My so-called life and youÕre welcome to it

alert: whinging ahead
by melpomene whitehead

Since March I've been burglarized, ditched, dissed, played, robbed, fucked over. And my prescriptions expired. Despite my rough and tumble low-maintenance exterior I'm fragile like a cheap vase, and lemme tell you, you can only throw me to the ground so much before I start to crack. Taking the extra time to do this issue didn't really help. Things continued to get worse! I used to wonder how people who were worse off than me live their lives; now I'm beginning to wonder just how many people are worse off than me. And don't give me examples: when I first got sick (chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy, don't bother looking it up, I'd be surprised if you found much about it), I was barraged by do-gooders and happy people citing examples of people who were worse off. Stephen Hawkins name came up alot. Later Chris Reeves. As if my life or what I have or don't have has anything to do with them. I'm not equipped to deal with this crap! But who is? In my limited experiences I've yet to meet anyone else who has been in my specific circumstances, or even anything similar. The last guy I was with actually had the nerve at one point compare me to several of his friends who had comparably hellish childhoods and had come out relatively unscathed. I had to remind him that 1. he did not have the same sort of relationship with them that he had with me (so his assessment of damage was invalid) and 2. neither of them had to deal with either chronic depression or a severely debilitating neurological disease. Both of which I've had to deal with alone. Then, after I got burglarized, and dumped, this guy had the nerve to take back items he had given me. Including a little stuffed cheetah that I once hugged and called my only friend. Hey Erik, am I asking you for half the money back for the trip to Las Vegas I took you on?

However, despite all the crappy things that have been happening, the thing that hurt the most hurt so bad I can't even get into it here. Well, I could, couldnÕt I. I keep nothing from you people. This is my stage, damn it! But I wonÕt. ItÕs too stupid. ItÕs all my fault. I mean, it must be, right? The whole thing makes me feel really sad and pathetic. IÕve been so nice to people, given people places to stay, lent them money, gave them good references when they really didnÕt warrant one. I put bird seed out for the finches and doves. I donÕt throw wild parties. I take care of stray cats. I make brownies for depressed people. I used to believe that being good would get me good things in return. The cosmic exchange of goods, the universal bartering system. Not that I was being good to get anything, I just thought karma worked that way. I was reading the wrong book. I musta been Marie Antoinette in my past life to get this life now. CanÕt even believe Morrissey now: the good life is out there somewhere? Show me! The end of the story is this: if I had any faith before, it's gone now.

BTW, I feel much better now. Thanks kids! I think the drugs helped...

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