Greetings Dear Reader!
You just clicked on this blog and I already know what you’re thinking:
Not another fucking snowflake millennial bitching about how hard it is to life.
And you’re not wrong. I mean, technically we’re all giant snowflakes since we’re all genetically unique. Well, except you identicals. I wouldn’t know about that, though, since I ate my twin in the womb.
I kid, I kid.
But only barely. To a more true-to-personal-history point, if I had been a twin, that twin would probably have tried to evacuate the womb so that they wouldn’t have to deal with me too long. Because that’s apparently the reoccurring theme of my life: people fucking suck and then they will dump you. Or you will dump them, which I’ve learned is vastly preferable in the end.
But Ellie, you are saying, you’re being a giant drama queen and it is not that bad.
Well, of course it isn’t. The loneliness of a single human is like a scratch in a blade of grass: utterly insignificant to anyone but that blade of grass. But the entirety of human history is most certainly marked by humans bitching incessantly about things that are probably not that bad. Look at pretty much every major religious leader ever. Look at F. Scott Fitzgerald bitching about his . Look at Achilles, who literally set out of and bitched for an entire war until Hector killed Patroclus. Okay, maybe losing your cousin/lover could be construed as bad, but look at Dante, who bitched out three entire books of poetry about a preteen that he didn’t get with.
I don’t know that I’ve seen enough anecdotal evidence to prove that humans are any more advanced than, say, a pangolin, seeing as the pangolin developed a very cool, very chic shelled skin that protects its soft bits from pain. But I can extrapolate from Darwin a very important note about the natural selection in humans–something about bitching keeps us alive or else we’d all be mindful little doves. And I mean, if you’ve watched news in the past…well, how long has Trump been having rallies?…several months, you know mindful doves we ain’t.
We’re hardwired to be constantly and outspokenly disgruntled little naked monkeys with shitty little lizard brains, folks. Ain’t no denying it. And blogs are, perhaps, the single best medium for bitching. Semi-private, semi-public, forever immortalized on the internet? Sign this bitch right up.
So here’s a brief rundown of what’s brought me to this point as of late:
First, I’ve never met my father. I was raised by my mother and grandmother, two fiercely independent feminists, so I never had any real desire to see someone who never wanted to see me (and skipped out on the child support too, might I add? Then again, growing up poor and watching my family build itself back up from the ashes of my abusive, spendthrift grandfather hardened me in a way that unfortunately way too many people out there can relate to).
But I also know that I may one day need a kidney or bone marrow or whatnot. And I’ll be fucked if that fucker gets off on that responsibility too.
So for the past few years, I’ve kept tabs on Daddy Dearest via Facebook. Nothing invasive–I don’t care about the man’s life and I won’t care. I don’t look at pictures, I don’t read posts–I just check to see once or twice a year to see that he’s still on a medium that I can contact him through if the ol’ stonemaker goes south.
And sometime in the past year that I was not looking, motherfucker blocked me. Again, we have never met. Which means that he realized that his prodigal child may one day come looking and he took precautions to make sure I couldn’t get a hold of him. He actively typed my full name into his search bar, found my profile, saw a damn picture of me, and STILL decided to block me.
First thought: Thank GOD that Mom got better taste in men (read: she hates all men) after high school.
Second thought(s): You motherfucking sumbitch. You better hope that your shitheel genes don’t take out any of my organs that I could in turn get from you, because I will be on your ass faster than a fly on a cowpie.
So that was fun time #1.
Fun time #2 was earlier today, when one of the only people I consider a “close friend,” who is experiencing similar issues in the employment and crushing existential crises categories pulled an absolutely normal, totally acceptable thing.
She, I, and one other girl had spent the last year and a half in a private Facebook chat, discussing our various life issues, triumphs, etc. When she first brought up her current crisis, I sympathized as I always do via group messaging. But then I found out that she called the other friend and talked to her on the phone about these issues and credits her with calming down and feeling better about the situation.
And y’all, that big green-eyed monster reared his head.
On a purely practical level, I completely understand. The third friend is endlessly upbeat, very adorable, and a great cheerleader. While I think highly of my cheerleading as well, I have become known as the less approachable one, and it comes off in situations like this. I have no real right to be angry because it’s her call to make and honestly, I’d make the same call probably. And in the ways that it really matters, I’m not mad. It’s not like she was a deadbeat father blocking his own child on FB–it was quite literally a non-issue by all definitions.
I’m just kind of bummed that I’m so used to being the person who doesn’t get the call.
I’ve never gotten the call, my entire life. I am closing in on maybe three close-ish friends who would care if I got hit by lightning, and a big whopping zero best friends. I don’t even know what a best friend is, to be honest. I haven’t had a close friendship last more than a couple years.
I always feel like I’m pushing to keep people in touch with me and never getting anything back in return. Several people have told me that I give good advice, but no one ever asks me for it. I’m not the person people call when they’re stressed. I’m not the person people ask to be in their wedding parties.
And yeah, it kind of feels like that comic where the dog is sitting in fire as his skin melts off, saying, “this is okay; I am fine with this.”
But on a deeper level, I’m just tired of being the person who people like but not enough to care too much about. Things would be a lot simpler if people hated my guts, because then at least I could pinpoint what I could change and get on it. But when people do like you, just not enough to ever really care, it’s hard. I’m the friend that always gets the party invite but doesn’t get the one-on-one brunch invite. No one sends me deep texts at 2am about their lives. And it, in turn, makes me not want to talk about how I’ve been feeling über-shitty as of late with everyone going on.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this except that it’s been a recurring theme throughout all the years where I was supposed to make friends and I don’t foresee some major change as I transition into the years where I’m supposed to already have friends and a support group that is more than just family members. Expect more stories about the ‘don’t befriend me too deeply’ pheromone that I apparently put off as I try and figure out how to deal with it.
Fun time #3: My uncle is getting married. And in true Southerner fashion, it has gone to Hell in a handbasket. He called two days ago asking my grandmother (his mother) what her name was, for the marriage certificate. Her family has paid for exactly nothing and we’re paying for everything, yet her stepmother comes sweeping in like some beauty pageant HBIC any time we have a wedding-related event.
She didn’t even know where her fucking daughter was registered and didn’t want to throw a shower, but somehow made time to tell said daughter that I said I wouldn’t decorate anything (note: I have never actually spoken to this woman because I am smart enough to not talk to people who I consider causing dental damage to and ALSO I offered multiple times to decorate because I’m nice to people even when I loathe them).
What’s worse is the general sense of apathy that my uncle and soon-to-be aunt exude for me and my immediate family. Here we are, busting our asses for their wedding while they don’t call, don’t care, don’t want to care. I know a good part of it is that we’re liberal and being liberal in the current rural South is like pouring gasoline on yourself and then playing with fire poi. But I also had to listen to my grandmother cry when she got off the phone because her own son couldn’t be bothered to remember her fucking name, even when she was the one who protected him from a father who wanted to beat him most of his childhood. So yeah, I’m feeling pretty “fuck this entire shit entirely” right now.
Tomorrow is the decorating and rehearsal. Saturday is the wedding. I don’t pray often since I’m pretty firmly agnostic, but DEAR GOD LET ME GET THROUGH THIS WEEKEND WITHOUT SAYING THE WORDS “UNGRATEFUL FUCKWAD” OR “PRETENTIOUS TWAT.” Amen.
Fun time #4 is that I recently broke it off with someone who I had been doing a semi-LDR thing with for over 9 months and I’m mostly over it but now awash with commitment issues. When he decided to act like a fucking weirdo on the first physical date and then bombard me with texts after I got home even after I said, “yo, I don’t like texting,” I realized that even having a guy who technically fulfills all your dream qualities (outdoorsy, likes books, total nerd, feminist as fuck) doesn’t mean you’re going to ignore the initial problems for the sake of the relationship.
I still want to date (because I’m basically cursed with the romantic fantasies of Kitty Bennett and Lydia’s libido), but I’m also now terrified of wasting more months of my life on something that is going to end disappointingly. Like, I watched really shitty movies for this boy. I cancelled plans with friends and paid money for nice gifts. Live and learn I guess, but I really want that fucking Star Trek hoodie back.
Fun time #5: Unemployed. Made it through grad school, had an awesome year abroad, and now no one wants to hire me. This is the biggest thing that could actually be a depressor if I thought about it too deeply so I just…don’t. Willful ignorance, my sincerest suitor, come to my arms yet again!
So all in all, I guess it’s a good thing that I’m still pretending to be athletic and have now taken running back up. Me and my lizard brain will probably just run off into the woods and never come back.
Ellie.
Miss Rigby 