Girls who hate their dads
I don’t get the girls who think it’s cool to be fucked up. The ones who tell you how wasted they got the night before - so much so that they have no idea how they got home, or who they left with - all relayed with a three-pack-a day rasp of a laugh. I don’t want to hear how much you hate your father in a casual aside that somehow relates to what you had for lunch. Please don’t name drop the guy you’re sleeping with even though you know he has a girlfriend because you “can’t handle” a relationship.
Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think any of that is cool. Especially here in nyc, there’s these girls who just…brush dysfunctional attitudes and unhealthy habits off their shoulders like lint, and it makes me horribly, horribly sad. They want you to laugh along with them at the pitfalls and foibles of their drama-filled lives, “ha ha ha, aren’t I screwed up? Isn’t it just ama-a-a-a-z-e?” But it’s not. I want to ask if they’re okay. If I should put on the kettle and make some tea. Maybe call their moms and suggest a visit.
Of course, you can do whatever you want, but don’t make me feel bad for being - oh shit, dare I say it? - normal? And y’know what, yes, normal is not calling your parents “assholes” to anyone who will listen past the age of thirteen. Normal is wanting the guy you’re sleeping with not to be sleeping with anyone else. To not need pills to wake up, then more pills later to fall asleep. Normal is to seek out supportive friendships. A stable relationship. A career. Weekends without large chunks lost to alcohol or drug-induced blackouts. To be happy.
Of course, maybe I’m just being overly sensitive, since I find lots of things horribly sad. People eating alone in restaurants. Movies where the protagonists don’t get together in the end. The thought of my grandma waking up every day without my grandpa, even after he’s been gone five years. Sometimes just imagining the amount of loneliness in the world feels so heavy on my chest I can hardly breathe.
…And then, of course, I get over myself and realize that if you let everything that was wrong with the world bring you down, you’d never peel yourself off the pavement. But I don’t have to like it. And I don’t have to accept it. And I certainly don’t have watch as these girls flash the sadness in their life around like it’s a new pair of shoes. Especially when they have no intention of doing a damn thing to change whatever it is that’s making their life so awful in the first place (or the second, or the third..). We’re not in high school anymore. If you’re still acting out for attention, get over yourself. The rest of us have.
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