Diaries of a Misanthrope
It’s funny now, not just because it’s true, but because I’ve learned to appreciate it. The truth is that through the end of elementary school through the 8th grade, I was not the most popular person in the world. Frankly, friends were minimal. I was that annoying girl who talked way too fucking much and religiously shopped at Old Navy unaware that there was such thing as Gap. It was sad really. I wore vests and played the clarinet. I was shunned by the “popular” girls, who I’ve come to determine were nothing but a bunch of bitchy whores (nearing pretentious cunt-dom, but I won’t go that far).I wish I were kidding, but no, they were whores. As a matter of fact one is now the proud owner of a four year old. But I digress. I had no friends, everyone made fun of me and of course it was a complete shit time, but I learned to amuse myself and spend time alone. A quality that came in handy I would say. I learned to have no interest in hanging out with people who so obviously disliked me and made it a point to not go out of my way to be nice to them. By high school, I had friends and had gained some modicum of popularity, but by then I was perfectly content with not forcing myself to be friends with people and just letting it go.
Fast forward to now, a time of alcohol and holy motherfucker, real life friends. What is a xenophobic misanthrope to do? I’m perfectly content being alone (thus the reason for why my pastimes include golf, kayaking, blogging and grocery shopping-no one else is involved). When I had my studio apartment, you couldn’t have paid me enough to come out and actually fraternize with other human beings. Those motherfuckers can be hurtful and mean and well I just don’t like to get dressed. There were weekends, where I’d stay in the entire time that is until LB forced me to come out, but that had to be something I was notified of well in advance and even then the prospect of me coming out was slim to none. Now that I have actual friends, when they call I am expected to call back. When I am invited out, I am expected to attend or at least call/IM to say whether or not I will be attending. While home this past weekend, I had the most difficult time leaving the house for the most part. People wanted me to come see apartments and go downtown to Albany and I was more than content to stay in and get my fill of Spike Lee Joints. All of this while G went out every night and came home every morning with a hangover. Yes, there might be something wrong with me, I don’t like people, especially people who spent the better part of my adolescence calling me names; but I suppose now it might be a little easier with a vodka tonic in hand.