Thursday, August 20, 2009

Sitting with friends last night, this morning, midnight and past.

Talking about the social personas we put on, the social groups and the dancing through faces of what we consider presentable, of masks and ideals and how we each cope with our own discomfort and what trained us to be so.

Started with one, moved to another, and another, then to me.

Being quizzed, queried, questioned.

Being examined like a foreign object.

Nothing new.

Just an unusual stone you hold up to the light.

Why do you not drink?
Why do you not smoke?
Why do you not do drugs?
Why do you not date?
How can you consider yourself monogamous?
What is subspace like for you?
Why do you not consider men who drink, smoke, or do drugs?
Why is respect so important?
Why do you sleep around like you do?
Why do you not bother for an emotional connection?

Answering them, question after question as they tried to line it up, tried to make sense of it, I found myself thinking, a significant hint of derisive sneer in my mental voice: "I'm just so fucking tragic."

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