paranoid and tired, quite before you’re fired

Saturday, July 29, 2000
@ home        0832 hrs

    It’s early.  It was earlier an hour or so ago when I first got up.  Why did I get up?  I don’t know.  I didn’t get home till 2:30 am last night.  Why am I awake?

   I do have an announcement, though, before I get into telling you about last night (which I’m only doing to take up space in this entry–nothing great really happened).  I have been accepted by the University of New South Wales, Sydney, Australia, to study beginning with the first session of 2001. 

    Can I afford to go?  No, probably not.  Will I do everything I can until that time to try to make it possible?  Hell yes.  [Please give generously to the William in Australia Fund.]

   Now, on to the even more boring stuff. 

   For the past few weeks I’ve purposely avoided going downtown to Ruta Maya and even talking to any of the people I usually hang out with down there just because I’d grown so tired of the bullshit.  It’s good to stand back from the crowd at least as often as you stand with them.  Seriously, though, the people most adamant in telling you “the(ir) truth” are usually the people most full of shit.  [Yes, I know this applies pretty well to me, too.]  Actually, let me modify that statement:  The people most adamant in telling you how much they wish everyone else could be as truthful (etc etc) as themselves are usually the people most full of shit.  Aw, hell, this really isn’t coming out at all the way I’d like it. 

   Here’s the thing:  If we ever meet on the street, don’t tell me to be truthful with you or with myself or whatever.  I think I’m really rather honest with everyone I know.  Many times, though, especially when criticism is involved, I tend to believe it’s better to “plant” the devil’s advocate idea into the person I’m with.  I mean, rather than coming out and saying, “To me, your relationship with so-and-so (or whatever) looks like a car wreck,” I think it’s better and more useful to point out obvious (to more objective persons) cracks and faults in the foundation.  Be that by noting it in passing, in jest, however.  I guess I’m saying that sometimes I don’t think directly confronting a situation is the best way to aid  in resolving it. 

   I don’t like general statements, either.  “You’re just like everyone else.”  “Why can’t people be more honest?”  Crap like that.  Here’s one I’m guilty of:  “The working class is not revolutionary.”  Probably a quote I stole from Simone Weil or someone.  I don’t know.  This still isn’t coming out the way I’d like it.  I think I’ll abandon it for now and maybe discuss it more later when I know what I’m talking about.

   So last night I decided to immerse myself in the bullshit again and went down to Ruta Maya.  Danielle was there with George (British musician here on a three month visa, also staying at the hostel I volunteer at) and Wendi showed up later.  Long story short:  George, who at one time or another all night had one or both girls ready to shag him half to death, started annoying Danielle by playing Rolling Stones songs and not answering her questions.  You can’t always get what you want. 

   Finally, we all got up to go for a walk down Sixth.  Halfway there, George turned around and went back to get another beer–he’d been drinking pretty much all day, I think.  He’d already had three or four, at least, before I got there at 7:30 pm.  At Congress, Wendi and Danielle implored me to go back and get drunk with him.  I really didn’t plan to, seeing as how I had to drive home and all, but, finally, I said fuck it and did.  He and I drank a few beers, smoked a pack of cigarettes, and conversed.     

   Cool guy.  He takes the heat off me when we’re with Danielle and Wendi by being the suicidal one, usually that’s me.  He gets more head because of it, though.  That and his accent, probably.  Whereas I get shit.  Or shat on.  Anyway, in the beginning and middle of the night he had one or both girls wanting him, but by the end he’d annoyed them both enough that the sex probably would’ve been really good (hate sex or after-fight sex, y’know).  I bet he still got laid.  They’re like that.  I don’t pretend to understand it.  Which just goes to show how fake people can really be.  [I really shouldn’t be writing this as they all have my journal’s URL… oh well, life’s a bitch.]  (Full disclosure:  I admit it’s part jealousy on my part, I won’t lie to you too much.) 

   I don’t know.  I just think if you treat people like shit you should expect to get the same in return.  That’s just the way it is.  Don’t beg for respect or appreciation or truth or whatever when you give none of those.  With an attitude like that I’ll never get laid. 

[I do apologize for the inordinate amount of profanity and the like in this entry.  I really don’t know what’s gotten into me.  Satan maybe.]

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