Bumped into a guy I knew at school today.
He:
Had the best BMX.
Was really good looking.
Had a cool name, which I won’t mention here.
Once half killed me by tackling me during rugby.
(I half killed someone else twice my size in response. Someone huge and gentle, but very satisfying to pick up and dump in the mud). Sorry, so He:
Used to call me and my best friend gay. Mocked us mercilessly.
(My best friend was, and had a nervous breakdown, ended up in a clinic). He:
Wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer- he failed his matric.
Which I thought was funny, because I passed.
He went on to become a successful businessman because of his rugby connections.
He lives in the best area in Cape Town.
He isn’t a bad guy, after all.
South Africa is a weird place: It’s all about who you know. That’s how you get jobs and contracts, fame and fortune. It kinda pisses me off that this guy who was quite an idiot at school could have made it (in purely material terms). But then, I can always take the moral high ground of being a wonderful person. Not.
It also pisses me off that I should care a flying hoot about what happened between teenagers twenty years ago. I need some affirmation here, and fast.
On a separate and unrelated note: Am I alone in feeling a deep sense of shame when standing in a queue for fast food? I feel like people are checking to see if I have crappy skin or greasy hair, or webbed toes or something. Mainly because I look at other people like that. Gross, dude- you seriously did not need to upsize anything, pal. Yuk, lady, is that a tailored marquis you are wearing? Hey! Funny looking couple! Your kids are badly behaved, try giving them some greens once in a while!
Damn, the inside of my head can be nasty sometimes. I loathe criticizing others. Mainly because I am so insecure myself. I really don’t give a hoot about the way you look, and yet I hate people looking at me, assessing me. Hate it. Part of me thinks that compliments are just well-worded lies- to distract me from what they are really thinking…
I need to sleep, have Neen back, and chill out. In that order.
He:
Had the best BMX.
Was really good looking.
Had a cool name, which I won’t mention here.
Once half killed me by tackling me during rugby.
(I half killed someone else twice my size in response. Someone huge and gentle, but very satisfying to pick up and dump in the mud). Sorry, so He:
Used to call me and my best friend gay. Mocked us mercilessly.
(My best friend was, and had a nervous breakdown, ended up in a clinic). He:
Wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer- he failed his matric.
Which I thought was funny, because I passed.
He went on to become a successful businessman because of his rugby connections.
He lives in the best area in Cape Town.
He isn’t a bad guy, after all.
South Africa is a weird place: It’s all about who you know. That’s how you get jobs and contracts, fame and fortune. It kinda pisses me off that this guy who was quite an idiot at school could have made it (in purely material terms). But then, I can always take the moral high ground of being a wonderful person. Not.
It also pisses me off that I should care a flying hoot about what happened between teenagers twenty years ago. I need some affirmation here, and fast.
On a separate and unrelated note: Am I alone in feeling a deep sense of shame when standing in a queue for fast food? I feel like people are checking to see if I have crappy skin or greasy hair, or webbed toes or something. Mainly because I look at other people like that. Gross, dude- you seriously did not need to upsize anything, pal. Yuk, lady, is that a tailored marquis you are wearing? Hey! Funny looking couple! Your kids are badly behaved, try giving them some greens once in a while!
Damn, the inside of my head can be nasty sometimes. I loathe criticizing others. Mainly because I am so insecure myself. I really don’t give a hoot about the way you look, and yet I hate people looking at me, assessing me. Hate it. Part of me thinks that compliments are just well-worded lies- to distract me from what they are really thinking…
I need to sleep, have Neen back, and chill out. In that order.
Here's a picture of the bicycle I always wanted in the seventies, but wasn't allowed. Apparently, rough children rode them. I am sooooooooo that Steven Spender poem: My parents kept me from children who were rough...'
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