I am the most generous person anyone could ever know. I'm consistently misunderstood and I'm tired of it, so very tired. Cost of the War in Iraq
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