[rto] chicks dig romance

Romance, SBB argues, allows yourself to see your life through someone else's eyes. I guess. I'm not sure I'm happy with her definition. Got a better one?

Got into one of those after midnight conversations about how the girlhood indoctrination of actor/rockstar idolatry sort of sets us up for a lifetime of unreachable expectations. Or, as SBB points out, tricking us into thinking our life is less interesting or glamorous than theirs.

Even I, who can almost never getting enough boosts to my self-esteem, would probably tire of the screaming fans who didn't know, and probably wouldn't like, the real me, when I'm not all shiny and pressed for my close-ups, or when my publicist chooses my friends and interests and attitudes for me, and I just feel like a product.

After some friday five a few weeks ago, I realized with some horror that I couldn't remember the last name of an old roommate back in Utica. She was from New Hamster, I'd even been to her parents' house.

[And my closest (pre-bridezilla) friend from grade school probably lives or works within 10 miles of where I type, but I haven't heard even an update on her since 1998, when Bangfrog recognized her then-coworker in old photos of us behind bars, for our local zoo's North American Teenager exhibit. (4 hour shifts, one feeding time each: your choice of soda and pizza.)]

I remembered her hometown name. Her monologue about how much her mom loves to play with garbage. With this information, I found the municipal waste management web page, recognized a name, wrote to the lone board member listing email, told him my funny story and asked him to please forward the information for me.

Within hours, Jenn wrote me back herself. Apologizing for not trying harder to find me last year, because she felt I should've been in her wedding.

As our exchange progresses, I realize:

She didn't know that Marj died, or that my dad was in a wheelchair, (or that I'd moved)

She remembers Ajax, then known to us for little more than being a snobby stick-jock, as kinda skinny.

She moved away before I started going to clubs, Goth nite, NinCon...

or burning man.

or running roadraces.

or... wow

(i just wish my life felt as exciting as it sounds.)

[rto] chicks dig romance

Romance, SBB argues, allows yourself to see your life through someone else's eyes. I guess. I'm not sure I'm happy with her definition. Got a better one?

Got into one of those after midnight conversations about how the girlhood indoctrination of actor/rockstar idolatry sort of sets us up for a lifetime of unreachable expectations. Or, as SBB points out, tricking us into thinking our life is less interesting or glamorous than theirs.

Even I, who can almost never getting enough boosts to my self-esteem, would probably tire of the screaming fans who didn't know, and probably wouldn't like, the real me, when I'm not all shiny and pressed for my close-ups, or when my publicist chooses my friends and interests and attitudes for me, and I just feel like a product.

After some friday five a few weeks ago, I realized with some horror that I couldn't remember the last name of an old roommate back in Utica. She was from New Hamster, I'd even been to her parents' house.

[And my closest (pre-bridezilla) friend from grade school probably lives or works within 10 miles of where I type, but I haven't heard even an update on her since 1998, when Bangfrog recognized her then-coworker in old photos of us behind bars, for our local zoo's North American Teenager exhibit. (4 hour shifts, one feeding time each: your choice of soda and pizza.)]

I remembered her hometown name. Her monologue about how much her mom loves to play with garbage. With this information, I found the municipal waste management web page, recognized a name, wrote to the lone board member listing email, told him my funny story and asked him to please forward the information for me.

Within hours, Jenn wrote me back herself. Apologizing for not trying harder to find me last year, because she felt I should've been in her wedding.

As our exchange progresses, I realize:

She didn't know that Marj died, or that my dad was in a wheelchair, (or that I'd moved)

She remembers Ajax, then known to us for little more than being a snobby stick-jock, as kinda skinny.

She moved away before I started going to clubs, Goth nite, NinCon...

or burning man.

or running roadraces.

or... wow

(i just wish my life felt as exciting as it sounds.)