That drives me crazy, when people are all like, "And Polly did this and then Richard was like whoa and Henry couldn't stop laughing," and you have no idea who these people are so it doesn't mean a thing to you because, after all, you have a hard enough time keeping track of the people you actually [think you] care about and eventually you just have to smile, nod, and walk away from the conversation. Here we go:
Even though last night at work sucked and I was fucking exhausted and was visited not by Scott, who said he would visit at the end of the night so we could "smoke a bowl," in his terms, I don't even know the last time I used that phrase, my substance abuse is a very private thing, you see, not something I use the local terminology for, I don't get wasted or trashed or even drunk, I'm just drinking; I don't get high or stoned or faded, I'm just smoking pot. But you know who did stop by is dreamboat Robbie, the king of all douchebags, the chemical engineering grad student who was clearly put-off when I was not as impressed by that status as I should be, who is, let's face it, really fucking hot, who clearly has nothing but deliciously illicit thoughts of me but is, and we're judging the book by his cover here, a walking amalgam of STDs, as all Santa Barbara boys are, if they are even reasonably attractive, which is why I'm going mad with sexual frustration even though that doesn't mean I can't appreciate my semi-newly-discovered status as a sex kitten. Fortunately, coworker Pav was there to save me from myself; Pav being (I'll explain his place in my life as I have become very fond of him) the kinda asexual male who clearly is a little bit in love with me, as all should be, but is like my not-actually-a-homosexual-but-is-very-effeminate straight best guy buddy right now, the guy who, when he comes to visit me on my shift, I am so fucking thrilled to see the new girl commented on how much happier I sounded when Pav came in, the guy with whom I have made plans for Thanksgiving to have a Bridget Bardot (his contribution)/Mighty Boosh (my addition) marathon since neither of us can afford tickets home (him to Boston, me to Portland to visit my dad). Like, she doesn't get it, but he's one of those people around whom I can actually be my normal, effervescent self, the person I wish I could be all the time around everybody except I have to trust you enough--oh god, She's Electric by Oasis just came on, how fucking appropriate--to even be able to tell you my real name let alone laughingly tell you my latest epic tale of self-deprecation.
The issue here isn't self-esteem; I think pretty highly of myself, to the point of narcissism, to the point that maybe I should get over myself a little bit. The issue here is the baggage that comes when you learned a little too late that you shouldn't trust people blindly, and then you have a hard time trusting even yourself, so you depend on other people to make your decisions for you, and then you realize that that is a terrible way to live, so you run in the opposite direction and suspect absolutely everybody of making it their sole purpose in life to Fuck You Over (that would be the narcissism talking), and then you think that maybe, just maybe, just for a second, just for this very moment, that all you have in this world is yourself and that absolutely has got to be enough. So fuck everybody else and their judgments and their opinions and their lack of obsessing over you and take that lovely little brick house you've stuffed your judgments and opinions and obsessions into, turn them into lawn ornaments instead, and smile beatifically at anyone who might think ill of you as a result.