"And you're learning that just 'cause they call themselves friends doesnt mean they'll call."
Feb. 9th, 2010 07:09 pm![[personal profile]](http://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darHave figured that one of the things that the heroes in The Book are going to have to contend with before they get off their crappy not-a-real-planet-anyway is the seemingly endless legions of ramblers, roamers, excursionists and intergalactic jetsetters who go off-world all the damn time, at the drop of a hat, and rub our heroes faces in it in the most infuriating way possible. Namingly, by being pleasant about it.
"Oh, yes, I just got back from Ganymede and next week I'm off to Venus, can you believe it?"
"I can't believe you've never been to Mars! I just spent seven months there and I'm going back soon, it's so wonderful!"
"The wife and I have a villa on Saturn, so we divide our time between here and there."
"You know, your cousin has gone to Gilese 581c for a year to live and work with his girlfriend."
"But you know, there's really nothing like coming back home to Pluto... Mostly because I'll be leaving again shortly."
The problem with these people is not what they've done. They're right to be happy, travel is wonderful. The problem isn't even with what they say. The problem is how they say it; like you can afford to go too, and that the only reason you haven't is because you like being stuck in a crappy town that Springsteen could make a double-album's worth of material out of if it wouldn't give him nightmares.
Money's a lot like oxygen: you don't even notice how much you've got until it starts running out.
Hmm. This is probably something that needs to be funny and sad. It's two things we do well.
There was a bloody annoying conversation in the garage yesterday. Out with the rose-tinted glasses on Ireland in the past. Back in the good old days, when there was no murder because they used to cover them up so much better back then. Ah, the good old days, when you didn't have to lock your doors and you could leave your kids with the priest. He'd take good care of them, and if they complained their asses were sore after, why, you'd take the priest's side of the story! Ah, good old days. When there was none of this violence in the streets like there is now. No, back then, when a young man wanted to be a bloodthirsty psychopath, you'd just send him up North, get him to kill someone who had it coming and call him a hero. Ah, the good old days. There was none of these foreigners coming in off the boat pregant with ten kids. Back then, we still had good high rate of infant mortality. And if a woman acted up, there was your fist if she were your wife and there was the Magdalene Laundries if she were your daughter. Ah, the good old days. There was none of this career nonsense. Back then, drinking was a career, now it's just a lifestyle!
I found something out about my brother recently that put me in something of an awkward position. If I wanted to, I could have him out of the house and his life ruined, all for being a complete fucking idiot. But I can't seem to muster up my inner bastard enough to want to wreck his life. And I definitely can't find the inner bastard enough to exploit the situation for my own benefit. Fuck. You are who you are when you're alone with your conscience.
It's a rather annoying to think how much more prosperous and rich you'd be if you were ruthless and brutal. Sometimes feels like the only way to get to be what you want to be is via being what you don't want to be.
Sadly, all I've done about Paul is returning the favor by pretending he doesn't live here. If he's not going to pretend I do, I'm not going to pretend he does. I'm sick of having trying to sleep next to a porno theatre just because he's found some Katy Perry idiot who hates her father enough to let that shithead climb on top of her.
Ellie's been displaying early symptoms of bipolar disorder (wouldn't be out of line with the list of interesting items that are up for grabs in our family's genetic lottery) though my mother says she's just confused. Damn fucking right she's confused, she has two of everything.
Ugh. I just want to be out of this house. I realized the other night that I miss the intense dreams that I'd get if I stopped taking my medication for a little while. The dreams would just be so long and detailed and interesting, I figured they were worth the headaches and brain shivers I'd get for not taking the pill. I think I was actually addicted to the dreams. But I blame life for being empty enough to make me want to lose myself in dreams.
Wouldn't go back on Effexor if you paid me, though. ...Well, actually, if you paid me, I'd say I would do it, then I'd just take the money and run. Because if I had the money with which to run, I'd never need an antidepressant ever again, duh.
"Oh, yes, I just got back from Ganymede and next week I'm off to Venus, can you believe it?"
"I can't believe you've never been to Mars! I just spent seven months there and I'm going back soon, it's so wonderful!"
"The wife and I have a villa on Saturn, so we divide our time between here and there."
"You know, your cousin has gone to Gilese 581c for a year to live and work with his girlfriend."
"But you know, there's really nothing like coming back home to Pluto... Mostly because I'll be leaving again shortly."
The problem with these people is not what they've done. They're right to be happy, travel is wonderful. The problem isn't even with what they say. The problem is how they say it; like you can afford to go too, and that the only reason you haven't is because you like being stuck in a crappy town that Springsteen could make a double-album's worth of material out of if it wouldn't give him nightmares.
Money's a lot like oxygen: you don't even notice how much you've got until it starts running out.
Hmm. This is probably something that needs to be funny and sad. It's two things we do well.
There was a bloody annoying conversation in the garage yesterday. Out with the rose-tinted glasses on Ireland in the past. Back in the good old days, when there was no murder because they used to cover them up so much better back then. Ah, the good old days, when you didn't have to lock your doors and you could leave your kids with the priest. He'd take good care of them, and if they complained their asses were sore after, why, you'd take the priest's side of the story! Ah, good old days. When there was none of this violence in the streets like there is now. No, back then, when a young man wanted to be a bloodthirsty psychopath, you'd just send him up North, get him to kill someone who had it coming and call him a hero. Ah, the good old days. There was none of these foreigners coming in off the boat pregant with ten kids. Back then, we still had good high rate of infant mortality. And if a woman acted up, there was your fist if she were your wife and there was the Magdalene Laundries if she were your daughter. Ah, the good old days. There was none of this career nonsense. Back then, drinking was a career, now it's just a lifestyle!
I found something out about my brother recently that put me in something of an awkward position. If I wanted to, I could have him out of the house and his life ruined, all for being a complete fucking idiot. But I can't seem to muster up my inner bastard enough to want to wreck his life. And I definitely can't find the inner bastard enough to exploit the situation for my own benefit. Fuck. You are who you are when you're alone with your conscience.
It's a rather annoying to think how much more prosperous and rich you'd be if you were ruthless and brutal. Sometimes feels like the only way to get to be what you want to be is via being what you don't want to be.
Sadly, all I've done about Paul is returning the favor by pretending he doesn't live here. If he's not going to pretend I do, I'm not going to pretend he does. I'm sick of having trying to sleep next to a porno theatre just because he's found some Katy Perry idiot who hates her father enough to let that shithead climb on top of her.
Ellie's been displaying early symptoms of bipolar disorder (wouldn't be out of line with the list of interesting items that are up for grabs in our family's genetic lottery) though my mother says she's just confused. Damn fucking right she's confused, she has two of everything.
Ugh. I just want to be out of this house. I realized the other night that I miss the intense dreams that I'd get if I stopped taking my medication for a little while. The dreams would just be so long and detailed and interesting, I figured they were worth the headaches and brain shivers I'd get for not taking the pill. I think I was actually addicted to the dreams. But I blame life for being empty enough to make me want to lose myself in dreams.
Wouldn't go back on Effexor if you paid me, though. ...Well, actually, if you paid me, I'd say I would do it, then I'd just take the money and run. Because if I had the money with which to run, I'd never need an antidepressant ever again, duh.
